Fatal Connections

Chapter 19

After wrapping up my call with Nick, I finished my sandwich and pulled out my writing pad and pen to record what I'd learned from Douglas. I scribbled a few notes on my diagram of the players, trying to imagine connections, motives, possible secrets . . . anything that could lead to the next profitable clue.

As worried as I was about Nick, thoughts about the weird timing of the Harcourts' murder gnawed at the edges of my subconscious. The medical examiner could only guesstimate the time of their death, something like 1 to 3 hours before I found the bodies. Which made for a rather curious window of time between Marian's phone call and my arrival at the house. It was conceivable (if unlikely) that someone had beaten and butchered the Harcourts after Marian called me. But that could be a mighty small window of time compared to the one before the phone call.

What better way to escape detection than to make it look like someone else did the deed? Someone like, say, an opioid-addicted Marine with PTSD and a resulting bad attitude? But surely no one connected with the Harcourts knew about my problems. I know Nick would not have told them. Despite the comfortable temperature in the deli, I shivered. Surely, the police would not seriously consider me a suspect. Wouldn't they need a little bit more than bad timing? I had to believe that they did. Otherwise, I would end up being a paranoid wreck.

Finished with lunch, I returned to my car and, if only to preserve my sanity, set aside the Harcourt matter in favor of pursuing Troy Fairchild, Bail Skipper. A quick shuffle through the mishmash of receipts turned up little of interest. Many of them were old, and I doubted that anyone at CVS would remember Troy because he bought a toothbrush there. However, there was one exception. A recent receipt for a place called The Void. I did a quick search on my phone, using precious minutes of data to discover that the place was a titty bar.

I thought about paying a visit to The Void, wondering exactly what sort of hours they kept. Surely they'd cater to the lunchtime crowd. After all, lust operates around the clock. I started the car and aimed north, away from Bethesda and across the proverbial tracks.

My trip took me to a mixed office/light industrial neighborhood in Baltimore County. Moving from the posh trappings of lower Montgomery County to the seeming miles of low-slung brick buildings that stretched across this particular piece of real estate felt a bit surreal.

As I pulled into the cracked macadam lot surrounding The Void, my first thought was that the place was well-named. Essentially, the building was a concrete box. I assumed that it might originally have been white but was now dulled by layers of road grit. Or someone had come up with a new paint color—dingy.

A sprinkling of vehicles dotted the lot around the building. I backed into a spot, left the car, and quickly scanned the area. Two vehicles, a maroon Buick, maybe ten years old, and a rust-orange pickup truck, quite well used, were parked in the rear of the lot. I assumed anyone parked in back would probably be an employee. But then again, maybe not. On a hunch, I moved toward the back, on the lookout for possible threats.

A sudden gust of wind kicked up and I hugged myself for warmth. The breeze sent a hodge-podge of debris flying across my path. Paper cups, cigarette packages, and take-out bags danced to the arrhythmic thump of bass emanating from the concrete box. Like being on the set of the world's crappiest music video.

Once I had made my way to the rear of the parking lot, I snapped photos of each vehicle and its license plate. As I stowed the phone and moved toward the front door, the faint sound of a distant siren pierced the dull thumping coming from the building. I could see my shadow moving across the wall as I walked. Another shadow appeared behind mine, moving in fast and silent.

I let the shadow catch up, planted my right foot to pivot, and delivered a roundhouse kick to the owner's groin. Unfortunately, I failed to connect clean. So while that move brought the man down in a kind of semi-controlled squat, it only bought me a half-second before he lunged at me like a puma.

He caught both my hands in a steely grip, to keep me from raking his eyes. I was focused on snapping his knee when someone must've come up behind me. The next thing I knew, it was lights out.