Part 6
Part 5
A cheer went up as Peter announced Frank would be back to his normal growling state in a few months.
“I’m glad to hear about Strenlich’s good news, but I do believe you all get paid to catch criminals, not stand around talking. Get back to work,” Stiles snarled, then closed the door to his office.
Peter stretched across to his desk as the phone rang. “Caine.”
“Got some names,” Griffin rattled off, not waiting for Peter to find a pen and paper.
“Thomas Williamson, Marco Garcia, Erik Wilkerson, Marty Chastain, Dennie Wells, Spencer Thompson.”
Peter quickly found a pen, silently thanking Annie for helping him with memory skills years ago. One of the names he recognized, “Chastain was just found dead. I don’t suppose you got more information, like if they were no longer MIA’s? How’d you find them?”
Silence from Griffin had Peter worried he might have overstepped the line.
“I have my methods. Thompson is in Hawaii, the others last known addresses were in the states.”
Peter listened to the dial tone after Griffin hung up. “Well, I guess it’s up to us now,” he said as he placed the phone back onto its cradle, running his hand through his dark hair, shooting a glance at his partner.
Mary Margaret turned around as Stiles came out of the office. “Skalany, I need you to go to the YMCA on Crestwood. Talk to a group of women about domestic abuse.”
Skalany’s smile fell into a frown. “I’m working with Caine on a case.”
“Well, if he can’t work his own case, maybe Blaisdell should send him home instead of coddling him.” Stiles voice had raised an octave during his speech, allowing everyone to hear his opinion of Peter Caine.
Peter felt his face flush. “It’s all right, Skalany. I’ll just follow up on these leads. I’ll check back with you later if I find anything.” Peter stood to leave as Stiles continued his words of insult.
“Yeah, you go on. It’s about time someone cut your apron strings. I want a report on my desk this evening, Caine!”
“Yes, Sir.” Peter replied.
He then left, not hearing Stiles last words. “Too bad that blast didn’t kill the both of them.”
Skalany heard and stared at Stiles back as he made his way back into his temporary office.
Sitting in his car, Peter thought about Captain Stiles. After graduating from the academy, Paul had warned him of charges of nepotism from other officers. “But I know you’re one hell of a cop. So, ignore them,” Paul had told him. “Just do your job and let me worry about the accusations.
Stiles’ words continued to flow through Peter’s mind. Reviewing each of his cases, he tried to find where Paul had been overprotective, but couldn’t find anything to back up the temporary captain’s claim. “The only thing Paul has done is dog me about calling in where I’m going.” Peter shrugged his shoulders against the thoughts and started his car.
A quick glance at his watch, and Peter remembered the appointment he had set up with a snitch. Driving to the Happy Hour Bar, Peter found the man sitting on a barstool, surrounded by a haze of smoke.
“Glad you could make it, Caine,” was the man’s reply to Peter’s entrance. “I thought we were going to meet at 1:00, not 1:20.”
“Yeah, well, sue me.” Peter motioned for the man to follow him to a corner booth while ordering one beer for his companion. “Got anything on a Thomas Williamson or Eric Wilkerson?”
The scantily clad waitress delivered the beer. Peter pushed the damp glass over to his companion. He then gave the tired looking woman money for the drink, plus a small tip, motioning her away.
“The talk is that some ex-GI has gone loco and wants to send people to the other side of the living.”
“Yeah, I’ve got several bodies to prove that. You got a name or an address?”
“Seems there’s an abandoned hotel, the Hemingway, that was owned by a man named Williamson. He has started taking in customers again, customers of questionable jobs, if you get my meaning.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. He had looked into the city’s tax records and found that Williamson lived in the city and owned several hotels. The man had filed for bankruptcy two years ago, but only two days before the court was to rule on his case, he was bailed out with a donation of a large sum of money.
“Thanks.” Peter stood, passed a bill to his contact and left for the hospital.
Checking with the front desk, Peter found Frank had indeed been moved to Paul’s room.
“Knock, knock.” Peter called as he entered the room. Looking at Paul, Peter noted the faint pink to his foster father’s cheeks and the cup of water on the over the bed table. “That lunch?”
Paul set the newspaper down he had been reading and removed his glasses. “Yep, want some?” Paul offered then saw the strain on Peter’s face. “What? Frank and I are not at the office, so you decided to play hooky?”
