The Unearthing of Blackstone Page 3

  “Ahhhh, hot bean juice…”

  He was tired, but what could he do? He accepted it as his lot in life. Sometimes, however, he could barely focus and the strain became too much. He’d surrender to his soul’s yearning when sudden slumber pulled him from consciousness. It didn’t help that he hadn’t kept his routine. He’d raced out of his house so quickly that morning, he totally bypassed his sunrise humdrum of having his first cup at home while watching the morning news and later, meticulously going over his hair. This particular day, he just wanted the hell outta there after the restless night.

  He’d tossed and turned most of the evening before the nocturnal hauntings had returned, forcing him to give up on sleep. And the notion of staying in those quarters, regardless of how well furnished and elaborately beautiful they were, simply wouldn’t suffice or give him an ounce of the comfort or peace he needed.

  “Good morning, beautiful…” He cracked open his laptop, leaned to the side in his seat and watched her boot up from her siesta. Setting his cup down beside the electronic life-saver, his fingers tapped across the silver Mac Pro computer as he filtered through his open cases. He had four, and two of them were almost complete. Ace loved working for himself. He could claim all the glory when the deed was done, and he didn’t have to worry about someone messing up. If some shit hit the fan, he could only blame himself, and he was much more comfortable with chewing his own ear off versus that of an inept fucker he’d unfortunately hired on a day when he felt his load was simply too heavy. No, he chose to be Goliath and laziness wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  “Soooo…we have the Rodale case… partner of the firm has been pilfering…affirmative. Will send files this afternoon…” he said softly to himself as he perused the information.

  “Mrs. Briolette will be happy to know that her son is not a drug addict…he is just stupid as fuck…zombies get more brain.” He snickered as he drafted an email to relay the good news to the mother of three that her eldest child, a college drop-out by the name of Ricky, was not getting high on that ‘pot’ as she called it, or any other narcotic. No, he simply wasn’t the sharpest knife in the damn drawer. Ace supposed that in itself was somewhat a tragedy. She could no longer blame his senselessness on an outside force, some evil entity that had re-wired the idiotic bastard’s brain or taken hold of his sensibilities. No, Ricky was ridiculous. Case closed. As he was getting into the meat of the correspondence, a soft knock sounded at the door. Before it fully registered that someone was there, the buzzer sounded from the front entranceway. His brow shot up in confusion as he immediately pulled up his schedule.

  His eyes scanned the dates and times on his computer as the bell continued to sound. His memory was one thing he prided himself on, yet, he had to admit stranger things had happened as of late. Had he forgotten a meeting? No, he was right. He had no appointments scheduled that day, and definitely not at that hour of the morning.

  Tapping the intercom, he cleared his throat to speak.

  “Private Investigator Blackstone speaking. Who is it and how may I assist you?”

  He grabbed a cigarette from his top drawer and lit the damned thing as he waited. A clogged, static noise followed, soon replaced by a smooth, deep, masculine voice.

  “Greetings, Mr. Blackstone. My name is Earlwood Henderson, and I’ve come a long way to see you.”

  Ace sat there for a few moments, leaning back in his chair. Immediately, without seeing the face of the man, the whole thing troubled him straight from the gate. His tone had an air of foreboding to it, as if Vincent Price himself had rose from the dead and were on the other side of the door, his voice just as stellar, pristine and a tad bit creepy. Ace leaned forward and touched the intercom.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Henderson that you’ve been troubled by travelling a great distance, but I do not accept walk-in appointments. Please let me get your number and an address, and I will—”

  “No, you see, I’m afraid I can’t wait. I do apologize. I believe in my haste, I didn’t even think this through. If you have fifteen minutes to spare, it would be worth your while and you could help soothe my suffering.” The man’s voice sounded less suave and mellifluous now; the confidence had been knocked down a notch or two. Matter of fact, he sounded anxious, as though he held on by a frayed thread. Ace leaned back in his seat and ran his index finger along his bottom lip as he deliberated the words stated to him. Taking another slow sip of coffee and a drag of his cigarette, he contemplated until he reached a decision. Pressing on the buzzer, he made the foyer door click and unlock.

