Warpath Read online

  WARPATH

  A Richard Dean Buckner Mystery

  Ryan Sayles

  Praise for Ryan Sayles

  “Richard Dean Buckner is just the hero for our modern world: a righteous killer who can step outside convention and right the wrongs; and Sayles is just the writer to drive his story. This is how I like my fiction: unrelenting prose and kick-ass justice.”—Joe Clifford, author of Lamentation

  “The brutality is in the prose. Course and violent, Sayles writes like he is seeking vengeance against the world. It’s 21st century noir. Mickey Spillane on meth.”—Tom Pitts, author of Knuckleball

  “As subtle as brass knuckles to the face. Buckner is a classic and Sayles is one to watch.”—Eric Beetner, author of Rumrunners and The Year I Died Seven Times

  “…Richard Dean Buckner left me wanting more. He is a breath of fresh air in an antiques shop. A biker in a museum. A chaotic, reckless anomaly. You know I’m enjoying something when I deliberately slow down my reading pace to enjoy the novel longer. The Subtle Art of Brutality is a ridiculously strong first novel, starting the new darling of the P.I novels legacy.”—Benoit Lelievre, blogger and reviewer at Dead End Follies

  “Gut twisting detective fiction done the way it is supposed to be done. RDB makes Dirty Harry seem a little soft.”—Todd Morr, author of Jesus Saves, Satan Invests

  “The Subtle Art of Brutality is a nut busting slice of noir. All of the required hard-boiled elements are present and accounted for…”—Chris Leek, author of Gospel of the Bulley

  “The Subtle Art of Brutality is a testosterone-and-meth cocktail, a relentless blast of tough guy intensity. 21st-century hardboiled.”—Warren Moore, author of Broken Glass Waltzes

  Copyright 2015 by Ryan Sayles

  First Edition October 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  http://DownAndOutBooks.com/

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Eric Beetner

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author/these authors.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Warpath

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Ryan Sayles

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview of Eric Beetner & Frank Zafiro’s The Backlist

  Preview of John Shepphird’s Kill the Shill

  Preview of Robert J. Randisi’s Souls of the Dead

  To my wife, for whom I do anything

  and everything worthwhile.

  To Brian P., who knew better than I did about this book.

  To Eric C., who couldn’t have been more generous.

  To Zelmer Pulp, because.

  1

  Dusk, Sunday

  He drops what has to be at least ten grand in front of me.

  “I hope that’s enough for you to at least listen,” he says.

  “It is.” I take it and set it in my lap under the desk. Next to my .44 Magnum. For ten grand I’ll listen to a drill bit shoved up someone’s ass. Even if, at the end of our conversation I look this cat in the eye and tell him I’m not for hire, I’m keeping his money.

  “I want you to work for me,” he says. “Word has it you’re, uhhh...good at what you do.” He runs the back of his hand across his upper lip. Wipes away sweat beads collected in his mustache. In this setting, under these circumstances, that sweat can only mean one thing.

  “I’m a private detective,” I say. “Not an assassin.”

  “Come again?”

  “If you want someone found, I’ll find him.” I lean in, smoke curling from my nostrils. Dragon. “If you want someone murdered, take a fucking hike.” Looming, I jab a thumb at the office door.

  “No, no, no. I want someone found. That’s all. Found,” he says. More sweat beads. No eye contact. Fidgeting.

  He wants someone murdered.

  Clarence T. Petticoat. Fifties, tan and lean. Well dressed. Pretty. It is obvious by his appearance that his appearance matters. He’s a real estate giant in the city. I know he handles residential stuff—mostly top dollar cookie-cutter mini-mansions—but his real gig? Commercial. Looking at this guy, it makes sense.

  The scene: my office. Last week of March. Spring has come in weak doses but it’s getting a little stronger every day. The last hour of daylight bleeds through my picture window and fights a losing battle to illuminate the room through the veil of cigarette smoke and dust.

  Petticoat looks nervous like he’s a middle schooler buying pot for the first time. A man this successful in a business where one must be equal parts smooth, charming and ruthless doesn’t become this flaccid in front of strangers. Whether he considers it this way or not, he wants me to be his employee if not a business partner. He’s quaking and jabbering over a twenty-year-old wound like it happened yesterday. He’s good. I’ll give him that. He’s got the whole broken man act going on and half of it is grade A horseshit. I’ll stake that the pain is at least based on a kernel of truth.

  The best lies are.

  I adjust in my seat and eyeball him. “I’ve seen your type. And, on a side note, I’ve arrested most of them for kiddie porn, but that’s neither here nor there. Mr. Petticoat, you offer me ten big ones ‘just to listen.’ All the sweat. All the nerves. The way you checked the street when you walked up to the building. The way you scanned the hall as you came to my office. Even from my window I can see plain as day you drove a rental here. You’re a shrewd business man and word has it you’re as cutthroat as they come in high-stakes real estate. So cut the shit. You’re nervous about something and it ain’t finding someone.”

