Wrong Place, Wrong Time Read online

  Wrong Place, Wrong Time

  A Rafferty P.I. Mystery

  W. Glenn Duncan

  Contents

  Free Book

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 1 - Cannon’s Mouth

  Chapter 2 - Cannon’s Mouth

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  Prologue

  May 19th

  Dear Mike:

  Way back when in medical school, did you ever think you’d be letting yourself in for this kind of workload? Me neither.

  Greta’s left for the day, like any self-respecting office worker, so you’ll have to put up with my typing.

  I saw your young patient this afternoon, Mike. You’ve got your work cut out for you, pal. I say “you,” because I was thrown out on my ear. Mom arrived with the start of visiting hours. She was not pleased to see me. She says her little darling has no need of “some screwball shrink with a big nose.” Mom is a shortsighted bitch, in case you hadn’t already noticed.

  (You only wanted a horseback opinion from an old buddy, right? Even so, you better burn this letter. I find myself becoming most unpsychiatric.)

  At any rate, to work. Remember now, this is all based on one short, interrupted visit with the subject. And, of course, those fragments of family history that prompted you to call me.

  Und now ve vill zimply … (Old, feeble shrink joke. Sorry about that.)

  Seriously now.

  I found the subject alert, self-confident, and quite composed, considering he’s only eleven years old and is hospitalized minus an appendix, thanks to you. Those characteristics mitigate somewhat against my conclusion, but I’m eighty-five percent sure I’m correct.

  It’s the history that troubles me, Mike. Individually, those incidents can be explained away as reasonably normal juvenile high jinks. Lots of kids have set fire to the garage. But three times in four years?

  Plus, there’s the nocturnal enuresis well into the seventh year—any bed-wetting past age five means trouble, in my book—and the preoccupation with fashioning hangman’s nooses and playing “chicken” with passing cars. That sort of thing, when repeated, seems to me to be a form of suicide “gesturing.”

  Plus, historically, childhood hyperactivity is a clue. Okay, it was phasic, but even so.

  The real red flag, though, is the history of specific animal cruelty. The way you’ve described it, he slowly killed that dog over a period of almost two years, with widely separated attacks during an otherwise loving “family pet” relationship. (Makes you wonder how blind parents can be, doesn’t it?)

  So what do we have here? Sociopathic tendencies, certainly, but this is even more exotic, I think.

  For one thing, the classic sociopath is a loser; characterized by restlessness and instability, definitely not task-oriented. Yet this boy gets good grades in school, he’s highly numerate, and he seems goal-motivated. (He wanted to know how much money I made. Not enough for the hours and heartache, I should have told him.)

  Anyway, I think you’re dealing with a case of EDCS here. (That’s “episodic dyscontrol syndrome” to you semi-literate cutters.) There is evidence emerging of an EDCS sub-classification that seems to fit this case. The characteristics are: (1) episodic incidents, (2) attacks on specific individuals or animals, and (3) no alteration in the state of consciousness during the incident. Guess who?

  Obviously, you, or whoever Mom will let near the boy will need confirmation. And that may not be easy. Look for nonspecific EEG abnormalities. That might require several attempts and, perhaps, sleep studies. Try nasopharyngeal leads. Hint: glucose tolerance tests sometimes provoke dyscontrol. However it is found, a significant dysrhythmia will indicate EDCS.

  Treatment? A good question. The pharmacology is very iffy. Some people say anticonvulsants work. Try carbamazepine. Or phenytoin. I’ve heard lithium works some of the time, but other times it only aggravates the condition.

  Prognosis? Another good question. If not treated successfully, expect the kid to become an adult with either an alcohol abuse problem or acute alcohol sensitivity; a real two-beer screamer. He’ll probably collect a pile of reckless-driving tickets and may eventually commit suicide. Any marriages or major relationships will either be short and tempestuous or one-way: his way.

  He won’t be able to—whoa! Too much conjecture here. I only saw the kid for thirty minutes, after all. Do the EEGs, then you’ll know more.

  Mike, please keep me informed about this kid. He’s a sicko, but he’s a fascinating one.

  Oops, that’s it. When I start using terms like “sicko,” it’s time to quit for the day. I think I’ll go home now and see if Jill and the kids still recognize me.

  Mike, do you ever wonder if it’s all worthwhile?

  Remember our old party act? “Roll Me Over” on the Sigma Chi piano? Hey, if you ever want to step off this medical treadmill and try show business, call me.