Peter ducked his head, glad Paul was feeling much better and hoping his own feelings weren’t showing to Paul. “I figured you had to be better than your replacement. Hey Frank. How are you feeling?” Peter approached the ex-Marine’s bed after seeing Frank open his eyes when Paul spoke.
“I have a damned headache, Peter. What do you expect?” Frank grumbled, closing his eyes against the brightness of the room.
“Glad to see the bullet didn’t alter your pleasant personality, Frank,” Peter joked as he sat down in the chair he had grown accustomed to. “Don’t suppose you remember seeing this guy who shot you.”
“No. The garage door went up as I was getting into the car. He must have been waiting for me,” Frank answered, keeping his eyes closed.
“Your dog tags were found around your neck.”
Frank turned his head and looked into Peter’s eyes. “I never touched them.”
“Well, we searched the house. Nothing was touched except the box you kept your tags in. The doors upstairs were still locked. There wasn’t any sign of jimmying around the windows either, or the garage door.” Peter ran his hand through his hair. “We’re stumped. We have a drowning, a hanging, a gunshot wound, a man dead from the explosion, one dead from a land mine, one dead from being lashed, and one from an overdose of insulin. The only common tie is they were all from the same unit.”
Frank turned his head to face Peter, his brow furrowed with questions. “From my unit?”
“Yeah. Every one of them.” There was a moment of silence until Peter noticed Paul scribbling on the newspaper. “What are you doing, Paul?”
“Oh, just trying to finish this puzzle. Who’s my replacement?”
Peter stood up to leave, “Stiles. Well, I guess I’ll go and do some detective work, now that the apron strings have been cut.”
Paul and Frank looked at the young man, seeing the hurt written on his face. “Stiles tell you that?”
Smiling, Peter walked to the door and started to pull it open. “Yeah. Skalaney was pulled off this case so I can be on my own. I’ll be OK. Got a couple of leads I’m going to check out. Seems that one of the guys in your unit used to own the Hemingway Hotel, Chief.”
“I know you will, son. But do try and be careful.” Paul answered back, as he watched Peter leave, then silently cursed Stiles for bringing his son so much mental anguish.
The two men lay in their beds, Paul working on the puzzle in the paper, occasionally asking his roommate for an answer.
Frank kept his eyes closed against the bright light while he flexed his left hand. It was still weak. The doctor said it was after-effects from the bullet to the head, but that it would go away with exercise and time.
“Humph,” Paul said as he laid his pencil down on the table.
Frank waited for Paul to say something else, but Paul was quiet. “What?”
“Oh, I was just playing something in my mind. You know, if you take the first letter of each murder, it spells Hell Dog.” Paul watched as Frank’s face paled.
“Hell Dog?”
“Yeah, that mean something to you?”
“We had a guy in our unit named Hell Dog. He was crazy, but very intelligent. What were those names Peter was looking into?”
Paul’s stomach began to knot up, causing pain that he ignored. Frank never got upset at anything. “Um, Williams, no, Williamson. Garcia, Wilkerson, and Williamson.”
“Yeah, that’s him. Wilkerson. Paul, that man’s crazy. He was our scout leader. We lost him on a mission. Captain said we had to move out without him. They reported him MIA.”
Reaching for the phone, Paul dialed the precinct.
“Hundred and first, Broderick.”
“John, this is Blaisdell. Has Peter checked in?”
“No, Captain. Wait, Sheila took some calls and messages while I went to work. Let me get them.”
Paul could hear the background noise as he waited for the desk sergeant to get back to him.
“Yeah, he left here about five minutes ago. Said he’d be out at…Hemingway Hotel. Hmm, that’s been closed for a few years now. Said he was getting a warrant first, so he should be at the courthouse, if you need him.”
Again, Paul’s stomach twisted. “Let me talk to Stiles.”
“OK,” Broderick put him on hold, notifying Stiles of the incoming call.
“Captain Stiles. How are you, Paul?”
“Fine. Listen, did someone go with Peter to check on that suspect?”
Stiles sighed. “Look, Paul. I have more than one man working today. I don’t have the time or the manpower to check up on what Peter Caine is doing. Do you have to dress him in the morning, too?”
Frank watched as Paul slammed the phone down. “I take it the acting captain didn’t care for your question.”
Paul shot Frank a look of anger. “You think I’m babying Peter?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Tell me what happened.”
