Red Hunt by PT Reade

Author:PT Reade [Reade, PT]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Private Investigators, Crime, noir, mystery
ISBN: 9781511971515
Google: rv_ZsgEACAAJ
Goodreads: 27685791
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2015-05-21T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

It made a sad sort of sense.

When I reached the building, I’d expected a run-in with “The French Brothers,” maybe a kind of thugs or pimps running the area. But the warehouse the hookers pointed me at was nothing more than a huge storage shed that looked older than everything else in the area. It had a rustic wooden exterior and boasted ancient faded letters that read “French Brother’s Grain.” The faint sound of water lapping at the banks of the river carried on the air while raucous seagulls cried overhead. Somewhere out of sight, a diesel engine rumbled with discontent as a boat passed by on the river.

I parked in the desolate lot, stepped out of the car, and locked my doors. Within two steps, the parking lot alone told me what type of place this was. The butt end of a smoked joint, several empty beer cans, and a broken syringe littered the ground between my car and the gate guarding the entrance to the place.

Approaching the entryway, I considered knocking but guessed that would scare off anyone who might have any valuable information. Instead, I pushed the creaky door open and stepped inside.

The smell of dust, sweat, and piss assaulted my nostrils but I manned up and strolled in as if I belonged there. The interior was basically one large open area supported by rusty iron beams and graffiti-covered concrete. Several people sat on the grimy floor among old machinery and wooden boxes. Above us, a crumbling roof let some of the afternoon sunshine in through a filthy skylight, but it did little to brighten the place. Some of the homeless had made seedy little shelters out of plastic sheeting and garbage bags. One was particularly innovative with an old car door and several scraps of sheet metal. A home away from home—almost palatial in comparison with its neighbors.

I headed for this particular shelter first. The man that sat at the corner of it was smoking a roll-up cigarette and staring at me as I approached. He didn’t look at me with fear, though. It felt like he was sizing me up, trying to figure me out.

“Hey buddy,” I said, drawing near. “I’m looking for some help.” I could smell his body odor from three feet away, but I managed to get closer without retching.

“Not much help to be had here, man,” he said lethargically.

I handed him the picture of Christina Bishop. “Have you seen this woman lately?”

The man studied it for a while as he drew from his cigarette. “Nope. Damn shame, too. She’s a pretty’n.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yup. I’d remember something that looked that good. Sorry, boss.”

I retrieved the picture and then headed to the next man. He had no shelter and was simply slumped against a stack of old builder’s pallets. Even before I spoke to him, I knew it was a lost cause. His head was tilted back, and he was snoring loudly. A thin trail of drool ran over his lips. I assumed the reason for his condition was the empty copper-colored bottle that sat between his legs.

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