The Velvet Trap

By Arthur Day

Tran female Dianne Vargas and her partner, MJ McCaal, investigate the disappearance of a young girl caught in a white slavery ring and working to stop a killer from attacking a blind woman.

____________________________________________________

Arthur Day is the author of three books. This is a sequel to his las

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors' Tranquility Press
• Release date: Jun 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956480924

Arthur Day

Arthur Day was born in Baltimore but raised in Connecticut. He currently splits his time between homes in Simsbury, Connecticut, and Greensboro, Vermont, with his wife and an old English bulldog named Rocco.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Old Sam Pilot was a mean, pissy old man. The whole town knew it and most folks weren’t afraid to say so. Even those people who had been born in the town and had lived there all their lives had little good to say about him. Yep. Knew him as a kid and even then, he was a son-of-a-bitch. That was a common sentiment. Only Eddie Parsal at the Waycross Country Store had anything good to say. He pays his bill, was the most that he would allow.

Pilot was a name known throughout the county. He had been the chief of staff to a state senator and a power in the Democratic Party in a very blue state. Others headed committees, but Sam pulled the strings to which they were attached. He was a king maker par excellence and enjoyed the power behind the throne. The unions loved Senator Stoneman and she was re-elected over and over with an eighty percent approval rating, not that any aspiring politician in his or her right mind would run against her. The newspapers sang Pilot’s praise as if he had been elected president of the United States. He owned hundreds of acres and the better part of the main drag in Waycross. If you were a tenant in one of his houses or the Waycross apartment complex you quickly found yourself out on the street if you got behind on your rent and if you were a single mom with several small children, it made no difference.

If you can’t keep your legs together, that’s not my problem, he once told Victoria Davis. She promptly slapped him in the face and then kicked him in the shin.

Nasty bastard, she told him and marched off with her two children to the old Ford where her brother was waiting.

‘At least I come by it honestly," he shouted at her back.

Your time will come, Sam, she said without turning around, and when you’re ready to burn in Hell, I hope I’m there to put gas on the fire.

‘You’ll get yours you old whore," he screamed as he hobbled over towards his car.

Pilot had a multitude of enemies and no one who would own up to being his friend and that, apparently, was how he liked it. He lived a mile out of town off State Route 30 and one hundred yards up a narrow road in an old turn-of-the-century mansion that had been the subject of architectural magazines and TV specials. It put the governor’s mansion in Hartford to shame. The parties that he threw there were the stuff of legend. The original owner had been one of the first settlers in the area and had started the country store and several others, but he had died with no will and no apparent heirs. Pilot had bought the house and surrounding land for ten cents on the dollar to settle the mortgage and had restored it to its original glory. As he got older, though, and retired from politics, he had stopped maintaining it so that it was in a state of disrepair.

The house was a long, rectangular box with chimneys at either end. The walls were stucco that was coming loose and falling off in places. To the right of the main house was a large shed or barn depending on one’s point of view and Sam used it to keep his old truck free of snow in the winter. A scraggle of overgrown bushes dotted the yard that was dominated in front by a massive pin oak and a couple of its offspring. The yard in back was more field than yard. A small stream ran along the back edge of it; that was undoubtedly the prettiest part of the whole place. The house was surrounded be fifty acres of woods and fields all owned by old Sam.

Sam Pilot died alone, and nobody gave much of a damn. His body was not found until the postman noticed an awful smell when putting a brochure into the mailbox on the porch and called the Sheriff. The coroner noted that Sam had probably been dead at least a week and wrote cardiac infarction on the death certificate before moving on to another case after washing his hands.

CHAPTER 2

In Al Week’s world there was only one person, Al, and there was only one reason to do something and that was survival. He had been alone, and on the streets since he was ten after his mom overdosed and his father went to prison. The state had sent him to foster parents whom he had hated and run off as soon as he could. Al Weeks was a chunk of C4 explosive on a short fuse.

