Ghosts of the Past (15 page)

Bingo!

“Shawna!” Shutt yelled out. No answer.

He picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Hello sergeant, Toby Shutt in Homicide. Yeah, you can help. There was a robbery earlier this week at the home of a Matt Ferguson, somewhere off Chenoweth Lane in the St. Matthews area. Right! Can you have the file forwarded to me as soon as possible? Yep! Toby Shutt. Thank you sergeant.”

Courtney was enjoying the peace and quiet of being alone for the first time since this morning. She felt perfectly safe in the crowded restaurant, and the alcohol was achieving its desired results. She had already taken care of the bill, tipping the waiter handsomely while asking, and receiving permission, to languish at the table for another ten to fifteen minutes.

The cell phone was barely audible as it rang inside her purse. She answered on the fourth ring. “Matt?”

“Yeah, I’m pulling up in the parking lot right now.”

“Alright, meet me at the back entrance. I want to pass right by this joker on the way out.”

“Don’t do anything stupid Courtney!”

“I’m not. I’ll see you out back.”

Courtney took one last sip of her coffee, stood up, grabbed her purse, and headed up the patio steps into the main dining room. She walked past the hostess’ desk and right at Carlos Garagua who was hurriedly paying his bill with the bartender.

She intentionally appeared to stumble and fell into a well-dressed young man, who, after a murderous day at the office, was enjoying his third beer of the evening with three of his buddies. The majority of that third beer capsized strategically onto Garagua’s lap, while Courtney was dramatically apologizing to the young executive, and then in turn to Garagua.

She started to reach into her purse, “I’m so sorry! Please let me pay for everyone’s tab.”

The young man, obviously infatuated with the beautiful young woman who had fallen in his lap, laughed aloud, and then ignoring the beer-drenched man beside him, politely looked at Courtney, “Are you okay? You didn’t hurt yourself?”

“No, I’m fine thanks.” She looked at Garagua and without a hint of the intended sarcasm said, “I’m really very sorry!”

Again, the young man deflected the apology. “We’re fine. Really we are.” He looked at Garagua and winked.

Garagua stood up and was mopping his pants and jacket with a towel offered by the bartender. “Everything’s alright Seniorita, nothing that can’t be cleaned.” He was trying not to look at Courtney, going out of his way not to give her a clear shot of his face.

“See, no harm no foul. Put your money away. In fact, what are you drinking?” The young man snapped his fingers at the bartender. “What can we get ya?”

“I’m so embarrassed! I am actually leaving. I’m late for an appointment. Thank you for the offer.”

The disappointment was obvious on the face of the young man, as Courtney quickly closed her purse and started for the back door. She stopped abruptly and stepped back to give him a one-armed hug, and then a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for the offer, but you’ve done quite enough, thanks!”

She could hear the razzing the young man was taking from his pals as she walked out the back door, up the stairs, and climbed into the car with Ferguson.

Shit!
The
stupid
bitch!
Garagua threw the towel back at the bartender and shoved his way through the yuppie happy hour. He reached the back door in time to see the same
Explorer
from this afternoon drive off with Courtney in the passenger seat.

He bolted out the door and headed quickly for his car as he watched the SUV circle the back parking lot and head for the exit onto Brownsboro Road. He pulled out of his parking space and fell in behind them, turning on his headlights to disguise himself in their mirror.
Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
I
smell
like
a
fucking
brewery
.

Garagua did not get a good look at the driver, but he was convinced it was the same guy she had been with earlier in the day. It certainly was the same car. He followed them west down Brownsboro Road, until they turned north onto Zorn Avenue. A half mile down Zorn they both turned west again and climbed the ramp up to Interstate 71 headed for downtown.

“This is gonna be fun!” Ferguson scooted his butt back and forth in his seat, settling himself deep into the leather. “You might want to brace yourself,” Ferguson smiled at Courtney, “we’re going to do a little lane jumping.”

Courtney mimicked the same movement with her derriere and grabbed the armrests with both hands.