  Upon hearing footsteps approach, he sat a bit straighter, interlocking his fingers as the as the aroma from his beverage blended with the odor of the freshly extinguished Marlboro. He looked up as his door slowly swung open, revealing a tall African American man, at least six foot four in height. A ruby red hat hid one of his eyes, while a coat of the same flashy color covered a black suit. The hulking man grabbed the rim of the hat and carefully removed it from his face to hold it at his crotch, revealing dark, deep set eyes, a shiny baldhead and a small scar that ran jaggedly along his jawbone.

  “I see we have something in common…”

  Ace pointed to the chair in front of his desk, offering a seat to the man who nodded, appearing a bit uneasy as he fumbled with his hat and took the necessary steps to come forward and sit. Henderson cleared his throat.

  “We have something in common?” the man questioned as he surveyed the office with an intense glare.

  What did he expect to see? A red light from a sleazy motel and a box fan? I’m not Dick Tracey…

  “The scar…I’ve got one here across my forehead.” He pointed at it. “And yours is about the same length, across your jaw.”

  “Oh.” The man nodded in understanding and smiled weakly. “Yes, got this from when I worked at a factory many years ago.”

  He offered nothing further.

  “I notice things like that because I have to,” Ace explained. “Like the fact that when you walk, from the sound of it, one shoe is slightly heavier than the other. Possibly to compensate for a shorter leg?” He leaned back into his chair and lit another cigarette. He fancied chain-smoking his damn morning away as if he were a chimney on Christmas morning.

  Henderson offered a light chuckle. “Yes, you’re good. My left leg is about two centimeters shorter than my right. It doesn’t cause me much trouble, was born this way, but I prefer to walk a bit smoother and if my shoes aren’t modified, then I have a slight limp, as though I’m trying to walk real cool or somethin’.”

  “And…you are from Texas.”

  The man looked at him sternly then burst out in hysterics.

  “I’ve definitely come to the right place!” He extended his hand and Ace grabbed it, giving it a hearty shake.

  “Yeah…all Southern accents are different.” He leaned back in his seat. “Some people think they all sound the same.They don’t. For instance, Texan accents are a bit harder on the vowels. So, Mr. Henderson, what can I do for you?”

  “Interesting. I’ll get right to it. Thank you for seeing me by the way.”

  Ace nodded.

  “Look, I’ve hired six private detectives in the last ten years. Not one of them have been able to find my daughter and three out of the six, I would venture to say, were highly competent. Two out of those three prizefighters, however, traced her here, to Illinois, Chicago to be exact.” The man pressed his finger onto Ace’s desk as his tone rose ever so slightly. “However, that is where the trail ran cold. I have no idea if she is still here or not.” He shrugged, threw up his hands as if surrendering. “Regardless, I’ve decided upon a new approach.”

  “And that would be?” Ace took another sip of his coffee. “Oh, pardon my manners. Would you like a cup, Mr. Henderson?”

  “I’d appreciate that, thank you.” The man slowly nodded as if exhausted and sat back a bit further in his seat.

  Ace got to his feet and watched the man out the corner of his eye as he made his way to
the small coffee machine in the corner of the room. He grabbed another mug and poured it to the rim. “Sugar? Cream?”

  “Just one packet of sugar is fine.”

  Ace grabbed the white packet and a spoon, along with the cup, and placed the items before Henderson, then returned to his seat.

  Henderson’s lip dipped low, as if disgusted by something foul as he tore the sachet open, dumped the sugar in the coffee, stirred it with the small silver spoon. He raised the brew to his full, dark fleshy lips.

  “Mmmm, that’s good…thank you. As I was saying… my new approach is to hire a local detective in the area, one who knows the area well and may have more success finding her.”

  Ace turned to his computer, shut it down, then pulled out a pen and a yellow pad of paper, setting it beside him just in case.

  “So, tell me the last time you saw your daughter and share a little information about her, Mr. Henderson.”

