Myth Man (36 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

“T
HAT MOTHER FUCKER. THESE aren’t the right keys,” screamed Donavan. The expletive bounced off the parking garage walls like it was a natural cavern.

“Watch your language,” reprimanded Ridgewood. “At least the truck is still here.”

Donavan cackled, “Well golly-gee, Ridgewood. Isn’t that just swell and dandy?” He muttered something inaudible under his breath, but it sounded like ‘fuck’ echoes with reverb and distortion.

Danko said, “I’ll call my men and see what they found on Bailey.”

“Super,” Donavan said with a sarcastic laugh. “For all we know, the cargo’s already gone.”

“Take it easy,” Danko said. “Bailey’s going nowhere. Everything’s fine.”

As he spoke, the garage elevator opened, and six police officers filed out. A stout man with an oversize head and eyes that squinted in the dimly lit garage addressed Danko.

“I understand there’s been an arrest.”

Danko ignored the second half of the delivery. “Guard this truck with your life.”

They returned to the conference room. Presto found a seat. The others paced.

“I’ll call and see what possessions they found on Bailey.”

“He probably swallowed them, the feisty old bastard,” Donavan quipped.

“Make sure they get some blood samples from him ASAP,” Presto said knowingly.

Danko had his phone in hand. “You have something in mind?”

“In a minute. Let’s see about those keys first.”

Danko moved several feet away and dialed. Donavan continued to fidget in anger. Ridgewood went to Presto.

“Are you here to help or hurt Bailey?”

He wanted to be honest in Bailey’s defense, but he believed the only way to flush out the possible guilty one was to pretend otherwise, although he still clung to the notion that Myth Man’s identity was Dean Fallow, and Mr. Fallow was still at large.

He said, “Ridgewood, I’m only after the truth.”

“I can see,” she said snidely. “I thought you were more than that. This is ridiculous no matter what the evidence says.”

Donavan meandered over. “Yeah? Explain why the keys were switched, genius. I started to regive him the benefit of the doubt, but this sealed it.”

Ridgewood was defiant. “There may be an explanation,” she said, but the vigor in the words faltered, as if doubt intruded on each syllable.

Donavan sensed a kill. “Like what?”

Presto spoke. “Perhaps he’s innocent and doesn’t trust someone here, so he switched the keys and willingly surrendered them to the police. He did ask for them to guard the truck.”

Invigorated, Ridgewood said, “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Whatever,” Donavan said. “Sounds like a crock to me.”

Danko loudly snapped his phone shut and walked over. “Dom, I know we need the blood to compare with the evidence found at the crime scene, but you made the request sound like you had something on your mind.”

Presto replied, “I think you may find a connection to a seemingly unrelated but, in fact, quite related pair of homicides.”

The room was silent. The sound of air ducts in the ventilation system could be heard.

Then Ridgewood griped. “What? You were just defending him. What’s going on?”

“Yes, Dom,” said Donavan, who towered over the seated Presto. “Explain yourself, secret miser.”

Presto did not like the way Donavan hovered over him, but he made sure to watch his face. “Danko was not with us, but the rest of us went out together one night.”

He watched, but Donavan did not flinch. No one spoke. They waited.

After several long seconds, Presto continued. “Sweet Virginia’s was the place.”

Presto could not see Ridgewood with Donavan screening his frontal vision, but he heard her say. “I think we all remember that night.”

Presto’s heart raced. It was the night they ended shacked up in her hotel room. He found the nerves to proceed.

“The bartender and that guy who had words with you,” Presto said as he locked eyes with Donavan. “They’ve been murdered.”

Donavan threw his head back in shock and then sauntered back with the pack. He giggled. “Did you hear that? Presto’s ready to make Bailey out to be a ruthless killer because the joint cut him off from his Jameson.” He clapped his hands with fervor and rubbed them together. “This keeps getting better.”

“What are you saying?” asked Ridgewood.

Presto seated, calmly replied. “I’m saying that blood was found at one of the murder scene’s that did not match the victims. There’d been a struggle, and the detective that worked the case believes the other blood was the killer’s.”

The words hung in the air until Danko, who nudged the process along perfectly, asked, “Are you telling us that you believe this other blood is Bailey’s?”

“I am,” certified Presto.

“This is crazy,” gasped Ridgewood.

Presto shrugged. “I could not agree more, but money does strange things to people—makes them corrupt.”

Danko came through again and asked, “But what money could these two barhands have?”

“Actually, none,” responded Presto. Then he changed course. “Frank, tell us about the phone call.”

He threw his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, forgot. Bailey told the police that he thought he was being set up and switched the keys. He handed them over.”

“Just like Dominick said,” an astonished Ridgewood reminded.

“Spooky coincidence,” said Donavan.

Danko forged on. “I was patched through to Deputy Director Kyle Trinkus. Bailey is to remain in custody. The police will bring back the keys now. I was told to give them to Ridgewood until several hours from now when two new agents will come to commandeer the truck. You’ll be happy to know, Agent Donavan, that he thanked the police for doing their duty, but their presence here will no longer be necessary.”

Donavan cheered. “Smart man, that Trinkus. He knows we have the killer in custody.”

“Actually, we don’t,” Presto said.