When he thought about his parents at all, he remembered the day that he and his father sat on the sagging porch of their house. His mother was zoned out inside somewhere and he and the old man were alone looking out at a hot and empty street filled with equally rundown houses, some boarded up and others with windows broken and obviously abandoned. Down at the end of the block, a small convenience store occupied the ground floor of the building. Al could just see the Bud Light sign in Hector’s window. Above the window, a sign was only partially lit saying HEC GROC. It had been like that forever, the boy thought. One day he would break the window and take whatever he wanted as soon as he figured out a way to get past the iron bars running across it. The thought made him feel good, like when his dad left a tiny bit of booze in his bottle and Al drank it down.

Coulda been different, his dad said softly.

Looking at the houses across the street, a young Al did not see how. You mean like no houses? he asked

His father smiled a little bitterly. Nope. Better houses. When you get older, you’ll find yourself having to make choices. Sometimes they are obvious. Sometimes not. Seems like we get stuck on a road and we’re not quite certain how the hell we got on it but getting on a different road seems either impossible or worse than the one we are on. You’ll see. He nodded his head and looked at his son. I hope when your time comes you make the right choices is all I’m saying. He fell silent then and Al remembered just sitting there while the afternoon sun slowly sank behind the houses. Al thought about what his dad had said but it made no sense to him. Like school was just a bunch of losers and he had stopped going. Running numbers or muling drugs paid a lot more. Soon he would be like Bennie Macho Hanno and order everyone around.

Like what kind of choices, he finally asked.

His father sat without replying for a long time, so long in fact, the young boy started to fidget and then got out of the chair and was going into the house to see if there was anything to eat since he had not eaten all day. Choices like you want to do something but you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyway. That kinda thing. You’ll see.

Just then, an old car came down the street and stopped in front of their house. There were men inside and one of them beckoned to his dad who got off his chair and went down to the car and that was the last time Al had seen his dad.

Not that he cared, he told himself, ‘cause his dad had never done anything for him and he had still made his own way into being all grown up. What his dad had said about choices was just a bunch of shit.

He had been sitting in the Jobs for a Day laborers office because it was free and warm and remembering bits and pieces of his past when Eddie Pilot had showed up looking for help. What the hell, Al thought. A few hours of goofing off and money to use at the bars afterwards. He nodded his head when Eddie asked him. Al had nothing going at the time and was flat broke and hungry.

Driving to the house that they were supposed to clean out, Al watched the houses passing by. So much stuff just lying around waiting for him to help himself. He hoped working with Eddie wouldn’t take too long.

Eddie tried to start a conversation with him a couple of times, but Al was not interested in talking with him and Eddie fell silent as they drove up to the creepy old house. It reminded Al of the home he had known as a small boy. Shabby, ill-kept, probably full of dirt and shit on the inside. He wondered, briefly, what kind of people lived in a house like this? It must have been better then and he imagined himself living in a mansion surrounded by beautiful women who would compete to share his bed at night and all the fucking social workers would show up at his door asking for favors, but he would send them all away. Foreign leaders would call and come to shake his hand and wish him well. He would arrange for the Jews and rag heads to make peace and he would be known as a great statesman. Rich food and liquor would be his for the asking. He would dress in the best suits from London tailors. He had heard somewhere that their clothes were worn by the best people. He would be generous too, giving small amounts to different charities who would write and call to thank him for his generosity. If he didn’t like someone all he had to do was signal and that person would disappear forever, so he had lots of friends and they treated him with respect, not like most of the people in his life who either wished he was dead or ignored him completely

Okay. This is the place. Eddie blew air through pursed lips. What a dump. Okay, let’s get this done and get over to the storage place. He turned to look at Al. Looks like a big job. I’m glad you’re with me. He smiled as he opened the van door. it shouldn’t take long with the two of us working. C’mon. He strode towards the front door, a man on a mission.

Al sneered and farted loudly. He thought Eddie was a nerdy piece of shit who was only good for a few bucks but who knew what was in the house. Grumbling to himself, he got out of the van and followed Eddie.

Eddie Pilot put down the sheaf of papers he had been reading and ran a hand through his thick mane of black hair that quickly settled back into its usual state of disarray. His uncle must have been hell in a handbasket. The photocopies of old newspaper clippings and a few barely legible letters told a tale of misery, loneliness and voracious appetite for money but there was no money, at least none that Eddie could see. Maybe, his father knew more but Eddie doubted that. Even Sam’s brother had not spoken with him for years. Paul Pilot had taken a phone call, turned pale and then turned to his son. I’ve got a job for you, he told Eddie. Your uncle is dead. I need you to clean out his house, throw out anything you don’t want and put the rest in storage until you get a job and an apartment.

