Racing The Storm: Dan Landis Mystery Series, #5

Chapter 1

The morning sun baked the running man. His cheap sneakers flapped like a desperate bird against the pavement as he ran down the alley. A gray tomcat hissed in anger as the figure ran past, never slowing. Two sets of feet pounded behind him, one set of shoes high-priced loafers, the other snake skin cowboy boots. There was the briefest of pauses, just long enough for the man to jump a high fence, the hot metal scorching the calloused skin that covered thin fingers.

Landing with both feet flat, the man glanced back over his shoulder, even as his momentum carried him forward. The two runners in hot pursuit stopped at the fence. High-priced loafers weren’t made for climbing fences. The smaller of the two men, his boots finding purchase in the chainlink fence, fingers yellowed with nicotine interlaced over the thin bars of metal. The man in cowboy boots pulled himself up fast, but not fast enough. He screamed at the retreating back of the running man.

The weathered face of the rushing man glanced back over his shoulder at his mustachioed pursuer. He missed the black-clad leg which stretched out, the cuff of the pants lifting to reveal a single bright lime green sock. The running man’s foot caught against the expensive black tennis shoe, causing him to lose balance, landing face first on the street.

The man in black fell, his brown bag of groceries spilling into the street, his body landing belly to back with the fallen man.

What in the, the man in black yelled. Watch where you’re going, you moron.

Well, sneered the owner of the cowboy boots approaching the entwined pair, his breathing labored, look who’s playing the old bump and grind with our perp. Everyone’s favorite private dick, Dan Landis.

The man in black looked up at the sound of his name. Holy crap, it’s John Holmes! Dan said. Oh, wait, it’s just Bill Kelly. Sorry, that caterpillar under your nose had me fooled. There was a long mournful sigh. Well, I know that sound. There’s only one chocolate giant of sugary sweetness who can sigh like that.

The man called Dan Landis craned his neck, staring up at the owner of the expensive loafers. Detective Jones, you going to stand there glaring at me, or give me a hand up?

That’s what she said, Bill Kelly snarked.

I didn’t do nothin’! shouted the runner. Get this guy off me! This is police brutality!

Shut up, Bill Kelly said.

Dan Landis released his grip on the paper sack, cans rolling forward on the pavement.

Dan rolled to the left, pivoting off the prostrate runner. Bill Kelly pounced on the recumbent man in the dilapidated sneakers, yanking anemic arms behind an emaciated man’s back.

Police brutality! I’m being brutalized! the runner screamed, flopping around like a suffocating marlin.

Knock it off before I give you something to yell about, Kelly snarled.

Always a people person, Dan said. He pulled his legs close to his chest, launching them up and forward. The momentum pulled him to standing, he spun on one heel to watch the struggle between mustachioed cop and bony runner.

Great googly moogley! Dan shouted, slapping his forehead. Why, if it isn’t Cody Parker. I totally didn’t recognize you. Probably because you knocked me down. Have you put on some weight? Wait. He turned to the taller of the cops, his head cocking to one side. His perfectly coiffed raven black hair stayed in place. Since when do you go after bottom feeders like Parker? Dan turned to the struggling men. He smiled, No offense Cody.

I didn’t do nothing! Cody repeated, his mouth muffled some by being in close proximity to Bill Kelly’s armpit. 

Uh huh, keep telling yourself that, Bill Kelly stated, taking a moment to spit out some of Cody’s stringy brown hair. It was in desperate need of a shampoo. 

Sorry about things, Cody. Tell you what, I’ll make sure Leopold is standing by, Dan gave a wink and a smile.

Jenkins? No wonder this kid has a jacket if he has a lousy, two-bit no talent hack like Jenkins for a public mouthpiece, Kelly said, yanking Cody Parker to his feet.

You’re all heart, Dan replied, his sweet voice in contrast to the furious expression which splashed across his face. His forehead was knotted, his eyes squinting, his jaw set. In the blink of an eye, the mouth resumed its relaxed and lazy smile, the one he’d used since speaking the name Bill Kelly. However, there was a fire burning in the deep blue eyes of Dan Landis. Wait, he gave a shake of his head slapping his forehead a second time, that’s right, Jenkins is on vacation. I’ll call Spangler. Hold on, he’s in rehab. Again. Oh well. Hey, Cody! The runner jerked his head up and around at the sound of his name. Perhaps it was the friendly tone Dan used. Or the promise of hope imbued in the voice.

Or maybe the guy was just A.D.D.

Tell you what, to say I’m sorry for knocking you down, how about I call in a marker. Get you the best defense attorney in town, Braxton Wannamaker. Sound good?

I didn’t do nothin’! Cody shouted, spittle coming out of his mouth.

Dan looked over to the tallest man, the one he had called Detective Jones, then leaned in close. Well, second best, he whispered.

What are you doing around here Dan, Detective Jones asked, his voice low, the deep baritone resonating. He towered over the scene like a lighthouse in a trench coat.