Ferguson reached for the dashboard and turned the switch from two-wheel drive to four-wheel drive, waited for the automatic conversion to take place, and scanned the grass median ahead to locate the deepest and steepest slope he could find. He slowed down gradually from about 70 miles per hour to 60 without applying his brakes, found the spot he was looking for and removed his foot from the accelerator. They slowed further, and at the moment the white Taurus was within a few car links, Ferguson braked hard, yanked to the left on the steering wheel, and dove into the grass and down the embankment.

It was a severe depression, but the four wheels powered the Explorer down and then up to the other side of the Interstate with very little difficulty. Ferguson drove along the edge until the oncoming traffic raced by, and then accelerated onto the main road and into the right lane, the grass and mud thumping against the wheel wells as it released from the tires. By the time he returned the switch to two-wheel drive, they had reached the eastbound Zorn Avenue exit, where Ferguson immediately veered off the interstate and down the ramp that led back to Zorn Avenue.

Ferguson and Courtney maintained eye contact with Garagua through the whole process, and once they had safely reached the bottom of the exit ramp, looked at each other and burst out laughing hysterically. They reached her apartment in less than ten minutes.

It took Garagua twenty minutes. The next exit off I-71wasn’t for another two miles when he reached the downtown Louisville riverfront area, where 71, I-64, and I-65 all converged in a morass of asphalt ramps, exits, bridges and interchanges, locally referred to as “Spaghetti Junction”. It was no coincidence he got hopelessly confused and wound up on the streets of the central business district.

During his exploration of the downtown area, he had placed an angry and embarrassed phone call to Bolivar, recounting the latest developments in his bungled surveillance of Miss Lewis. However, before he could finish explaining the details, she and her four-wheel driving companion had just showed up at her apartment, much to the delight of Bolivar, and much to the relief of Garagua.

From the alley across the street from the Willow’s garage and main entrances, Bolivar recognized the Ford Explorer from Garagua’s description, and watched as it parked in the visitor’s parking area and Courtney and Ferguson emerged and entered the tower. He leaned over to examine the electronic gear he had loaded in the front seat and made sure it was operational. He started the small recorder, reclined his seat, put on a pair of padded headphones, leaned back and closed his eyes.

When Garagua arrived, he parked down the same alley, but well out of direct site of the front entrance. He strolled over to the Concorde, tapped lightly on the passenger-side window. Bolivar motioned for him to get in the back seat and electronically unlocked the doors.

“Sorry amigo!” Garagua apologized as he climbed in back, the doors locking behind him.

“No harm, we still have her, but they’re in a hurry. I heard them when they first came in. They’ve guessed correctly, that if you’ve been tracking her this long, you might know where she lives.”

“What are they doing?”

“She’s packing. Other than that, I haven’t heard anything said between the two of them for a while. They appeared to be arguing earlier. Something about going somewhere, she says ‘yes’, and he says ‘no’.”

Well, if we have to follow them again, we need to take this car. They’ve made the other one.”

Bolivar adjusted the headphones and pulled his seat back up. I’ll take ’em. You can get some rest. You smell like a frickin’ six-pack. I thought I told you to keep the drinking to a minimum when you’re working!”

“I only had two margaritas; the beer was compliments of the young lady. She spilled it all over me, the little bitch!” Garagua gestured toward the Willows tower.

They both chuckled in unison. Neither paid any attention to the dark green Lincoln that also pulled into the visitor’s lot.

Courtney pulled her passport out of the dresser drawer and tossed it on top of the clothes neatly stacked in the suitcase spread open on the bed. She paused briefly, grabbing her chin with her thumb and forefinger, glanced around the room and into her closet, and then nodded in confirmation that she had everything she needed.

She was in a hurry, but she had managed to get two suitcases strategically packed, along with a large, black shoulder bag full of cosmetics, toiletries, and jewelry. She looked every bit the pack mule as she drug all three items out of her bedroom and into the main living area.

