Chapter 30
David drove into historic downtown Wilmington. The area had really become a desirable place to live over the past couple of decades. Most of the century-old houses had now been refurbished. The large, mature, deciduous trees shaded the yards and streets, providing some relief from the scorching sun.
David was heading north on Front Street, his mind momentarily lost in the greenery. After crossing Orange Street, he saw a sign for The Stammering Man Inn on his right. This B&B should do the trick. Most everything is walkable from here. Maybe I can come up with a good strategy here.
He pulled in and parked. It was 2:43 PM. He got a nice room with a large soft bed. He laid his fatigued body down and was out for nearly two hours. The nap eased some of his golden frustration. His mind felt recharged when he awoke. I need a new plan. Remove your dunce cap and put on your thinking cap, numbskull. We can still do this. Think! Think up a new stratagem. You’re not battling rocket scientists.
However, David’s mind drifted back to Chantelle. He pulled the register tape paper out of his wallet. I wonder if the number she gave me is a cell phone or land line. It’s got to be a cell number. Does anyone I know even have a land line?
He glanced out the street-side window. An orange-shirted cyclist sped by. Did I see that guy somewhere else today?
He then began composing a text to Chantelle. Jeez, what should I say? I don’t want to give away too much information at first. Who knows who may see it? I’ll just assume that she has a boyfriend. I’ll keep it generic and prosaic. He typed:
Looking forward to your suggestions.
He mashed the Send key. Who knows? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe I can even use her in my ploy to recover that gold.
David didn’t have to wait long for a reply. Four minutes later he received her text:
I want to taste one of those condoms.
Wowzeroni! Ok, I already know how this night will end.
He was already popping a rod. Down, boy. Not yet.
Three and a half minutes later, David returned fire with:
Want to have dinner first?
Just a minute later his cell phone was chirping with Chantelle’s answer:
Sure! Where?
This seems to be going too good. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be like the gold in that trunk at crunch time: nowhere to be found.
David hunted and pecked his reply:
We can start at my hotel. I’m at The
Stammering Man Inn on Front Street
in downtown Wilmington. After you
pass Orange Street, it’s on the right.
See you at 7:30?
Ten minutes went by with no return text from Chantelle. At the fifteen-minute mark, his head was whirling in a world of doubt. Was my cologne that bad? Did my deodorant fail so completely in this sauna-like heat? Can she still smell my ripeness from ten miles away? Or, maybe she got cold feet. Maybe she just likes the thrill of the fantasy. It’s understandable. A young lady has to be careful in this day and age. Hell, I could be some rapist-killer for all she knows.
But then, 17 minutes and 17 seconds later, her reply came in:
Sure! I’ll see you then and there.
Oh, sorry for the delay. I had a rush.
The girl’s got game. She’s got spunk. She’s daring. She’ll be perfect. Damn, I forgot that she is actually at a cash register, ringing up customers. I’m lucky that I got any text responses from her at all. That is one busy Wally World in the summer, overrun by beach tourists. Myself, excepted, of course. He chuckled.
David composed his final text to Chantelle in this initial exchange and sent it. It read:
No problem, Chantelle. This should
be an unforgettable, magical night.
No reply came back. He just assumed that she was busy at work with a long line. And when he re-read his last text, he realized that it didn’t prompt a return volley.
David propped some of the frilly throw pillows under his arms and flipped on his laptop computer. He was able to pick up the inn’s wireless signal. Yes!
He immediately went to Google and ran a search on the keywords: Dale Smite, Wilmington, New Hanover County, NC. He saw a green lizard watching him from the exterior window sill.
Three hits came back. One guy lived at Wrightsville Beach. That’s not him. That real estate’s way too expensive for him.
Another guy lived in Castle Hayne. No, that’s way too far away. The note said that he could be back in just fifteen minutes. He must live within two miles of the junkyard.
The third Dale Smite lived at 2393 Van Buren Street in Sunset Park. He entered the address on Google maps. That’s him! Got ya, pal! Game on! Van Buren Street? What are the chances? Mark and Susan must be pulling and plucking the strings with the gods about now.
David glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was 5:18. I’ve got time to drive by Dale’s house. The drive will relax me and take some of the first-date edge off. Sure, let’s drive down to the gold thief’s abode. Just do a preliminary drive-by for now.