That’s a good question Jones, Bill Kelly chimed in, dragging the now handcuffed runner over to the pair. What are you doing in this dump, Landis? Looking for an upgrade? He laughed, as only a man laughing at his own joke could.

Hey Kelly, anyone tell you, you’re as funny as syphilis? 

If anyone knows, it’s you, Landis.

Enough, you two. We need to take Mr. Parker to the station, the big man paused, staring evenly at Dan. We wanted to ask Mr. Parker some questions and he fled. In clear violation of his parole. However, we will in no way impede his right to legal representation. He sighed again. Now then, why are you here Mr. Landis?

In answer, the man in black turned away from the cops and robber and scooped up his bag. He began grabbing at cans of food, ignoring the radiating heat of the sidewalk, and stuffed them into the brown paper bag. What’s it to you Detective? Something wrong with a man shopping at the local Korean grocery store?

Detective Jones glanced down the deserted street the man in black had come. The storefronts were closed and boarded up. The shop nearest the trio was the only unboarded window. The glass was decorated with a marquee for Mario’s Bakery. However, even it was deserted, with no sign of equipment or staff. The neon OPEN sign remained unlit. Detective Jones turned back to the younger man.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I got a bus to catch, Dan squared his shoulders. 

What’s wrong, Landis, they repossess your car? Kelly asked, pushing the handcuffed runner forward.

Come on Mr. Landis, Detective Jones rumbled. We’re parked near the bus stop.

Joy, Dan replied flatly. He shuffled along beside the two cops and their latest collar.

None of them saw the twitch of the curtain at the third window from the left on the dilapidated brownstone across the street from the bakery. The location offered a clear view of the street, the alleyway, and most importantly, the private office above the bakery. There was no sign that the office was headquarters of O’ Bryon and Landis Investigative Services. Anonymity was a useful tool in the private detective industry.

Across from the bakery, the opaque fabric of the window’s curtain hid the dingy room’s inhabitants. A thin, reedy man stared through the viewfinder of a high-end DSLR camera. He took a step back, letting out a breath. The man scratched his nose, his movements were fast, jerky, frantic, like a cornered animal. It’s him, it’s definitely him.

You’re sure? asked a low growl. The thin man looked toward his companion who pushed back the ten gallon Stetson he wore. The thin man didn’t dare to make eye contact with the big cowboy.

I’m sure. It’s definitely him. Him and that stupid partner of his. The thin man looked back to the camera, then to the man in the cowboy hat. I’ve got everything ready to go. Can I setup while he’s gone?

You know what to do? demanded a third voice behind them. It was a lovely feminine voice, perfect for candlelit dinners and romantic interludes. The two men turned to their companion, the thin man blushing. The cowboy scowled.

Yeah, the thin man nodded, we wait till they’re all together and blow ‘em sky high.

Chapter 2

In the darkness two pistols snapped up, spitting fire and lead. There were twin flashes, the wafting smell of burning powder, the repeated crack of gunfire. One was quick, snapping out each shot one after another, the sound of the next bullet treading over the last. The second was slow and methodical, a steady crackling boom.

The overhead fluorescents flickered to life, there was a buzz, the two figures froze.

Clear weapons, the PA system chirped.

The man in black, his raven hair teased and perfectly arranged, dropped the slide, released the magazine, then dry fired. He shouted Clear!

Lane 8, holster your weapon.

Dan Landis slipped his gun into its custom quick-draw holster. It too was black, its shade of ebony clashing against the onyx shirt he wore. Dan wore black because it was cool, didn’t draw attention to its wearer, and went with everything. Even his green DayGlo socks. It was important to Dan that his socks had personality. He smiled up at the speaker box, noting the sleep-deprived, overly-caffeinated tone.

Clear, a deep voice boomed next door.

Lane 7, holster your weapon, the speaker commanded, though Dan noted there was a bit more respect to the tone.

I love the smell of gunpowder in the morning. It smells like victory. And scrambled eggs. Dan took a step out of his assigned stall. The resident next door sighed, which was something people seemed to do a lot around Dan.

I think you’re scrambling eggs wrong, Gary Jones replied. The big man pressed the button to retrieve his paper target. He wore his usual frumpy brown raincoat over a starched and pressed white shirt with a tie. Today’s tie was green with black dots. Probably in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day in two days. At six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pounds, Gary didn’t look very Irish. Well, maybe Black Irish.

Dan mirrored the big man’s actions, the target whining down the firing lane. Really, what’s better than a little gunplay in the morning? Dan asked. You, me, some cheap paper targets. Get some dancing girls and this could be a real party!

Gary unclipped his target, studying the gaping hole where his six shots overlapped.

Always aiming for the heart, huh? Dan asked, leaning against the metal curve of the stall. You’d never make it in a zombie apocalypse.

I aim for vital organs, Gary sighed. Not all of us are hotshots. The younger man grinned. Good luck hitting the head of a moving target.