What about Mom? She’s really sick. Uncle Sam’s stuff can wait.

Maybe, but your mother wants you to do this. She said yesterday that she was feeling better. It will only take a day to go down there and clean it out. I’ll foot the bill if that’s what you’re worrying about.

Paul had lied. Elli must have known the end was near and did not want her son to see the skeleton that she had become. She had insisted and he had delayed telling Eddie for a couple of days, but then she had seemed a little better and so, reluctantly, he had told Eddie to go.

That’s not it, Dad, and you know it. I’m worried about Mom.

I know you are son. Paul replied softly So am I, but there is nothing you can do right now, and my brother may have left stuff that has some value. You can sell it off, get an apartment and a job and continue with your writing. Your mother knows this and wants the best for you.

Hey Eddie. What the fuck, man? I’m not doing this by myself."

Eddie shoved the papers into his briefcase, pushed the thoughts of his mother back in his mind and rose from the creaky table in the now-empty living room. Coming, he called and headed up the stairs to where Al Weeks, was struggling with a large suitcase that he had dropped down the ladder leading to the attic. For one of the few times in his life, Eddie thought about what the job entailed. If the house was full of furniture, he would need help moving it, but the people he called friends were either emotionally or physically unable to help him move. One was a stoner. Another was so skinny she could almost fit through the crack in a door. This job required some strength and concentration, a quality Eddie did not have much of. Finally, he went to Job for a Day and inquired about someone to help him move. It was the middle off the day and the only applicant was a guy named Al. Eddie looked at Al doubtfully and wondered if his stoner friend might be able to stay straight for a couple of hours, but he was there and so was Al, a man in his twenties who had a rat-like face and eyes that never quite met Eddie’s. Okay, Al. Let’s do this, and he signed the papers with the woman at the front desk.

You want a bunch of old pictures? There’s a nice pair of binoculars too. He looked back over his shoulder at Eddie.

Sure. Why not? Eddie took one end of the suitcase and together he and Al maneuvered it down the stairs and out the front door to an Avis van that Eddie had backed against the front porch.

I think that’s all of it, Al said as he sat down on the edge of the porch and lit a cigarette. Let’s get this stuff to storage and get the hell outta Dodge.

Okay. Finish your smoke while I make one last pass-through. Eddie turned and went back into the house walking quickly through the empty rooms on the ground floor and then heading upstairs to the bedrooms and attic. Some, he thought, the house was much like old Sam. It survived wars and population shifts, good times and bad, and it was still here. Sam, of course, was not. Eddie wondered how a man reputed to have amassed a small fortune in his lifetime, could end up with a simple funeral in an overgrown graveyard. It seemed unlikely that a hermit and miser such as his uncle did not at least leave something. He had willingly assumed the job his father had given him because of this assumption. His father had paid all the expenses; that was good because Eddie, as usual, was broke. He was trying to make a career writing but that had failed to make more than coffee money. Eddie had no respect for deadlines. He had painted houses, worked at Mickey D’s and applied for a job on the town road crew. Nothing had come of any of them although his shift supervisor at McDonalds had praised his hard work.

Eddie was a man who thought of himself as artistic and creative but had so far created nothing. He was a hard worker. People had told him so, but he had never held a job for more than a few months because he felt his co-workers were slackers who were jealous of his abilities. He was simultaneously aggressive to people around him and scared that he would not measure up to what his parents hoped and even expected of him. Schedules befuddled him. He was as likely to oversleep as he was to be up in the small hours of the morning wondering whether he should maybe go to work but realized that his shift work would forbid that so he would wander from room to room, watch TV, listen to early morning radio and lie on the couch in his living room trying to get to sleep. He would either show up at his job ready to rock and roll or hollow eyed and half asleep.

