Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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that the name ‘Elton’ anagrams into ‘Nolte,’ like the actor.”
“Run with it.”
Another series of keystrokes followed by a pause. “Well, well…I’ve got an E. J. Nolte of Mobile.”
Nelson’s initials and anagrammed middle name. My heart took a five-beat time-out. Friedman said, “He was here for four nights in May.” He gave me the dates.
“How’d he pay, cash or card?”
“Cash upon checkout.”
“That unusual?” I knew what Friedman would say.
“Huh-uhn. Yokel comes in, hits, decides to stay here instead of the Piddle Inn. We take a credit card imprint. If the bill’s paid in cash the imprint’s torn up. We won’t have an imprint anymore, just the basic sign-in. Got a space for home address and company name on the form. Elton lists Bayside Consulting, Three twenty-one Water Street, Mobile. That’s all.”
I wrote them down. “Anything else, Mr. Friedman?”
“Judging by the charges, Nelson had a fine time. Heavy room service, looks like every meal. A lot of bar tabs, also in-room. They racked up over three grand in four days.”
“They?”
“First night I got a single entrée and salad going to the room; next three nights we’re eating for two. Unless your boy’s got a split personality down to his appetite…”
“Gotcha.”
“Anyway, looks like we got two folks ordering from room five nineteen—suite, by the way, four seventy a night.”
“Your professional take on the situation, then, is…”
“To me, Detective Bubba, this looks like two people taking a room, hanging out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and having a rock ’n’ rolling good time without coming up for air.”
A check of the phone directory showed no listing for Bayside Consulting. The operator came up empty too. The address was a dummy. I drew blanks with the Chamber of Commerce and Better Business Bureau. If the company was incorporated there’d be records somewhere. I didn’t expect to find anything.
Chances were Nelson’s trip to Biloxi had zero ties to the murders. The switch-hitting hustler probably had boy-toy usage at hotels and motels across the region. But right before his death he’d bragged about finding the mother lode, a sugar daddy or mama who might spend a few grand on a long weekend’s private partying.
I called my house, no answer. It was after 8:00 p.m. I’d gotten Ava at 6:30, worn voice straight from sleep, said I’d soon be home. She went back to sleep, I told myself; didn’t hear the phone, or felt too rotten to talk. I left Harry a note detailing my day, and headed for Dauphin Island. My next chore was telling Ava I’d ratted her out to her boss.
“I trust you…”
Where the hell was that zuithre?
I entered just after nine with my hands full of groceries to feed my starving shelves, plus sports drink to help flush Ava’s system and keep her hydrated. I’d also bought thiamine and other vitamins. The drink and vites were on the recommendation of my former partner, Bear. I called him on my drive home and asked what to expect from Ava. He predicted a spaghetti western: Good, Bad, and Ugly. Problem was, Bear said, you went through a shitload of the last two before the first one kicked in.
The bedroom door was closed and I pictured Ava sleeping it off. Kitchen cabinets were ajar and I suspected she’d been searching for hooch. I was glad the Listerine was in the trunk. Figuring she’d returned to bed, I tapped at the door and, hearing nothing, entered. Not there. I checked other rooms, closets. She wasn’t anywhere in the house. Something else was missing—sixty bucks from my bureau drawer. She’d left a barely legible IOU scrawled on a napkin.
The phone rang. My mind flashed to a scenario of the Dauphin Island cops calling—they’d found Ava wandering the streets and were checking her story. Even if she’d gotten hooted I could likely get her released into my care. I grabbed the phone.
“Carson Ryder.”
“Hello, brother. Can you believe those stupid fucking attendants lost another cell phone? I’ve been hiding this one. They’re so small all it takes is some plastic wrap and a little bit of—”
“I’ll call you back, Jeremy. I got an emergency here—”
“NO, YOU DO NOT! Every time I call you try to HANG UP ON ME!”
“I’m not kidding, Jeremy. A friend’s in trouble.”
“Oh?” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Is it a womb-man?”
“What’s it matter?”
“She’ll keep. They’re SURVIVORS, Carson. She’ll be here long after the cockroaches have gone belly-up. Just don’t ask them for help and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m hanging up now, Jeremy.” I started to put the phone down.
“NELSON AND DESCHAMPS, CARSON!” He shrieked. “WHERE’S THE PASSION, BROTHER?”
I lifted the phone back to my ear.
“Hi, Carson, welcome back. I read the papers. They were covering the headless twins until the preacher’s daughter’s soap opera took center stage. All I gleaned was the heads had been severed. No mention of gunshots to the body meat, no axes, no thumpity-thump of the ball bat. Was it nice and clean, brother?”
“Dammit, why have you fixated on these cases, Jer—”
“FIXATED, HE SAYS? I’m not FIXATED, brother. I’m not FACT SATED, either, since you won’t TELL ME ANYTHING!” He adopted a matter-of-fact tone, a college lecturer. “What happens when you tell me things, dear brother, is that it allows me to travel from my current confines, vicariously, of course, seeing the pathways of the world through your brown eyes. It’s nice to be out and about again, just like the old Joel Adrian days. And I thought I might again be helpful with some map reading. Was I not helpful in the past, brother? I’ll take your silence as an affirmative.” He shifted to the quivering voice of an old woman. “Tell a weary old traveler about the bodies, Carson. Pretty please?”
I took a deep breath and looked at my watch. One minute, that’s what I’d give him. I said, “There was no…expression in the killings…”
“Ah, lad, you’re an amazin’ fella you are. But it’s not expression. It’s passion. BLOOD! FEAR! SEX! FIRE! There MUST be passion, Carson. Bites. Or cuts. Or leetle-teensy pieces chopped out and taken away to dry. SOUVENIRS! Were words cut into the body? Messages? Was a finger missing? A dick tip? Smoke signals squirting from torn assholes? WHERE’S THE PASSION, CARSON? Perfect hate or perfect love, perfect anger or perfect joy. Either or both, but NO MIDDLE DISTANCE!”
I watched the second hand arc around again. “We were thinking the express—the passion might have been demonstrated elsewhere. On the heads.”
“Ahahaha,” Jeremy said. “Sur la tête. The ol’ cabeza. Take the canvas, leave the easel.”
“There were some attempts at communication, seeming nonsequiturs.”
“Oh, ho—in dribs and drabs my brother tells his tale. Words?”
In the distance I heard a siren. Ambulance. Pictures of Ava drunkenly walking down the middle of the street invaded my mind. “Yes, dammit, words on the body. I have to go, Jeremy.”
“Tell me the words, Carson. QUICKLY!”
I recited them and he started laughing. “Sounds to me like our boyo isn’t finished with his head-challenged