I make my own luck. Dan’s lip curled up in a roguish grin as he waggled his eyebrows. He winked at the big man, then held the paper target up like a proud kindergartner showcasing a finger painting. Check out that grouping; you couldn’t ask for a better lineup. The close cropping of shots gave the target’s head a honeycomb appearance.

If you say so, Gary replied. He folded his target neatly and set it on the nearby stool.

Ten bucks says you can’t hit the nail on the head.

Gary turned to glare at the younger man. Are you trying to goad me?

Do I look like a goading kind of guy?

Gary raised one eyebrow.

Come on, Dan challenged with a manic grin, I bet you can’t put six shots into the head, in that nice little overlap you love so much. And just to make it interesting, I’ll hit the x-ring. Eighteen rounds.

The big man sighed, walked over to the rack of paper targets, and pulled out two fresh and virginal outlines. He handed one to Dan. If I didn’t need the practice... Gary looked over his shoulder at the camera. One more, Jake.

Gotcha, Sergeant Jones, the PA crooned. Gary wore a sergeant’s stripes, but had a detective’s heart.

Groovy doovy, Dan said, spinning on one heel and walking back to his firing lane. He didn’t comment on the enthusiasm displayed by Jake the Disembodied Voice.

Everyone loved Gary. It was hard not to. Even the overworked rookies who had to man the firing range loved Gary. The big man was honest, forthright, and had an awesome mustache. He was a cop’s kind of cop.

Dan clamped on his target, pressed the button to send it down the firing lane, and unholstered his gun. This weapon fired 9 MM rounds, eighteen in a magazine. Dan always relished the opportunity to fire live ammunition, as his gun normally carried blanks. It was a long story. He unloaded his pistol, checked it, and then snapped in a fresh magazine. He double-checked the weapon, lowered it, and shouted, Ready!

A moment later, Gary bellowed, Ready. Twin guns leapt into action, firing down the lane. From Lane 8, seventeen rounds rang out, with the briefest of pauses before the final shot fired. From Lane 7, six rounds made their way down Hogan’s Alley in a methodical pacing.

There was the routine of clearing the weapons again.  Dan focused on the importance of following proper gun safety. It had been drilled into him, over and over. You could never forget your training. Carelessness could get someone killed. Maybe even you. More importantly, being careless meant Mama Landis’ favorite son would never be allowed back into this firing range. Those were the rules. They were carved in stone.

Once his gun was cleared, Dan pounced on the recall button, feeling as if his entire life was just brief excitement followed by painful waiting.

The target rumbled down the line. He unclipped the paper outline and turned to see Gary looming. The man could loom like a champion. Seventeen shots hovered over where the faux-man’s heart would be. One hole was in the target’s head.

Finger must have slipped, Dan shrugged. Guess I owe you ten.

Keep it, Gary sighed. People tended to sigh a lot around Dan. You’ll just end up borrowing it from your sister anyway.

Why do I always feel like I need a cigarette after doing this?

Because you need to get out more. Gary replied.

Dan folded both of his paper targets and waved to the camera. I’m out.

Hold just one minute, Daniel. Gary’s voice made Dan freeze. Only two people called him Daniel, his mother and Professor Leroy Brown. One of those people was no longer talking to him on a regular basis. He turned back to Gary, a perfectly trimmed eyebrow raised. He got the eyebrows done at the same time he got a manicure. If you were going to be a low-rent private investigator, you might as well look good doing it.

Let me finish this and I’ll walk you up. I want to talk with you about a case, Gary said. His tone was even and his brown eyes drilled twin holes into Dan’s skull. The deep brown face revealed nothing. Gary had an unbeatable poker face.

You know how much I love solving your cases for you, Dan put on his friendliest smile.

I’m on duty, I can solve my own cases thank you, and its eight thirty in the morning, Gary retorted, methodically cleaning his gun.

It’s five o’clock somewhere, Dan shot back, eliciting another sigh. Come on, it’s happy hour at El Parachoques.

There’s nothing happy about that place; it’s a biker bar, and I’ve told you to stop going there. Gary shook his head. And I might as well be talking to the wall. Why do you go there, anyway?

"Two words: Karaoke Night. You have never lived until you’ve seen sixteen Puerto Rican Hell’s Angels belting out Don’t Stop Believing. Plus, they’re teaching me Spanish. Bet you don’t speak Spanish."

"Sí, Gary replied. He picked up his paper targets, looked over his stall, then stepped next door to spot check Dan’s. Apparently satisfied, or at least not disappointed, Gary turned back. Where’d I leave my briefcase?"

It’s in here sir, the PA system chirped back.

He calls you ‘sir’, Dan said in a stage whisper.

They all call me ‘sir’. Gary shook his head and stepped out the door.

They call me Mr. Landis, Dan muttered to the retreating back, before adding, If they’re nasty. He stepped forward to follow.

Jake was dressed in a black police uniform, hat off, tie straight. He was clean shaven, smelled a bit like baby powder, and was sipping coffee from a paper cup. His fingernails were chewed