He saw nothing left on the ground floor and went up the stairs to the one finished bedroom and several other rooms in differing states of disrepair. Sam’s bedroom had been cleaned out. There was not even dust on the floor. The other rooms had never been used and Eddie went through them quickly. In the hallway was the pull-down doorway in the ceiling leading to the attic. He had pulled down the stairs earlier that day and gone up there, so he stood for a moment, undecided, before finally going up again for a last look-around,

The attic had been empty before and it was still empty. If the walls could talk, Eddie thought, as he ducked to avoid the roof joists. Maybe that would make a good short story, maybe even a novella. He stood for a moment fixing that thought in his mind for the next time he would sit before his computer. He could come up with a fictitious family and their lives in a house, especially in the attic. Something dark and fungus-like would happen there, maybe in the past but affecting the people in the present. It was hardly a unique story, but he could, no he would present it in a new and refreshing way. The idea excited him, and he stepped down the length of the attic looking left and right for some forgotten trinket or suitcase but thinking of possible horrific and murderous acts that could take place there. Maybe incest. That was always a juicy crime. Rape and incest. Perfect. Murder later perhaps. In the next generation. Bad seed story. It was almost writing itself in his head.

Something was out of place. He could not say what it was precisely, but something was wrong. Eddie stopped a few feet short of the end of the attic listening and looking around him. There was no sound. He walked to the small window at that end of the attic and looked down. There was Al standing by the van smoking. The road beyond the front yard was empty. He backed away from the window but could not shake the feeling that something was out of place. He looked around.

The attic was old and uninsulated. Nails from the roofing showed through the planks that laid across the roof beams. Nothing there to see. The whole attic was the same. Boards laid across the second story joists formed the floor. The boards were old. Some were warped and the nails had come loose so a person had to be careful not to trip on one when moving around up there. He looked to his right. Same old, same old, and then he saw it.

There were two boards that looked newer than the ones on either side. They were not gray with age and dust and grime, at least not as much. They were shorter as well as if someone had patched a leak or a section of the ceiling below had started to crack. Eddie got down on his knees and carefully crawled over to the section that he had seen. They were slightly higher than the boards on either side. Maybe a quarter inch or so. He pulled up one of the boards and found a large satchel stuck between the boards and the ceiling below. Pulling up the next board, he pulled the satchel out and kneeled over it in the light from the attic window. He unzipped it and found old Sam’s stash. One hundred-dollar bills, bundles of them. Eddie stared down at his find in amazement. Enough money for him to have his own apartment, shit, maybe his own house and he could go tell those incompetent hacks at the publishing houses and magazines to go to Hell.

He could not leave it in the attic though. The house was up for sale, and, even in its present condition was bound to sell sooner or later. He would take the satchel out to the van, tell Al it was just old family papers that they had missed, and cruise down the highway on his way to the good life. Eddie almost laughed out loud at the thought. After years of struggle, his fucking ship had finally come in. Good old Uncle Sam. What a wonderful human being. Eddie climbed into the van and put the satchel under his feet. Did his father know about this? He hadn’t said anything about money when he asked Eddie to take care of closing up the house. Time would tell. Eddie could always say that he had found no money. Just a bunch of junk. Who could prove differently?

Whatcha got there? Al got into the passenger seat as Eddie started the van.

Some old family papers that were stuck in a corner of the attic and were hard to see, Eddie replied trying to sound casual and dismissive.

So why not just throw it in back with the rest of the junk? Al looked down thoughtfully at the bag at Eddie’s feet. If it gets caught in your legs it could cause an accident. You want it kept separate then slide it over here.

Naa. No need. Personal stuff, like letters, you know. I think I’ll take it home with me and read them there. Eddie hoped that would satisfy Al and they drove towards the storage facility in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

Eddie followed GPS down Bardel Road,a county road that would bring them out onto the main drag by the storage units. The road went through woods interspersed with small fields."

Pull over.

Huh? We’re not there yet. You gotta take a leak?

Pull the fuck over now.

Surprised, Eddie glanced at Al and found himself staring at the business end of a small, snub-nosed pistol. What the fuck?

Pull over now.

