Free Aftermath by Michael Kerr Page A

later he was climbing back into the pickup.  It was still early and he was starving.  He stopped at a McDonald’s and had a sausage and egg McMuffin, hash browns and coffee.  Phoned Jerry Brandon and told him that he had taken care of business.
     
    Logan parked in a space between a white van and a Chevy Malibu with a for sale notice taped to the windshield.  The sidewalks on both sides of the street were lined with trees in full leaf, almost as high as the rows of 19th century terrace brownstones that stood behind them.  Logan had once read that the stone to face this type of housing had first been quarried by the Bass Island Brownstone Company, and that brownstone, once in great demand, was used in the construction of the first Milwaukee County Courthouse.  It was a fact that just bounced into his mind unbidden as he walked to the end of the street, turned left, and after a few yards turned left again into the next almost identical looking street.
    It was almost one p.m. when the red pickup appeared from the other end of the street and nosed into the curb sixty feet from where Logan was hunkered down making a fuss of a black mongrel dog that had sidled up to him with its tail wagging.  He kept on stroking the mutt as he watched a young guy in drab clothes and wearing a ball cap and shades step out of the vehicle and walked across the scrubby verge, to angle right and climb the steps up to the front door of the address that Logan knew Sammy Lester lived at.
    Logan waited until Sammy had gone in and closed the door behind him.  The description that Roy Naylor had given him of Lester and the Nissan pickup he drove was a match.
    The dog followed Logan for several yards, then sensing his disinterest in it, peeled off and cocked its leg against a crusty tree trunk to relieve itself.
    Logan climbed the steps and looked at the four paper strips with blurry typed names on them that were difficult to read through the grimy acetate that protected them from the elements.  The old family house had been converted into four apartments.  He couldn’t read the name of the occupant in number one.  An H. Davis was listed as being in number two, and an S. Lester in three.  Each apartment obviously took up the whole of a floor in the four-story house.
    The door wasn’t locked.  Inside the hall there were four mailboxes bolted to a wall, numbered one through four.
    Logan took the stairs up to the landing on the second floor.  Standing to the side of the door, he listened to the muffled noises coming from inside.  He heard footsteps on a hard floor, and the noise of a faucet running and other small sounds that told him Lester was setting coffee going.  A couple of minutes later he heard a toilet flush.
    He didn’t hesitate, just stepped back and round, to face the door and use all the power he had to drive his right leg up and out ramrod straight.  The sole of his boot met the timber flush, next to the handle, and with a splintering shriek the door flew back with Logan following it in.
    Sammy had been feeling relaxed and in a fine mood.  He planned to take it easy for the rest of the day and just chill.  Maybe watch a DVD and have few beers, then go out for a steak at Marco’s on Lee Street.
    After setting a fresh pot of coffee going, Sammy went to take a leak.  As he walked out of the bathroom to return to the kitchen, the apartment door seemed to implode, and a huge figure hurtled towards him.  He stopped and instinctively put his hands up as if to protect himself, only to be hit squarely in the stomach, as at the same time pain flared in his left kneecap, effectively dropping him to the floor.
    Logan took a step back and kicked the fallen man in the temple with measured force, not wanting him dead, yet.  He planned to have a lengthy conversation with Sammy Lester.
    When Sammy drifted up from black to gray, the pain increased.  And seconds later as he slowly regained his senses, he opened his eyes and grunted as the