Death at Fort Devens by Peter Colt

Author:Peter Colt
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448307883
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2022-02-14T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Sue had left promising me that she would keep an eye out for Judy Billings. She would call me if she saw her or had word that she was in the Combat Zone. She said she would call me even if she didn’t have word of Judy. Then she made one or two suggestions about what we might do next time we were together. The suggestions could be described as unladylike, and I had no intention of trying to convince her to act any other way.

I had finally managed a shower and some coffee. The afternoon had been spent making the usual calls to my answering service and to cops I knew who still talked to me. I called the hospitals and anyone who I thought might have any idea about a teenage runaway. No one had seen Judy. Nobody had heard anything. A vice cop I knew on BPD told me what clubs K-nice had been going to lately. Now it was a little after ten p.m., and I was parked in an alley near Shawmut Avenue.

I was parked by a dumpster, and I had a view of K-nice’s Jaguar two blocks down. It was a blue XJ6 with a tan interior. It was parked near an exit from the club. The license plates matched what the guy in Vice told me that K-nice was driving. I made a mental note to send him a bottle of good scotch, the type of thing that I would only buy myself on my birthday or Christmas, but not the really good stuff that was reserved for wakes and funerals.

It was a sharp-looking car with its double headlights, stubby grill, and lines like a woman’s thighs. K-nice must have been doing well at selling drugs and girls. The running joke about Jaguars is that you have to have the money to afford two of them. One to own and one to drive when the other one is in the shop. That is why I drive a ten-year-old Maverick. I can’t afford one expensive English car, much less two of them.

I had taken one of the magic pain pills my friend Chris had given me when I was shot in the arm a few months ago. The pain in my ribs and arm had quieted to a very dull throb. I got out of the Maverick knowing I had dressed for success. I was wearing old penny loafers, an older pair of jeans, and a dark green button-down, short sleeve Swedish Army shirt. It had a little Swedish flag on the left shoulder, a Swedish Army patch on the right, and it screamed of college kid chic. It was the type of thing cool art school kids picked up in the Army/Navy surplus store. I liked it because it was loose fitting and comfortable. I had the .38 on my right hip, a speedloader in my left front pocket, my Buck knife in my right front pocket. After my run-in with Sailor and his slungshot, I had a blackjack stuffed in my back right pocket too.

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