  “Well, the last time I saw her was the day after her eighteenth birthday. That was almost ten years ago. Her name is Lynne Henderson. She is about five nine, she’s African American and, well, wait a minute.” He grunted as he reached into his pocket, removed a couple photos and slid them across the desk. “That’s her.” The man’s lips curved in a proud smile, though he still appeared sullen. Ace could see the sorrow in the man’s eyes. The coldness in the dark lairs had turned glossy with pain.

  “May I?”

  “Yes…of course. They are yours if you take my case. I’ve had so many copies made.”

  Ace nodded and looked at the photos, his eyes darting from one to the other.

  She’s a pretty girl…

  “I will admit to you that I’m frantic at this point. This is negatively impacting my health, my life, and every aspect of it. I need some closure.” The man was obviously at his wit’s end. “I will pay whatever you ask. I’m certain that a man like you has a full schedule, but I’ll do almost anything for you to take this case right away,” he pleaded. It made Ace feel a bit uncomfortable. Here was this big guy, intimidating by appearance alone, groveling at his feet. He had to be desperate to stoop to such a level, and though Ace didn’t understand it, he could empathize.

  “As foolish as this sounds, I even let my wife talk me into hiring a damn psychic. Funny thing, the psychic said she was in Illinois, too!” The man burst out laughing — a mirthless laugh.

  “Well.” Ace shrugged his shoulders. “Stranger things have happened,” he said seriously.

  “You believe in psychics, Mr. Blackstone?”

  “What I personally believe doesn’t matter, Mr. Henderson.” Ace took a toke of his cigarette, then placed it back in the gulley of the clear ashtray. “The persons in need of help and hope are the ones who are most important. Nothing is real without a believer.” Smoke drifted between the two of them. “Theories need advocates. Someone has to be acknowledging the presence of a thing. That is what separates reality from fantasy. It’s not whether something is real or not, it’s who believes it is…”

  “So, you philosophize?”

  Ace grinned and gave a slight laugh, then shrugged. “No, not really. What I’m saying is that a person’s beliefs are what makes whoever they are trusting or believing in, materialize. Such as you and me, for example.”

  Henderson nodded as he listened.

  “If you didn’t believe that I could help you, you would not have travelled this distance. You came from Texas. I know this, not just because you said you’ve come a long way and have the dialect to prove it, which helps, but it’s still not concrete proof all on its lonesome. In my line of work, I’d need more than that. I also must believe you, and what you say, for this relationship to work.”

  “Well, how do you know that I’m tellin’ the truth then? You know, about being from Texas, if you can’t take my word and the way I speak at face value?” Henderson crossed his long legs and glared at him.

  “You have a key chain shaped like a cowboy hat with ‘Texas A&M’ written across it. It’s put away now, but I saw it when you first came inside of my office. Also, I can see the tip of a luggage tag sticking out of your coat pocket, showing that you literally came from the airport and straight over here. That denotes urgency, and that you’ve travelled.” He pointed to the man’s pocket, causing Henderson to smile with nothing more obvious than admiration. “You didn’t stop at a hotel and from the way you wiggled a bit; you’re probably overdue for a bathroom break. You are eager to hand me this case, go back home, and hope and pray that I find this young lady who is now, according to the information you provided, almost twenty-eight years old.” Ace glanced back down at the photos, mentally reprimanding himself for finding the young woman quite attractive.

  “Your daughter’s disappearance has turned your family upside down. So many times, you believed you were close to finding her, only to be told that the buck stops here.”

  “You are the psychic!” Henderson grinned as he pointed a long, dark brown finger at Ace, a shiny gold ring dazzling at the knuckle.

  “For all we both know, and I say this not to upset you, but because I’m a realist, things may not be as you wish. I don’t believe in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. And the reality of the matter, Mr. Henderson, is that Lynne Henderson may be dead. Maybe that is why the trail ran cold. Many detectives are only good at finding people who are alive because there is constant activity due to that state of being. In death, everything stops moving, and it takes a different set of skills, a more forensic mind, if you will. Notwithstanding, homicide in Chicago is more than just a notion.”