"Eddie started to pull over to the shoulder. His dream of writing in a place of his own, maybe with a foxy lady to share it with him disappeared replaced by an anger he had never before felt, a rage so deep and dark that he lost all control of his common sense. As he felt the van go onto the shoulder, he yanked the wheel to the left and stomped on the accelerator. For a split second, he saw a look of surprise on Al’s face. There was a loud bang and then darkness.

Al Weeks put the binoculars down and almost jumped up and down in frustration. No sooner had he recovered from his jump from the van and climbed up on the driver’s side to get the satchel than some idiot in a car showed up. Al had made it to the nearest patch of woods and decided to get whatever Eddie had in the bag as soon as the car disappeared, but instead it stopped. A man got out and Al had to assume that the guy had called in the wreck so Al was not going to have much time to get the bag and disappear. Impatiently, he watched as the man looked inside the wreck and then tried to pull Eddie’s body out of it. Finally, he did and pulled Eddie away from the Van, but then, instead of waiting for the police, he went back to the wreck, pulled out the bag, walked with it into the woods, came back out and put it in his car.

Fuck and double Fuck. That asshole took the fucking bag and Al was dammed if he had gone to all this trouble for nothing. Eddie had been so protective off it that Al was sure there was some money in it. Maybe a lot of money. He would get the bag and its contents one way or another. He watched as a sheriff’s cruiser pulled up onto the shoulder opposite the wreck. Then another came and another. The guy was put in the back of one of the cars and later some cop came and talked with him.

CHAPTER 3

Ted Blount stared blearily ahead and concentrated on driving at the speed limit and not going over the center line that seemed at times to consist of four lines instead of two. That was how they got you, he thought. Speeding and driving all over the goddamned road, and once they got you, they’d screw you seven ways to Sunday sure as shit. He’d end up blowing into some asshole device for the next six months and paying money he didn’t have to get his car out of hock. Just the thought of that was enough to drive a man to drink.

As if everything else wasn’t in the shitter. His job at Dugan Construction was hanging by a thread and his supervisor was looking at Blount as if Blount should be the next one out the door and all because Ted had come in late a couple of times due to traffic. The sonofabitch had his head so far up Ben Dugan’s fat ass that he no longer knew day from night. Slow down, he told himself. This part of Bardel Road was narrow and twisting. Probably some cop sitting at the other end just waiting for some innocent driver to speed up as they were coming onto a straight stretch.

And then there was Emma, his wife. Such a sweet woman and a very beautiful one years before when they had both been young. He slowed slightly coming into one of the sharp curves thinking about when they were young and eager to conquer the world, at least that part in which they lived. He had a paper route and each morning before school (this was before grownups in cars would drive around throwing the paper out the car window and not caring where it landed). He would load up his bike with the morning paper and tour the streets around his home slinging papers at porches and sometimes at people out in their robes and pajamas waiting for him to deliver their morning dose of bad news that inevitably made their coffee and tea more palatable.

He liked the early mornings when Winter was past. It was quiet. Even the birds were mostly still asleep The sun would just be coming up over the houses across from his on Timothy Lane and the air would be so clear that he thought he should be able to flap his hands and fly over to the corner to pick up the stack of papers that the truck had left for him. Instead, he would pick them up, fold them and start on his route. There was Miss Beaudoin who hated coming out for her paper. He would coast up her front walk and throw the paper onto her porch. Then followed Smith, Murcoson, Feldman and so on as he travelled from Timothy onto Donbon St and then Pocolo Boulevard and back onto Timothy.

One of the last houses on his route was a small but pretty cape with a covered front porch and a garden along the front of the house. In the spring, it was really beautiful, and, one morning Ted had stopped, thrown the paper onto the porch and sat for a few seconds admiring the house and its lawn. He had never seen anyone in the house come out for the paper; one did that morning and he came to an abrupt halt on his bike and stood on the sidewalk staring at her.

Thinking back to that moment, Ted saw that it was exactly the right time for her to come onto the porch. The sun was highlighting her in a subtle aura of light that was enhanced by his view of the girl. She was small and very slim, almost like a stick as he remembered her. She was maybe nine or ten. She had black hair that curled down around her shoulders and blue eyes that seemed huge to Ted as he stared at her from his bike. She lifted an arm to shield her eyes from the morning light and looked down at him from the porch.