Ferguson had spent the fifteen minutes she had taken to pack to wander around the apartment in amazement at all the art and sculpture scattered throughout the room and on the walls. He was staring at the large bronze nudes when she emerged.

Courtney gave an exaggerated clearing of her throat, “Excuse me, can I get a little help over here?”

“Sorry!” Ferguson turned and walked to her grabbing both suitcases from her hands. “I was admiring all the artwork, It’s spectacular!”

“Thanks, but only a few of them really fit that bill. The others are some mid-level works, and the oil over the fireplace is from a relatively unknown artist as a birthday gift.”

“That’s funny, I rather liked that one the most.” Ferguson embarrassingly admitted.

“Me too!” Courtney replied. “It’s actually my favorite. It’s value is purely sentimental though. I’m still trying to get him on the map.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got enough to hold me. If I get desperate, I’ll go shopping.”

Ferguson picked up the two suitcases, while Courtney went to an elaborate control panel on the wall. She punched in a variety of commands on the keyboard, while several of the lights around the room dimmed or shut off completely. She turned to see Ferguson at the front door waiting, picked up the shoulder bag and walked to the alarm panel next to the door.

As she opened the door to let him out, she programmed the alarm system and followed him through, locking the door behind them.

The security guard, all 5
'
3
”
and 135 pounds soaking wet, leaned up from his reclined position behind the reception desk to greet the stranger that had entered the Willow’s lobby area. He casually deposited the latest issue of Hustler magazine in the top drawer of the desk and took a quick look at the bank of video monitors, as if to give the appearance that he was in charge and quite important in his position of authority.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m detective Warren Steele. I’m investigating a homicide, and I need to speak with a Miss Courtney Lewis. Could you please tell me which apartment she’s in?” He obligingly removed a leather wallet from the breast pocket of his sport coat and flashed a detective’s badge at the guard.

“Miss Lewis’ apartment is on the ninth floor, number 901. I’ll ring her and let her know you’re comin’, I just saw her come in about a half hour ago.”

“That’s not necessary, she’s expecting me.”

“Well Mr. Steele, I’m supposed to check with our residents before I let anybody…”

“I said that won’t be necessary,” he interrupted; snapping shut the wallet, his eyes meeting those of the guard, who got the message loud and clear.

“Yes sir, detective.”

Directed to the elevators, he entered the open car and pressed the brass button with the number nine. The elevator smoothly ascended the nine floors and with a subtle ding, opened up to a beautifully appointed anteroom that had two hallways leading off in opposite directions. He took the one to the left that had a brass plate that read ‘901-903’ with an arrow guiding him down the hall. Much to his surprise, Courtney Lewis and Matt Ferguson were at the other of the same hall headed directly at him.

“Excuse me, Miss Lewis?”

Courtney and Ferguson stopped in the hallway, just down from her door. “Yes. Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Warren Steele. I’m a detective with J.C.P. homicide.” Once again he displayed the badge. “I need a word with you please.”

“I’m headed out of town detective, and I’m already late for my flight.” Courtney lied. “Can we not do this in a few days when I return?”

“Now Miss Lewis! Let’s step back into your apartment please.”

“Detective, are you sure we can’t do this at a later date?” Ferguson asked.

“I don’t know who you are, but this is none of your business. On second thought, I’d like to speak to you, too. Both of you step inside.”

The three of them re-entered Courtney’s apartment. After Courtney switched off the alarm and Ferguson deposited the bags by the door, they both turned around to find Mr. Jones staring at them with the barrel of the Walther PPK, silencer enhanced, waving at them in a motion toward the center of the room.

Instinctively Courtney and Ferguson lifted their arms in the air and stepped backward in shock.

“I don’t think the gun is necessary detective.” Ferguson said. Alarm bells were going off in his head as he noticed the large cylindrical silencer attached to the front of the pistol.
That
doesn’t
look
like
a
standard
issue
police
weapon!

“Did he say gun?” Garagua pulled himself up from the back seat and leaned next to Bolivar.