  Regards,

  Carl

  Chapter 1

  And then there was the time we went looking for Luis Ortega in a west Dallas pool hall. Afterward, I swore I would never, ever, no matter what, work with a bounty hunter again.

  It started out as such a peaceful day. I was sitting—loafing, actually—in my office, browsing through a gun-shop catalog. The only question in my mind was whether I should treat myself to a set of new grips for the .45. Those fancy, nonslip grips were nice, sure, but why spend the money when a guy could just as easily put a couple of rubber bands around …

  “Rafferty?” a voice behind me said.

  I put down the catalog and turned around, trying to remember which was my client-reassurance smile and which was the one Hilda called my “grimacing chimpanzee” imitation.

  He was a big guy, meaty in the good-ole-boy style you see all over Dallas, and he leaned against my door frame like he was shoring it up for an impending earthquake.

  “Name’s Wells,” he said. “Toby Wells. Reckon you could help me this afternoon?” He pronounced it “hep.”

  Wel
ls had a broad, cheerful face that went with his booming voice and down-home drawl. He also had a fringed leather jacket that went with his western-style shirt and boots. All in all, he looked like Johnny Cash with a different head.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. The fiddle player sprained his arm, and you want me to fill in.”

  Wells grinned. “You a wiseass, all right. Me, Ah’m a bounty hunter. Got to collect a runner, and the neighborhood ain’t what you’d call salubrious.”

  “Well, that explains it, then. A clean-cut bounty hunter like you can’t go wandering around places that aren’t salubrious, can he?”

  He grinned again. “That’s a nine-dollar word for ‘healthy.’ It Pays to Increase Your Word Power, right?”

  “Right. So tell me about this runner you want.”

  Wells pulled a sheaf of papers out of his fancy jacket. “Luis Ortega, his name is. I got all the paperwork right here. He jumped bail in Houston last week. I spotted him this morning in west Dallas, in front of a pool hall his brother-in-law owns.”

  I said, “The neighborhood can’t be too unhealthy if you already found him.”

  “Driving past is one thing. Dragging Luis out is another.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but it’ll be easier with two of us dragging. Two hundred sound fair enough?”

  “Sure,” he said, and dropped a pair of hundred-dollar bills on my desktop. I folded the bills, tucked them into my jeans pocket, and tried to act like they weren’t the first hundreds I’d seen for a while.

  “Tell me,” I said. “What does this Ortega do when he’s not on the run?”

  “Holds up gas stations, mostly, but this time they got him for pistol-whipping a liquor-store clerk.”

  I dug my shoulder holster and .38 out of the desk drawer and took my blue nylon windbreaker from the wall hook. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Wells looked at me with a small smile. “You sure you got everything you’ll need?”

  I shrugged. “Got a gun, old clothes, and sneakers. I can shoot, fight, or run. I’m ready for anything.”

  Wells said, “You ain’t seen Ortega’s neighborhood yet.”

  We left my office and wandered out past the other one- and two-room businesses in my building. The place used to be a radio station way back when. Very trendy for its day, probably, but the layout always reminded me of a factory-reject rabbit warren.

  At the top of the stairs down to the street, Wells and I bumped into Honeybutt. Well, he bumped into her; I sidestepped and pretended I didn’t see her.

  Honeybutt worked for the insurance broker who rented the old radio station newsroom. The wall between her office and mine—I had the old control room—was mostly plate glass. There were drapes on her side, but Honeybutt almost never drew them. So we winked at each other, and I admired her backside when she filed things in the bottom drawers. And presumably she admired some portion or another of my manly physique from time to time.

  Honeybutt and I had the same relationship as any of a thousand pairs of strangers on a given day. We flirted silently, mildly, and safely, knowing—hell, depending!—on the fact that it would never grow into anything more.

  Which is why I didn’t like the way Honeybutt looked at me when she rebounded off Toby Wells.

  She was a world-class ignorer; I knew that. She was probably even a little better than I. But this time she didn’t play the game. She lurched away from Wells, grinning and rolling her eyes at his gaudy jacket, then she noticed me. She stopped short and watched me closely. Perhaps speculatively?

  What the hell was that about?

  Wells hadn’t even slowed down. He must have skipped Word Power the month they covered “chivalry.”

  Honeybutt and I stood there for a moment, looking at each other. She seemed cool and appraising; I was a gangly, stupid kid again. Ohmygawd! Now what do I do?

  Finally, I turned and went after Wells, feeling equal parts coward, clod and confused.

  Wells was down on the street, unlocking a green F100 pickup with a small Fiberglas camper top over the tray. “We’ll take my wheels,” he said, “so’s we got a place to keep our little buddy once we git him.”

