The Belialish Incident by D. B. Crawford

Author:D. B. Crawford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, confession, boston, atlantic city, sleuth, gambling, bank, paintings, white collar crime, attempted murder, embezzelment, embezzler, art dealer, auction house, db crawford
Publisher: Melange Books

Chapter Sixteen

Fred Dahl, Vince Bocca, and a plain-clothed detective arrived at the storage facility shortly after the guard was opening up for the day.

“We’re looking for number one-seventy-eight,” Dahl said.

“How come you don’t know where your stuff is?”

Dahl pulled out his badge.

“Oh,” the man said simply. “It’s on the right.”

“Who rents it?” Dahl wanted to know.

“Let me see,” the man said and, taking time to sit down at his desk, pulled out a binder of computer-printed sheets. In a moment he said, “L. McCarthy.”

“Thanks,” Dahl said, stepping a little aside. “We’ll wait for the warrant.”

The wait wasn’t long. A cruiser came to a stop, and Dahl was handed the document. Less than four minutes later, the three men were on their way out with the briefcase.

“How did you find the key?” Dahl asked Bocca in the car.

“I can’t let you know all my secrets, can I?”

Dahl eyed him suspiciously as he went for his ringing cell phone.

* * * *

Officer Michael Walsh took the call a minute or so after coming on duty for the early shift in Hyannis. The caller, whom he could not identify as being a woman, a man, or even a child for that matter, was succinct, then the line went dead. Walsh knew he had to investigate even though he wanted to simply ignore the short directive. It could hardly be true.

He drove towards the beach as he had been instructed, a feeling of dread beginning to emerge. This was Cape Cod. For all intents and purposes the tourist season had not yet begun, which meant the call had been from a local, a local who had been quite precise as to where Walsh was to look and what he would find.

With the beach in full view, Michael Walsh quickly scanned the picture before him and saw what the distorted voice had promised. Keeping his eyes ahead on the shape jutting against the new day he walked quickly on the sand, wet from the night’s rain, his feet leaving deep marks, his right hand on his gun. The tied up young woman appeared dead.

He bent down and touched her lightly. She opened her eyes. They were full of fear. “Can you hear me?” he asked softly. Her body made a jerky motion which he took to be a confirmation.

“What happened?”

She didn’t reply. As instructed, he stood up and went to the message written in letters crudely cut out from magazines and glued to a piece of paper inside the protective clear plastic nailed to the wood plank.

My name is Louise McCarthy. I’m wanted by the Boston PD for murder. Contact Lt Fred Dahl.

Walsh removed the underwear and the plastic-covered sheet using the pocket knife he was never without and dropped them in a plastic bag retrieved from one of his pockets. He then proceeded to untie the woman and help her to her feet.

“Is your name Louise McCarthy?” She nodded. He helped her walk to the cruiser then tried again. “Anything you want to tell me?”

She shook her head.

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