The Dark Root (Joe Gunther mystery series) by Mayor Archer

Author:Mayor, Archer [Mayor, Archer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Brattleboro (Vt.) --Fiction., Asian American criminals --Fiction., Police --Vermont --Brattleboro --Fiction., Gunther, Joe (Fictitious character) --Fiction.
ISBN: 9781939767066
Publisher: MarchMedia
Published: 2013-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

18

I GENTLY REMOVED THE PENDANT from Willy’s outstretched hand. “Nice work,” I murmured, “Where’d you get it?”

“Garage north of Horton Place, right next to a dark-green Trans Am with Québec plates and a smashed-in front grille.”

“Jesus,” Sammie muttered.

“I got a unit guarding the place till I get a search warrant,” Willy added, his eyes betraying his nonchalance, “so you’ll understand if I gotta go.”

“Call me when you’re ready,” I told him. “And take a shower before you meet with the judge.”

Horton Place is one leg of a semicircular street that attaches to the east side of Canal Street like one of those large, plastic horseshoe-shaped magnets. The other leg is named Homestead Place. What the back end is called—the part that connects the two legs—is anyone’s guess, but it was there that Willy Kunkle led Sammie, J.P., and me about two hours later.

The Horton-Homestead loop has no option other than to double back on itself. It is shoved up against a steep, fifty-foot embankment that looms overhead like a semi-forested cliff. Within the confines of the horseshoe are several beaten-up homes and two or three century-old, three-story wooden apartment buildings—all peeling paint and stacked, sagging balconies. Across a weed-choked backyard are two decrepit concrete garages. A squad car, its driver leaning against the fender, was parked in front of one of them.

The structure in question was free-standing, had two solid, old-fashioned pull-down doors on cantilevered hinges, and looked about ready to collapse. It had no windows that I could see.

“Round here,” Willy said, leading the way. He was still unshaven and wearing the same clothes, but he now smelled of too much deodorant.

On the garage’s west side was a narrow wooden door. Willy turned the knob, shoved it open, and stepped inside. We paused on the threshold, our eyes adjusting to the darkness. Before us was a single stall with an earthen floor; apart from some tires and a broken armchair, it was empty. There was a second opening, without a door, on the far wall separating this stall from its mate, but there wasn’t enough light to see through it. This last fact alone, coupled with the assumption that the Trans Am was parked in the second stall, set off my internal alarm bells.

“Hold it,” I ordered, as Willy was about to walk through to the opening. “How did you find this place?”

Willy looked back impatiently. “Last week, when we searched the flophouse Nguyen lived in, I noticed this guy hanging around outside, watching us. One of the residents told me he was called Chui. He was an obvious creep—tight pants, greasy hair, fancy mustache. I didn’t have any reason to trust him then, but,” and he tapped the side of his head, “I filed him away for posterity. After Dennis got whacked, I went back, staked myself out in one of the alleys across the street, and waited.

“Just like I thought, Michael Vu came and went, giving orders, and then all the boys in the fancy cars took off like rats from a sinking ship.

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