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David entered the century-old Sunset Park neighborhood via Northern Boulevard, noticing the twin old brick pergolas on opposite corners. Were they bus stop shelters? Where did the roofs go? Did they rot away? Why am I even thinking about this?
When he reached Van Buren, he turned left. Well, Mark and Susan, I hope I’m on the golden street. He slowly passed by the house with the black, plastic, 5-inch-tall numerals 2-3-9-3 on the tan, wooden, horizontal-slat siding. Bingo!
Two vehicles were in the driveway: Dale’s burgundy minivan and Gerald’s red Caddy. The bastards are probably dividing up the spoils of their coup. Maybe I should charge in there. No, I’d just get shot. I’ll give these two loons some more time to hang themselves. I’ll get that gold back. Just need to stay smart. Stay cool. I just need to think clearly.
When David was almost past the house, he tooted his horn. He saw the living room curtains move. Gerald was peering out. David winked at him, rounded the corner onto Southern Boulevard and sped away. Hello, boys! I know where you are. What will you do now? Call the police? Come chase me? Shoot at me? Bring it. Let’s get both of you in jail by sundown.
David took Burnett Boulevard and South Front Street – the back way – to return to his lodgings. He checked his rear-view mirror often. Neither of the two vehicles was following him. He made it back safely.
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He took a shower and prepared for Chantelle’s arrival. He switched on the 6:00 local news. He missed the first few minutes; it was 6:03 PM.
A stylish, female, Asian American reporter was interviewing a large, black, profusely sweating lady on Van Buren Street at the house next-door to Dale’s. There were three Wilmington Police Department cruisers and a New Hanover County ambulance behind her. What the hell is going on? What happened? Did Gerald shoot Dale, or vice versa?
“Ma’am, what did you hear?” the reporter asked.
“I heard three gunshots. Boom-boom-boom. I could tell it wasn’t fireworks. No way. It was gunshots. I knew something bad had happened.” The lady was emphatic.
“What time did you hear the gunshots?”
“It was probably about a quarter to six. Yeah, five forty-five. I remember looking at my watch.” Damn, I just missed it. Did my drive-by provoke it? Which one got shot? Has the other one been arrested?
“Did you know this neighbor?” Did? Past tense? What the fuck! Did Gerald really kill Dale?
“I didn’t really know him. I just know that his wife died a couple of years ago. He kept to himself.” Wow, Dale is dead. Gerald killed him. What a malicious asshole!
“Thanks for your time, ma’am,” the reporter said as she closed the interview.
The white, middle-aged, gray-haired, male news anchor then asked the reporter a question: “Cindy, has the murder suspect been arrested?”
“No, Stephen, the suspect is at-large.” So, Gerald’s on the run.
“Do they have a description of the suspect?”
“Yes, they do. He’s Caucasian, in his late 50s, of average build, around six-feet tall, with fading-brown-to-gray, collar-length hair. Wait just a second, Stephen; I’m getting some more information from the police.”
A dark-uniformed city police officer hands Cindy a note card. She nods to him. She then looks back at the camera.
“His name is Gerald Zowen. He was last seen driving a red, 1976, Cadillac – the Sedan de Ville model. The victim’s name is Dale Smite. He lived in the house behind me, which is 2393 Van Buren Street. He was pronounced dead by the paramedics before being placed in the ambulance.” I’ll make sure you do time, douchebag. We all want that gold, but it belongs to none of us. Try to outsmart the guy who has it, dipshit; don’t shoot him. At least not at his home. Killing someone with a handgun – without a silencer – in their own house with your own registered vehicle in the guy’s driveway, in broad daylight, while kids were out playing in the street, while neighbors were out doing yard work … Dumb, incredibly dumb, dude. You just lost the gold game. You deserve to suck on the hydrogen cyanide gas pipe.
The anchorman was back on the TV screen. “Thanks for that on-the-scene report, Cindy. Folks, if you see the suspect’s vehicle, call 911. Don’t try to intervene yourself. This individual is armed and dangerous. Let the police handle it. Any further developments will be brought to you as soon as they occur. We’ll be the first to tell you. So, keep it right here on Channel 8 News.”