  “I know how this looks,” he says. Clears his throat. “I just want someone found.”

  “Of course. Sure you do. Who then?” I ask.

  “I don’t know his name. All I know is he killed my wife.”

  I raise an eyebrow and Petticoat immediately babbles, “Well—I guess I should say, er—what I mean is, he led to the death of my wife. That’s more accurate.”

  I keep the eyebrow up. “Led to her death? Did he kill her?”

  “She killed herself.”

  “Did he sell her dope and she OD’d on it?”

  “No. They never met like that.”

  “What then?”

  His mouth trembles, eyes fight tears. Sounds escape around his tight lips like cries for help working around a gag.

  “Affair?” I ask. “She was going to leave you for this guy, and as it turns out he wouldn’t leave his wife for her? And your wife couldn’t bear it?”

  Shakes his head. “I said they never met like that.”

  I sit back. For a business mogul this guy is as tender as a bitch in heat. Of course we’re talking about his dead bride here. I open my desk drawer and pull out a bottle of whiskey. Drop it on the table with a thud loud enough to make him jump in his seat.

  I keep a sleeve of plastic cups for guests. I pour him a shot.

  “B
ottom’s up,” I say and I sound like my old man. I push him the cup.

  “I don’t drink,” he manages to say around a lump in his throat.

  “Then do whatever it is you do to pull yourself together and get on with this.” I shoot the swill myself. Good sting. It rises up through my face and gives the kind of internal swat that you want in an eye-opener.

  “I should start by saying I’m having an operation in eight days—”

  “Start by saying who you want found,” I say. Pour another shot.

  Deep breath. Shudder. Begins. “In 1992 my wife and I came home from the movies. We walked into our house during an invasion.”

  I settle in for a narrative. It’s no use; he’ll begin where he thinks the story begins. One hand in my lap next to the comforting weight of the ten grand and the even more comforting weight of the revolver. My left hand rolling the plastic cup around in my palm like it was a meditation exercise.

  “I was struck right away—” He reaches a hand up to the crown of his skull; a ghost motion he probably doesn’t know he does every time he recounts this story. “—she was, assaulted. I think it was only one man. Her rape kit only revealed one, ummm...intruder.”

  “DNA?” DNA was a fledgling thing in the SAPD back in the early ’90s. It was still considered voodoo by some in law enforcement. It probably won’t matter.

  “None,” he says, looking down at his hands. “There was a lubricant commonly associated with some brand of condoms. No semen. Sheila—my wife—she described one man. Said he was behind the door. My mom always said I was so rude. I—”

  He stops. Looks away to his happy place. One way to get a witness to recall a crime is to have them close their eyes and re-imagine the whole thing. Pull that skin back on for a minute, like a snake sliding inside its shed husk to recall the taste of the last mouse it ate while in it.

  When interviewing a witness to a gas station robbery, have them sit there and imagine pulling into the parking space. Mime putting the gear shift in park. Turn off the engine. Hot outside? Stuffy inside the car? What side of the vehicle was the sunlight coming in? Now, when the first robber ran out the door, which way did he turn?

  This is how it goes. Petticoat here, he’s remembering the worst night of his life. Tugging back on that shed skin.

  “It’s funny,” he starts up. “I always opened a door and walked through it first. My mom said it was the rudest thing. I remember on prom night I did that and she jumped my ass right there in front of my date. I was so proud of myself later because for the rest of the night I let my date through first. But as soon as the night was over, I just reverted. I went back to walking through a door first.”

  “Did he take anything? Did he burglarize the home? Did he remove any property?”

  “No. He just waited.”

  “Did he take a trophy from your wife? A memento of the rape?”

  “Yes. Her panties.”

  Some rapists, along with other douche bags like serial killers and Ronald McDonald, they’ll take something by which to remember the occasion when they are finished with the crime. They’ll stash it and look at it occasionally to relive the thrill of the event. Lockets, jewelry, a trinket, a clip of hair, clothing, a photograph, a body part. Developing a suspect and then raiding the suspect’s house has led to the discovery of a treasure trove of these mementos. It helps police connect one suspect to dozens of crimes.

  “Who did the police suspect?”

  “Nobody. They might as well not have worked the case.”

  “How so?”

  “There was nothing to go on,” Petticoat says, closer to a whine. “No prints. Neighbors didn’t see anything. No DNA. The attacker didn’t speak. Wore a mask. After he clubbed me, Sheila was already stepping inside. He bashed her in the face. He duct taped her hands behind her back. She couldn’t scrape him. No skin under her nails. Nothing.”

  He stares at my desk like it is the very grave of his wife. “They had nothing to go on.”

