The
Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match #2
The Handouts versus The Tin Ringers
EAST
SIDE A
Collaborative Novel
Chapter 18
You Can Run … But You Can’t Hide
by Tammy Mehmed
Word of Margaret’s death spread like wildfire through the East Side
Club as soon as the police left. There were many variations of
the story going around, but the only consistent piece was that a
housekeeper found Margaret’s bloody body on Monday morning. The
stories ranged from Margaret committing suicide to Hank killing her
during an argument. None of the stories included a connection
with Pike, for which Hank was thankful. He wanted to keep that
part of it quiet in case anyone there had stayed in touch with Pike and
could tip him off. Only Jerry, Yvette and Hank knew that Pike was
the leading suspect in both incidents, and they were keeping that
information to themselves. What a horror that his daughter and
his ex-wife, on the same night, fell prey to that monster.
----------------------------
Pike returned to the flat on the 12th floor in the wee hours of Sunday
morning. No one saw him going back into Margaret’s place, or so
he thought. He knew he had to tidy up the crime scene.
He opened the bottle of Chivas setting on the wet bar, and took a swig
from the lip, swallowing a couple of pain pills as he gulped it
down. It should all kick in within a half hour,
he thought, relieving the pain in his knee and shin and getting his
mind back on track. His suitcase and bags were still in the entry
where he left them when he first arrived.
He’d made quite a mess of the place with his little temper tantrum and
he had Margaret’s blood splattered on his shirt – but with all that,
the place looked more like the site of a lovers’ quarrel or a struggle
of self-defense with an intruder. He found some rubber gloves
under the kitchen sink and put them on, wiping down all the places he
had touched. The fact that he hadn’t slept, mixed with the Chivas
and pills, was starting to catch up with him, but, he knew he had to
finish up and get out of the building before sunrise. He took
Margaret’s jewelry, a mink coat and emptied her purse of cash. He
could fence those items and make it appear like a theft at the same
time. Pike had ruined most of the decorative items in his rage,
limiting what he could take to his fence, a mistake he regretted.
He made his way down to the basement garage with his belongings and his
new best friend, the Chivas bottle, and found the address to Margaret’s
Island home on the car registration in her glove compartment.
Pike was still furious over the lost phone, but knew he couldn’t go
back to look for it. He plugged the address into the built-in GPS
and made his way across town. Driving at 5 a.m. on Sunday there
was no traffic, so he made it to West Islip in about an hour. As
he pulled into the driveway of Margaret’s home, he used the garage door
opener on her visor, pulled in and closed it immediately behind
him. Margaret had kept the door from the garage into the house
locked, but her key chain gave him full access. He knew he
couldn’t stay there long, but at least he could sleep, eat and make a
plan, so that by dark he could head out unseen.
----------
It was 6:20 Sunday morning when Kucinich's cell phone went off. Unable
to sleep, he was sitting in his study watching CNN and drinking coffee.
"Yeh," he answered.
"Hey Kuch, it’s me. Listen, this guy has been real busy. I've been
following him since he left his apartment building in the
Village. His first stop was a nice flat in the Upper West Side on
84th. He was toting around a suitcase and a couple gym bags with
racquets like he was going on a trip. He wasn't there too long before I
noticed him drive out of the garage in a big ass black Denali and park
over near the Chelsea Piers. He was stalking some girl there, tried to
hurt her, but some gals who looked pretty tough caught up with him and
let him have it. He ran off like a wounded dog."
Kuch spoke while the fellow caught his breath, "Go on."
"I was able to keep an eye on him and he returned to his parked car and
caused quite a ruckus when he left the parking lot then drove back to
the place on 84th. He’s lucky he didn’t crash. Then about 5
a.m. out he comes again in the Denali and now we’re in West Islip. He
slid right into the garage like he owned the place. He looks
settled in here now so I wanted to call you before it gets light
out. I checked out the address and the place is owned by a
Margaret Reynolds."
"Good work," said Kuch. “I just heard back from my contact in New
Zealand. Sent him a picture and found out this freak is a suspect for
the unsolved murder of his girlfriend back there and is a known drug
dealer in Christchurch. He must have changed his name when he
moved here. He's done enough damage now so if you think he's in
there alone - it’s time to take him out. We'll save the
government a load of money and paperwork for an extradition if he just
goes away. But let's leave his body there as a gift to the Feds. I'm
having my contact send NYPD a wire with his picture so that they have a
lead he's in the area. Should help them put it together
nicely. Make it clean and neat and have it look like
suicide. That's a family neighborhood so we don't want to upset
the nice folks on a Sunday morning. When will these low lives
ever learn – ‘you can run, but you can't hide’."
"You got it boss".
------------------
Hank’s phone rang on Tuesday morning. It was Detective Fazio.
“We have a lead in your wife’s death,” he said. “Turns out there
was a video camera in the garage that shows a guy getting into a car,
leaving for a bit, and then returning. Then later loading it up
with luggage and leaving. I was wondering if you could come down
to the station to see if you could ID the guy and confirm that it was
your ex’s car.”
Hank was happy that there was some hard evidence. “Sure
thing. I’m on my way. Any leads on where he went?” he
asked.
“Not yet,” said Detective Fazio. “But we’ve already sent a team
out to her home this morning since he would have had access to the
house if he had her keys.”
“Oh, and Detective Fazio, my daughter Kate’s friend remembered she had
picked up a cell phone at the mugging that must have fallen out of the
mugger’s pocket. Kate recognized it as Margaret’s. I’ll
bring it in with me.”
“That’s quite a lead. We’ll give it to forensics when you get
in. See you in a bit Mr. Reynolds. Thanks for your
help. I know this is difficult for you and your daughter.”
Tammy Mehmedis
practically a native San Franciscan, having relocated from Michigan in
1981. By day she is a legal secretary at a large international
law firm; by night and weekend she trains people and their dogs and
competes in canine agility and rally obedience. She first learned
that squash existed in the late 70s from her high school boyfriend and
may have even watched a few games. This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