Breathing out a sigh, Paul cooled his anger. “Peter went to get a warrant on Wilkerson, then is going to the Hemingway Hotel.”
Rage built up in Frank. “Stiles didn’t send back-up?”
“No!” was Paul’s retort as he started getting out of the bed. He reached back to untie his gown, hampered by the IV line.
“Where are you going?”
“To help one of my officers.”
“An officer or your son?” Frank asked, trying to sound calm, though he wanted to go help Peter as much as Paul did. He still could not believe Stiles would not send back up.
Paul looked at him. “What kind of question is that, Frank?”
“Look, you’re in no shape to go. If you do go and nothing is wrong, then Peter’ll never live down that you don’t trust him as a cop or his judgement on a case.”
“And what if something does go wrong? Do I just sit here and do nothing?” Paul pulled the IV out of his arm and hit the stop button on the IV pump, applying pressure to the small puncture wound where the catheter had been.
“What you do for every officer. Call him some back up.” Frank knew he was crossing that fine line between subordinate and friend, watching for a reaction from Paul.
Paul nodded and reached for the phone, dialing numbers that had been engraved into his memory.
“Yeah,” was the receiver’s only response.
Keeping his voice low and calm, Paul started, “Need you to do me another favor.”
“That’s two, but who’s keeping track?”
“The list of names you gave Peter; Frank recognized one - Wilkerson. Said he’s the one that would kill people.”
“Figures. I just got some information back, was going to call the kid when he got back into the office. Man’s been in a military psycho ward for the past fifteen years.”
“They release him?”
The tapping of keys interrupted silence on the other end. “No, he escaped with help. Guy named Williamson was suspected of helping him. Well, well. Lookie here.”
Paul waited what seemed an eternity. “What is it?”
“Williamson owns property in the fair city. Hemingway Hotel. I bet…”
“That’s where Peter went.” Paul’s heart sank and visions of his son being killed ran briefly through his mind. “He doesn’t have back up.”
“He does now.”
Frank heard an audible click then disconnected line.
“Who was that?”
Hanging the phone back up, Paul relaxed a little. “A friend.”
“Got to make this nice and legal for Stiles,” Peter reminded himself as he got out of his car. The courthouse was crowded as jurors, plaintiffs, and defendants came back from lunch. Judge Rineholt was in his office when Peter knocked on his door.
“Come in.”
Peter smoothed his jacket and ran his hands through his hair quickly, wanting to make a good first impression on the judge. “Sir, I was wondering if I could get a moment of your time.”
“Detective Caine. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. It’s been what, a week?”
Red colored Peter’s cheeks, “Yes, Sir, about that long. I need to get a warrant to search a building.”
The judge steepled his fingers in front of him, smiling at the boyish face of this officer. It was so easy to get the young man to blush and the judge did it as often as possible, thinking that the memory would make this case he was presiding over go a little less boring. “And you want this warrant because…?”
“I think a murderer is being hidden there. The man who owns the building is a Thomas Williamson, the building is the…” Peter was cut off.
“Hemingway. Yes, I was the ruling judge on a case he had before me. What’s happening to him now?”
Peter swallowed hard. “I believe he knows this man I’m looking for and is keeping him at the hotel.”
“I thought the hotel closed.”
“From what I understand, he’s using it as a mission. He can declare it a tax write off and those he houses there have certain protection from officers.”
Judge Rineholt nodded. “Who is the man you think Williamson is hiding?”
“It could be one of three men. Marco Garcia, Erik Wilkerson or Dennie Wells. I’ve pretty much narrowed it down to Wilkerson; he’s the only one I can’t get any history on from the military. Also, a neighbor at the shooting said she saw a man fitting his description the day before. Wells lives across the river and Garcia has an alibi for at least one of the killings. He was in Mexico burying his mother.”
“You got the paperwork?”
“Yes, Sir.” Peter handed the judge the warrant and watched as the judge read it then signed it.
Handing the paper back to the detective, he added, “I’ve also heard some rumors about that hotel. This is ONLY to find Wilkerson, Detective. So far, all you’ve given me is suspicion and I’ll go with that, but nothing more. If you find you have more evidence, then bring it to me and I’ll review it.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Peter turned and walked out of the office. He thought to himself as he walked to his car, ‘Hemingway Hotel, here I come.’