  “Who worked the case?”

  “A guy named Gillispie. Trevor Gillispie. I’ll never forget that name. It was the only one I got through the whole ordeal.”

  Trevor Gillispie was a pretty good detective when it came to property crimes. He transferred to sex crimes and failed miserably. Of course, about that time the rumor was that his wife caught him with another man. Gillispie stayed on the job through his separation and ugly divorce. Then, about a year later he ate his gun. He’ll be no help now.

  “So,” I say and shoot the whiskey. “Let me speed this up. Gillispie doesn’t turn up anything. Eventually the case goes cold.”

  “Yes.”

  “You get the famous Saint Ansgar Victim Letter where you’re told the case is being closed but will be reopened as soon as any new developments arise.”

  “Yes.”

  The SAPD had reams of those things, preprinted and just waiting to be rubberstamped with a signature and mailed. Box after box of form letters waiting to be the last domino in someone’s horrible chain of events.

  “And your wife, in her despair, commits suicide,” I say this, aware of how cold it sounds. I suppose I could have said took her own life, fell to her own hand, ended her suffering or some bullshit along those lines. Sugar-coating a decision never did anyone any good.

  “She, uhhh...Sheila couldn’t come out of her suffering. She was so damn despondent. And I was no help,” Petticoat says. If everything he’s said is true up to this point, he was lying there next to her unconscious the entire time her life was being systematically dismantled. When a man vows before God to love, cherish, honor, protect, blah blah blah and then he doesn’t do it when it matters most, I can see the torture. The guilt.

  “So in the end Sheila...she ended her suffering.”

  Ahhh. Good choice of words, Petticoat. I light a new smoke. “And now you want me to find the rapist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then hand him over to the police?” Here comes the assassin part.

  “Of course,” Petticoat says, as if the raging need to cause this criminal tenfold the agony he has suffered doesn’t factor in to our deal at all.

  Petticoat shrugs and looks away with some empty amusement and huffs out with a dry laugh. “Well, maybe he can fall down once or twice as you’re walking him up the steps to headquarters.”

  I sit back, watching as he places his hands on the steering wheel of our conversation and starts a gradual but irrevocable turn.

  A change of tone as clear as the difference between life and death. “You’ll get another ten grand if you accept me as a client.”

  Petticoat opens his blazer and I see four more stacks of bills inside a pocket. He’s done them up very deliberately. Show off. He wants to appeal to my fiscal side.

  “Twenty more upon delivery.”

  “Delivery? Or conviction?”

  “Delivery.”

  I give him a skeptical eye. “This is a great deal for me, Mr. Petticoat.”

  He nods. He knows business. This is too great for me.

  “It makes me suspicious.”

  “Why? You don’t have bills to pay?”

  “Money is money. If I’m that strapped for cash I can just walk down the street and find a drug dealer to shake down.” I crush out my smoke and steeple my fingers in front of me, elbows on the desk. “You don’t get the street reputation I have for being gentle with the scum of the earth. So let me lay this out for you.”

  “Please do, Mr. Buckner. I’m getting the feeling you think I’m trying to take a dishonest angle with you.”

  “Dishonest? Maybe. Suspicious? Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  “I see.”

  I light a new smoke. “A guy rolls into your house, commits at least four felonies that I can pick out from your statement right now. The PD gets nowhere. More than twenty years go by and you want to meet. You very deliberately want it to be dusk because dawn and dusk are the two hardest light conditions to see under. Ask any driver staring into a low-lying su
n who gets into a wreck. You rent a car, you wear sunglasses, a hat, a high collar and I see you’ve grown a goatee. Your ads on the bus benches and your TV commercials have you clean-shaven. You passed by three times before you parked down the street. Bottom line: you don’t want witnesses.”

  “I’m careful,” he says. “I lead a public life. All I need is someone seeing me speaking with a private detective and they’ll think I am digging around against one of my competitors. I have seven-figure deals on the table right now, Mr. Buckner. I—”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “Like you give a shit about your competitors.” I know for a fact that Howard Michigan has done just that kind of work for Petticoat here. His veil is thinning as we speak.

  “You drop money in my lap to ‘listen’ and then you show off a bunch more. You’re very deliberate in the sums you offer, and after what you’ve shown me inside your jacket, there’s still some wads that have not been accounted for. I’m assuming I get to empty your pockets if I show up with a man who...took some time dying.”

  “You said you’re not an assassin.”

  “I did. But I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself it won’t hurt to ask.”

  “I brought the money to negotiate with. That’s all. You don’t advertise your fees.”

  “Oh. Boy Scout. I see.”

  “Business.”

  “You’ll pay on delivery.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s to stop me from just looking up a known rapist, beating him into a coma and dropping him on your front door? Will you take anybody? Is your thirst for revenge that blind?”