  So we took his wheels and we trundled off to west Dallas while the cassette player whined at us with Willie Nelson’s voice.

  Chapter 2

  Toby Wells was right; Ortega’s neighborhood was definitely not salubrious. The pool hall was three doors from a street corner, sandwiched between a pawnshop and a bar with a Spanish name. Two hookers lounged in front of the bar. Their faces lit up when they saw the truck, then they dropped the masks and ambled in tight circles when Wells drove past without slowing.

  Three blocks farther on, Wells stopped the truck in front of an abandoned building. There was a wino slumped in the doorway. He goggled at us briefly, then tucked his bottle under his arm and went back to sleep.

  Wells drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That sucker’s gonna rabbit soon as he sees either one of us,” he said. “What say you drop me in the alley behind the pool hall? Then you go in the front, big and bold as you please. Ortega will come out the back, quick-smart. Then it’s just ‘Hey, boy, stick ’em up.’ I march him back in through the pool hall, and we get the hell out the front before he and his pals know what happened.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Wells grinned. “Now,” he said, “one more thing. Word is Ortega’s not real excited about another visit to the slammer.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Yeah, well, he might have organized him some help. Now I ain’t never seen a greaser could fight for sour apples, but if they was to be a whole bunch of them jumped us all at once, well—anyway, I brought these.”

  These were two Remington 12-gauge pump shotguns Wells pulled from under the seat. He handed me one. It was fully loaded, safety on, and slippery with oil. I wiped the grip and pump with my handkerchief. “You have shares in an oil venture somewhere, Wells?”

  “Sorry about that. You ready?”

  “Sure.”

  Wells got out; I slid over behind the wheel. Wells carried his shotgun while he walked around the truck and got back in on the passenger side. The old wino in the doorway was awake at the time. He lurched to his feet and shuffle-ran down the block in the direction from which we had come.

  I got out of the truck and called to him: “Hold it, pops.”

  He froze in mid-shuffle, but didn’t turn around, even when I walked up to him.

  He had a face like crumpled gray tissue paper.

  “Didn’t see nothin’,” he mumbled. “Don’t know nothin’.”

  “Right,” I said. “Where’s the nearest liquor store?”

  He turned around and pointed past the truck. “Coupla blocks that way.”

  I handed him two dollars and nodded in the direction of the liquor store. He took off at his version of a dead run.

  When I got back into the truck, Wells smirked. “Friend of yours?”

  “I’d rather slip him a couple of bucks than have him earn his Ripple telling people we’re here and hunting.”

  “Good point,” he said. “Let’s roll.”

  The F100 rolled well. It was nicer to drive than my Mustang, which seemed reasonable. After all, it was at least ten years newer.

  I dropped Wells in the alley. He stood beside a filthy brick wall opposite the rear door to the pool hall. He cradled his shotgun in his left arm and used his right hand to give me a thumbs-up sign.

  I double-parked in front of the pool hall, a move that intrigued the sidewalk loungers. Three potential car thieves on the corner perked up their pointy ears and nudged each other. One of the hookers stepped off the curb with an expression on her face that could have been ersatz lust, legitimate indigestion, or anything in between.

  It didn’t seem to be the neighborhood or the mission for finesse, so I came out of the truck cab with the shotgun at high port and jacked a shell into the chamber.

  Suddenly, the sidewalk was emp
ty. No hookers, no car thieves.

  Inside, the pool hall looked like a bad stage set. The air was blue with smoke. The place smelled like the police incinerator on Wednesdays, when they burn the confiscated grass. There were six tables, four of them in use by quiet brown and black men who carefully ignored me. There was a hint of movement at the far end of a narrow corridor in the back, then nothing.

  At a counter to the right of my doorway, a fat Hispanic glowered at me. His right hand was below the counter level. When I looked at him and shook my head, he slowly brought his empty hand up and put it on the counter.

  “Luis Ortega,” I said. “Tell him his long-lost cousin is back in town.”

  Except for a short “humpf” from one of the pool players, no one made a sound.

  “Okay,” I said. “Try this one. I bet twenty bucks Luis Ortega will come outside with me. Any takers?”

  Very slowly, the fat counterman pointed at a tattered cardboard notice on the wall. It said: NO GAMBLING.

  A skinny black man in a pimp hat stroked a cue. A ball rumbled into a pocket. “Well, sheeyitt!” said the other man at the table.

  A fat fly buzzed past my ear, circled the shotgun muzzle twice, and departed for parts unknown.