A commercial came on, and David began to mindlessly channel surf while thinking about the events of the past half-hour. So, Gerald killed Dale in cold blood. Three shots. Bang-bang-bang. Probably at close range. Probably head shots. Probably in a fit of rage. Did my drive-by and horn-toot quickly set off a fatal chain of events? Did it signal something in Gerald’s mind? Did he think that Dale and I were working as a team? That I somehow hoodwinked him at the salvage yard? I bet Dale was being interrogated at gunpoint by Gerald. And, I bet Dale wasn’t talking. That’s why he was still there at five forty-five. He probably rushed over to Dale’s house right after I left the lot. He had probably been questioning him with a revolver in his face for over three hours. I’m sure Dale was playing dumb. He didn’t believe that Gerald would really give him most, half, or any of the gold once he had it in his possession. He would take all of it and kill him. He wasn’t going to share it with anyone. Dale was going to lose either way. Dale knew he was in a desperate situation. He was probably just hoping that someone would come to the house and ring the doorbell. A knock on the door to change the dynamics in that living room. Maybe Gerald told him that he would keep him under house arrest all night if need be. He would get his captured canary to sing. He was starting to wear Dale down, I bet. He was using street-smart hardball psychology that only a veteran junkyard owner could know and employ. He had probably threatened to turn Dale over to the police for some bogus trumped-up reason if he didn’t spill the beans on the gold’s exact location. I bet that was what was going on. Enhanced interrogation. Gerald probably wasn’t up to waterboarding him just yet. But, did Dale crack just before Gerald shot him? Did he tell Gerald where he hid the gold? Did Gerald then gather up the gold fillets, put them in his truck and leave? But, if he shot Dale right after he talked, the neighbors would have seen him going to his truck with a box, crate or some other container. Hey, I could ask some of the neighbor-witnesses if Gerald left the house with anything in his hands. They would know if he left with those golden boomerangs. I must interview them before their memory fades. Wait, I’m not the one to interview them – Cindy Santos, the news reporter – she’s the one to interview them. I’ll e-mail a tip to her.
David flipped back to channel 8. The sportscaster was extremely animated, flapping his arms about in his red-stripes-on-black blazer. “Can you believe that bogus call, folks? The umpire called him out! Wilmington would’ve won that game in the bottom of the 11th if we could’ve got a fair call.” David turned the volume down, way down.
He entered Channel 8’s URL and looked over their website. In the Contact section he found Cindy Santos’ e-mail address. Wow, should I really do this? I could easily end up getting questioned by the police. So, what? What have I done wrong? Nothing. Nada. Have I done anything illegal? No. This is my chance to confirm that over a million dollars in gold is still on Dale’s property, either in his house, in the shed, or buried in the yard somewhere. It’s time to go bold or go home.
David clicked on the hotlink and began to compose a brief tip for the reporter.
Hello Cindy,
I just saw your report on the 6:00 PM
broadcast regarding the apparent murder
on Van Buren Street. Excellent work.
However, you may want to go back and
ask those witnesses whether or not they
saw the suspect, Gerald Zowen, putting
a box, sack, or large container into his
Cadillac. I think this murder was over
money. Stolen cash, perhaps. I say
this because I was at Gerald’s Shipyard
Boulevard Auto Salvage earlier today.
I bought a car part from him. He was
complaining furiously about how he was
sure that his assistant, Dale Smite, had
ripped him off. He kept saying that a very
large wad of cash was missing from the
safe, and that he was going to get even
with whomever took it, and that Dale was
his prime suspect. Well, just thought that
I would pass this along to you. Maybe you
can use this tip to get an exclusive. I hope
so. Continued success.
All the best,
David
He actually hoped he would get to meet her someday. She was cute and smart. She could play an important part; her investigative skills and tools could surely and sorely be used in the near future.