  Henderson nodded, clasped his hands together and swallowed.

  “I’ve considered all of that. She is not from a place such as this, and if this is in fact where she ended up, I am deeply concerned for her. She is a country girl, Mr. Blackstone. She was sheltered. She knows nothing about things that happen in a big city to the preyed upon and naive.”

  Ace looked at the man for a few moments, still wiggling about in his seat, then made a suggestion.

  “First, before we continue, let me direct you to my bathroom.”

  Both men burst out laughing as Henderson stood to his feet.

  “When you return, we will discuss the particulars concerning your daughter. Now, go out of this door,” Ace pointed towards the front of his office, “swing to your left and go down that short hall with the Scarface framed posters up and down it. When you reach the poster of Al Pacino in black, red and white, hook a right. The bathroom door is right there.”

  “Got it!” Henderson made his way out of the office, leaving Ace with the photos. He sifted different possibilities through his mind, then turned his computer back on and placed the girl’s name in his database. He waited patiently, tapping his fingertips. In his profession, he never took the simplest of acts for granted. Some detectives were sloppy in checking details, even know it was known the database changed on a daily basis; the police entered new names all the time.

  Reaching out, he brushed off the remnants of sleep from the corner of his eye and yawned as he continued to watch the names scroll across the screen, understanding that the likelihood of him getting a hit was slim. Henderson returned, patting his hands dry with a paper towel, and reclaimed his seat. Taking another sip of his now cold coffee, Ace turned back to Mr. Henderson.

  “Now, tell me what was going on the last time you saw your daughter.” Ace settled in his seat, prepared to hear the details. His ear was honed and his eyes, too. He was just as concerned about the intonation of the man’s voice while relaying the specifics as he was about what the man said or didn’t say.

  “It was just an ordinary day. I’d gotten up to go to work. Her younger sister, Claudia, was up first getting ready for school. Then, our eldest, our son, Earlwood Jr., came down. He was a sophomore in college, at Texas A&M.”

  Ace noted the watered-down smile on the man’s face.

  Proud of his son…

  “Okay, and did you ever see Lynne that morning?�
�

  “Yes. While I was in the kitchen eating, her mother was still asleep initially, so we just had a few moments together. She came down and fixed herself something to eat. Then, my wife came in and took out some pans to cook, then went to the powder room. I still remember it… Lynne cut a grapefruit in half and placed a sliced cherry on top of it, like in the fancy restaurants. She then ate a piece of toast, too. She’d been acting a bit strange,” Henderson admitted.

  “You see, Mr. Blackstone, Lynne was a genius and I’m not saying that because I’m her father.” The man’s long fingers sprawled across his chest as he looked earnestly into Ace’s eyes. “She’d been tried and tested. She was a young prodigy. From the age of three, we noticed she had a penchant for picking up information and retaining it, the most mundane of details. Everything she did, she excelled at. She was good at facts and figures, and really enjoyed history, science and language classes the most. I was blessed with very smart children.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped it across his baldhead as he paused, seemingly getting choked up.

  “Between you and me, Lynne was the smartest, but all of them shined academically. She was funny, too. I had what all fathers dream of: well-mannered, smart, good lookin’ children.” He smiled sadly.

  Ace smiled back and folded his hands together, careful not to interrupt.

  “My son, he played football for A&M and maintained a 3.8 GPA throughout his entire time there. He now works for me. My youngest child, Claudia — she went to Tulane University in Louisiana, for engineering. Very bright girl, a bit shy. She’s now married…her husband is in the military.” The man looked into his lap and fidgeted.

  “Now, to get back on track here…” Ace glanced at his cigarette, desiring it, but fought the magnetic, addictive pull. “The last time you saw Lynne was at breakfast, in your kitchen, and you stated she was acting strangely?”

  Ace didn’t want to be an ass. He was used to emotional displays, and even though all of the information was pertinent, he knew how his own mind worked and how he needed to proceed to piece this puzzle together. First, he needed to know Lynne, then all the pieces would fall into place. So, he took the initiative to usher Henderson into the way he needed the communication to flow.