Free The Midtown Murderer by David Carlisle Page B

trash.”
    “Anything unusual happen?”
    “Yes, sir,” he said, tilting his head forward and back, as if trying to bring Trent into focus. “I would’ve told the cops, but they never came back.”
    Trent stared back at him. “Told them what?”
    “That truck and trailer.”
    “What about it?”
    “Well, there’s always a lawn crew that comes on Wednesday morning.”
    “So?”
    “A Latino crew cuts that yard,” he said, pointing at the house directly across the street from where the triple homicide had occurred. “They’d finished, packed up, and split. Five minutes later this jet black pickup truck pulling a black covered trailer whips into the neighborhood. Driver does a one-eighty in that cul-de-sac and parks right there,” he said, nodding at Trent’s feet.
    “Uh-huh,” Trent said, examining the oil-stained asphalt.
    “ Guy wearing a black hoodie and big black sunglasses gets out and sets an orange cone down in front of the truck; puts one behind the trailer, too. You know, real careful like. No one does that shit on this street.”
    “O K.”
    “Then he crawls in side the trailer, drops an aluminum ramp, and drives out on a black riding lawnmower. Cuts the lawn then uses a black leaf blower in the driveway and around back.”
    “What’s odd about that?”
    “House is a repo. Lawn’s been neglected for months.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yeah. I’d never seen the truck or driver before.”
    Trent smiled. There it is, he thought. The break in the case that Chief Clay didn’t want to acknowledge existed.
    “Any company name on the guy’s rig?”
    “No. Just that shiny paint job. Black as death.”
    “Why didn’t you call the police?”
    “Had to go to the VA hospital that morning and get my lungs cleared out,” he said, drawing on a filterless cigarette. “Ended up in intensive care for two days. ‘Give up fags,’ the doc says. ‘Fuck him,’ I say. What with living in a wheelchair, smoking is the only pleasure I have.”
    “Sorry, man.”
    “Aw, it’s all right. Fuck those dopers. Fuck the Midtown Blue.”
    Trent spent a few minutes grilling the guy, but he couldn’t describe the driver or the type of truck or provide any other details.
    “Damn garbage men,” the wheel-chaired man said, waving a hand at the street.
    Trent knelt and picked up a piece of trash. “You’ve been a huge help, and I appreciate your time.” He peeled off a twenty and stuck it into his tin. Then he walked out of the neighborhood.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 20
    Trent was trudging east on Fourteenth Street toward the Ansley Square strip mall when a blue-and-white Midtown cruiser pulled to a stop beside him.
    The passenger window dropped and Radcliff said, “Hop in, Palmer.”
    Trent slid onto the hard plastic bench and shut the door. “Thanks for the ride , my friend,” he said, rubbing his hands to restore circulation. There was a cup balanced on the dash, and the smell of alcohol was strong. Trent thought that some must have spilled on the heater.
    They were in the middle of heavy honking traffic when Radcliff said, “What happened to your face?”
    “I drove out to the Whiskey A-Go-Go Lounge for a cold beer,” Trent said awkwardly.
    “I’m awfully sorry, Palmer, but I told you not walk into the Apostles den unannounced; only a fool would pull a stunt like that without backup.”
    Trent nodded.
    “Did you learn anything while you were there?”
    Trent thought for a moment before answering. “That it was way too much trouble for nothing,” he finally said, deciding he didn’t know Radcliff well enough to trust him with the information.
    “ Now what?”
    “ Still searching for Chloe. Posting flyers. Asking questions.”
    “Hope you find her,” Radcliff said.
    “I’ll find her: you wait and see.”
    “You probably will.”
    A big luxury car passed in the opposite direction. The driver waved at Radcliff and beeped his horn.
    Trent didn’t see the driver, but he spotted an elderly