David clicked Send. It was gone, launched one-way into the great cyber-ether. What have I done? Have I lost my mind? I’m now involved in a murder investigation. That’s fine. I’m totally innocent. But, I’ve lied about the lead-up to the murder. Well, not really. Cash is what we all hope to convert the gold into at some point. But, it wasn’t Gerald’s or anyone else’s. The e-mail makes Dale look like maybe he deserved to get plugged; it insinuates that he was a thief. Well, he was no angel, either. He’s dead now, anyway. His mouth has stopped moving. As for Gerald, he deserves to swing from a hemp rope necklace under a tall oak tree. Just keep your mettle, boy. Stay steady. You can surely answer fifteen minutes of benign police questions in return for a million dollars of golden information.
He flipped to the channel that showed the channel line-up with all the shows that were currently on or soon to air. The audio for the channel was light mood music. Sarah Vaughan was singing the Mancini classic, A Slow Hot Wind. “… there in the shade …” Yes, there in the shade … somewhere is the gold. Lying. Waiting. For me.
David changed the TV station back to channel 8. It was 6:28. Cindy Santos was back on the screen. She was still on Van Buren Street, standing in front of Dale’s house. A Breaking News banner was being projected on the top of the screen, just above her long, straight, jet-black hair.
“We have just learned that the suspect in this homicide, Gerald Zowen, has been taken into custody. Police barricaded his car in a parking lot near Market Street and Kerr Avenue several minutes ago. No one was hurt during the arrest.” Cindy Santos announced the update like a seasoned pro. Hooray, they’ve already got the lousy son of a bitch! Didn’t quite go as planned, did it, Gerald? You’ll have plenty of time to think about your misplay. Lotsa time. You can play tic-tac-toe on the concrete walls in your six-by-eight cell. One fine day, which may be very soon, you’ll place an X in both upper corners and an O in the middle square, and you’ll be an incarcerated artist looking at your self-portrait.
He went to the small refrigerator and grabbed an El Hefe, a seasonal beer from Front Street Brewery. I hope she likes these.
David then closely studied the beer bottle’s label. Wow, this is über-kitsch! These microbreweries sure have got some imagination. I guess you need it when you’re trying to get some shelf space in a cooler dominated by the big dogs.
He sat back in the armchair and watched the national news. Jeez, when did Peter Jennings die? What year was that? 2007? Or, was it 2006? [It was 2005.]
He heard a faint bell sound. His laptop had received an e-mail. Has Cindy already replied to my non-anonymous tip? I wonder if she checked me out on Facebook. David had already checked out Cindy’s page, and had noticed that she was single.
While making his way over to the bed to retrieve the laptop, another train of thought entered his head. What if it’s the police? What if they want to question me right away? What if they want to know where I am? What will I tell Chantelle?
He grabbed the laptop and walked back to the armchair with considerable trepidation. He clicked on Inbox. Whew! He breathed a big sigh of relief. The e-mail was from Cindy.
Hi David,
Thanks for the tip and the compliment.
None of the witnesses saw Gerald
Zowen leave Dale Smite’s house with
anything in his hands.
Still very busy with this story.
Thanks,
Cindy Santos
Channel 8 News
He read her brief e-mail another time. And then another. The gold is somewhere on that lot – somewhere on that eighth-of-an-acre parcel. I can feel it; it’s there. It may be in the house. It may be in the shed. It may be buried in that loamy sand. I really doubt that it’s still in Dale’s car. However, I need to be able to rule it out. How can I – or someone else – search Dale’s car? Hell, the police have probably already searched it, or soon will. It’s probably already impounded. How could I find out the results? Would Cindy know? Probably. Couldn’t I just ask her if anything of consequence was found in either vehicle? I could wait until tomorrow before e-mailing her again. I don’t want to appear like ‘that’ guy who always thinks he’s a master detective after every crime story is presented on TV. These reporters must get barraged with useless tips and false leads for scoops. If I wait until tomorrow, say about lunch time, the police would’ve gone through Gerald’s Cadillac, too. That’s when I could ask Cindy about both cars’ contents. We’ll just sleep on it tonight.
David looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red LED numerals asserted 6:59. Chantelle’s getting off work about now. I bet her thing is something else. Calm down, boy!
He walked over to the dresser and found the pack of chocolate-flavored condoms in the plastic grocery bag. He opened the box and placed two condoms under the right pillow and one in his left-front pants pocket. All prepared for tunneling operations. When I put one of these on, she may very well think I’m her black ex-boyfriend. Well, except for the length. Ha!
He actually laughed aloud.