Hello, the girl said.

Hello, replied Ted. He held up a paper. Morning paper," he told her.

Yes, she replied and walked down the steps to the walk leading to the street. She walked with confidence but not with the easy stride of other girls that he knew. She came within a couple of feet of him and then stopped. She looked slightly past him. He thought she was very strange. The girl held out her hand and Ted gave her the paper that he had all but forgotten.

My..my name’s Ted, he stammered.

Her eyes focused on him. I’m Emma."

I haven’t seen you at school. What grade are you in?"

Emma smiled and it was as if the whole world had fallen off a. Ted could only stare. I think you’re staring at me. Do you live around here too?

Uhh. Yes, was all that he could think to say,

I’m glad. You have a nice voice, but I have to go back in the house and get ready for school, same as you. She lifted a hand in farewell and turned to go.

Wait, he asked her. What grade are you in?

I’m at Woodsworth, she replied

Ted had never heard of it and he stared at her back as she disappeared inside. When he got back to his house, he asked his dad who looked slightly bemused at the question.

Where did you hear about Woodsworth? he asked as Ted’s mother handed him his lunch box.

A person I know goes there.

This friend must be someone special," said his father.

Yes," Ted said hoping to make that hope into a reality.

Woodsworth is a school for the blind.

Ted came back to the present as he sloppily guided his car around the curves and came out onto the straightway. Good. No speed trap set up. He pushed down on the accelerator and the car shot ahead towards another patch of trees.

There was a flash and then he then saw the van, perhaps twenty yards ahead, off the road and canted nearly onto its side. He pulled his car over onto the shoulder, turned it off and sat there for several seconds trying to collect himself. He was scared, angry and still partly drunk. Shit, he muttered to himself. Shit and double shit.

He got out of the car and looked over the scene. The van was a U-Haul rental. It had gone off the road at an angle and into the field before tilting and coming to a stop. Shit, he cursed again to no one in particular. Thank God for cell phones, he thought, as he dialed 911. He had to take a God-awful piss and decided to check the van and see if anyone was still inside of it. They probably already got a ride and the garage would be out for the truck. Still, one never knew, did one?

The van had tilted to the passenger side and Ted had to climb up to peer inside. He suddenly forgot about his bladder. There was a man inside the van, head against the steering wheel and slumped against the door. The van window was raised so Ted couldn’t tell if the man was dead or just unconscious. He tried the door handle. It seemed to be jammed. Frustrated, he kicked it and tried again. This time the door flew open. Ted got the man by the shoulders and heaved. The man came half in and half out of the cab with his legs caught under the steering wheel. The man’s shirt, the top of his pants and the seat below was soaked with blood. Holy Shit. Ted staggered back looking at the man with horror. He tried to think clearly. In the movies they put a finger on the victim’s throat to see if there was a pulse. Gingerly, Ted approached the man again and tried that, but he could feel nothing. So what? He wasn’t a doctor or even an EMT.

Suddenly, his stomach rebelled, and Ted turned away from the van just in time to throw up beer and snacks onto the field. Much more sober, he took the man’s shoulders and pulled him out of the van and onto the field. He smelled gas and, in a panic, he pulled the body away from the wreck. Nothing happened. It did not explode. In the distance a siren started up. Someone would be at the wreck soon. He went over to the van for a last look inside and saw a satchel on the floor partially pushed under the seat. He took a quick look inside and yanked the bag out of the van. Money. Lots of it, and a manila envelope faded with age. The sirens were a lot closer. Ted looked around but saw no one who might have been a passenger. He trotted across the field into the woods with the satchel held by one handle in his haste just as a sheriff’s cruiser drove up with lights flashing, His bladder felt as if it would burst.

CHAPTER 4

Sheriff John Buckmaster walked down a small slope from the road and joined Deputy Ethel Coogan who was stringing yellow police tape around the area surrounding the body and the van. She looked up briefly to see who was approaching and then bent to her task again. She was steady and dependable, Buckmaster thought, as he stood outside the tape looking down at the body about ten feet away. It looked like a pile of discarded clothing more than a man