Donavan grunted. “Are you back to Fallow again?”

Presto finally stood. He looked at three of them and then squarely at Donavan.

“No,” Presto said. “I’m talking about you.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

P
RESTO DROPPED A BOMB on the room. Faces registered shock and horror. Mouths moved, yet not a sound was made. The room temperature rose a few degrees. Would there be a counterattack? Presto waited.

Donavan clenched a fist and puffed his chest. The old Boston bully days beckoned. He chewed anger and swallowed. He chose to try and salvage the wreckage.

“All that cholesterol must have clogged your brain. Bailey’s blood is all over the place, and you finger me? Don’t tell me you think we’re in cahoots now.”

Presto smiled. “No, not at all. You set him up.”

Donavan’s face tightened over his skull. He tried to look and sound dismissive. “You’ve lost it, big boy,” he finally said.

Ridgewood looked ashen. “I think I’m the one who lost it. First we’re saying it’s Bailey, which is preposterous, and now we’re saying its Donavan?” She threw Donavan a bitter look. “I prefer the second theory, but are we jumping the gun again? What happened to Fallow?”

Presto looked at her. It was the worst she had ever looked. The bags under her eyes had grown darker, like eyebrows beneath her eyes. Her once proud posture sagged.

Danko stepped in. “Donavan, maybe you should speak to an attorney.” He calmly advised.

“I don’t need a fucking attorney.” His arms spread. “Are you insane?”

Danko grinned, “My wife thinks so.” But then he grew serious. “Think about it, Donavan.”

“Are you kidding? I want to hear what the mighty Presto has to say.”

Presto was nervous. He was not a great detective of fictional lore, and unlike many of his literary heroes, he’d rarely been in a situation where he faced the suspect and had to narrate the case to conclusion. The fact was that he didn’t like interrogation. He was as nervous as the suspects. He knew he had to deliver.

“When I heard about the Sweet Virginia’s murders, I knew the coincidence was too strong. It didn’t make sense. Then it did. Awhile back, Bailey told me something about you,” he said to Donavan. “He said you had a troubled past and steered clear from alcohol. The few times you did drink, you were so far out of practice that you got drunk off a few drinks. Bailey was happy for you but lamented that you were an Irish lightweight.

“So I was surprised to see you pound all of those drinks that night. You chose the place. You kept the drinks coming. You were the ringleader, and still, you were the most sober of us all. In fact, Bailey was in terrible shape, but you behaved as you always do—loud and obnoxious.”

Donavan chuckled. “The testimony of a drunken man. This is great.”

Presto returned a smile. “It gets better.”

For the first time, Donavan flinched. Presto saw it. It was the eyes—a flash of registered alarm.

“The one thing I’m not sure of yet is why you killed them.”

Donavan laughed hard. “Is this the moment where you expect me to slip with some confession? Surely you can do better than that.” His face morphed from Hyde to Jeykll.

“You’re right, Donavan. I’ll get to the point and explain what happened. As far as proof goes, some is obviously educated,” he pronounced, “guess work, but I have the goods to back up some of it.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yeah,” Presto assured.

Ridgewood broke her silence. “This I want to hear,” she said merrily.

“Fuck you, too,” Donavan said.

Presto was no longer nervous. He had hoped it was the work of Dean Fallow, but the murders and then the way Donavan turned against Bailey confirmed his deepest suspicion when he heard about Sweet Virginia’s.

“That night, Bailey drank Jameson, and for the most part, we drank vodka, or Ridgewood and I drank vodka. You drank water.”

Donavan went to say something and stopped. His mouth churned slowly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was a good story. We were on a tough case and needed a release. The boss is an alky, and you’re the saint. So to keep an eye on things, you tell them to pour you water. Better yet, once the boss is wasted, get loud, create a skirmish, and get thrown out. The boss will think it’s fun, and you’ll get him out of there and home before there’s trouble.”

Presto stopped. “Sound familiar so far?”

“No,” Donavan said. His words were not laced with same Donavan defiance.

“It should. You forgot about the chef, Felipe.”

“Cooked by the cook,” sang Danko.

“Fuck you, too,” Donavan said.

“You’re usually wittier than that,” Danko observed.

“Whatever,” Donavan said dismissively.

Presto hoped he caved soon. “After the disturbance you caused, our pal Felipe checked on things. According to the detective on the case, that’s the story the bartender told him. Said you gave a hundred bucks for the trouble.”

Donavan shook his head. “This is all bullshit, and even if there was a lick of truth to it, why would I pull off this charade and then murder them?”

“Easy,” replied Presto. “For Bailey’s blood.” He stopped and waited. He had to falter soon.

But Donavan just stared back.

Danko said, “Donavan, you might want to call it a day. It’s not looking good.”

“No. This is good. I need the laugh.”

Need the laugh
? Now Presto would enjoy this. “In order to frame Bailey, you needed to have his blood in places that it could not be based on the sequence of events, so you got him drunk and took his blood. I had wondered why Bailey clutched his arm the next day. I knew he had been punched. Was it a coincidence the bouncer punched Bailey in the arm where you would later draw blood?”

Danovan grinned. His hand went behind him and returned with a gun. “Easiest target practice I ever had. Time to die, you fat fuck.”