Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 3

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft laid his hand softly on the left side of Angela’s head, then with a quick movement she never saw coming, slammed her chin upward and, with a powerful twist, snapped her neck. Her tiny body jerked and then went limp. Without thinking, he put his right hand on the dog’s back. The sudden movement awakened Taffy from her nap. The last thing he needed was to have to chase down a stupid dog. He gently draped his left arm around Angela and pulled her into his shoulder. To any outside observer, they would look like a father and daughter sitting on a Sunday afternoon enjoying the December sun.

  As he gazed out at the park, it seemed to swirl softly around the edges. His breathing was slow and deep, and he felt something much like the afterglow of sexual release. All was calm; he gently squeezed the little form beside him. She was picked at the peak of her sweetness. She would never spoil; never ferment into the bitterness of womanhood. She would remain in that state of wide-eyed expectancy of puppies, of candy in a pink jacket pocket, and the willingness to share whatever she had with a nice boy in the park. For just those few moments, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft became a boy again and, for those fleeting moments, a feminine form was kind to him.

  A scream from across the park brought him out of his euphoria. A boy in a striped shirt pushed down a little dark-skinned girl and was pulling on the back of her denim jacket. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft frantically looked around the park. The nursing woman was gone. The man on the blanket was up and walking toward the boy, shouting something—the boy’s name perhaps? How long had he been sitting there?

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft slipped his left arm under Angela’s arm and held her firmly, his hand flat on the middle of her chest. He took a handful of the puppy’s loose skin and stood. Three long strides, and he was in the trees. He turned and looked back. The man from the blanket was pointing his finger at the boy and scolding him. The little girl in the denim jacket was standing next to the man, crying. All the children in the play area stood frozen, watching the scene. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft left just as he came, unnoticed.

  In the daylight, the lot was not as densely wooded as he thought. Near the center there was a clearing cluttered with construction debris and household castoffs: a couch, a broken lamp and an old torn mattress. Somehow, he missed it in the dark. He kicked and shoved the mattress with his foot to where it lay flat, then carefully lowered Angela across it. To his left were a ditch and the exposed vent section of a large concrete drain pipe that stood about knee high. The makeshift cover flipped off easily, and he picked up a chunk of broken cement about the size of a softball and dropped it down the pipe. From far below he heard the unmistakable plop of the cement hitting water. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped the dog and then the leash down the drainpipe and walked back to where Angela lay.

  “What do I do with you now?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft said, kneeling next to the little girl.

  Briefly, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought of dropping the body down the drainpipe, but it seemed disrespectful. His job was to save her from becoming something ugly and evil. To cast her away as he did the puppy would take away from the beauty of what he did for her. It would have been a beautiful gesture to bury her beneath one of the trees, but he didn’t prepare for that. He glanced around the lot. He must hide her, but where? Too much time was passing. The boys in the park would notice she was gone soon. He must be gone before that happened.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft began to pace back and forth across the clearing. He was beginning to panic. It was getting harder to think clearly. Time, time was his enemy. He must make a decision. He must act. The couch caught his eye.

  As he approached it, he noticed it still had all its cushions. One by one, he removed the cushions. The black lining was partially torn away, exposing the bare springs below. He quickly ripped out the black lining and rolled it in a tight ball. He shoved the ball deep into the corner of the couch’s frame.

  As if caressing a newborn lamb, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft lifted Angela’s still body from the mattress. He held her close in his arms as he carried her to the couch. Softly and tenderly, he put her into the framework of the castaway sofa. One by one, he laid the cushions back into place. As he laid the last cushion over Angela’s face, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft pressed his fingertips to his lips and blew a kiss to his little friend. The girl’s small body was completely undetectable beneath the cushions.

  As carefully as he could, he walked to the edge of the trees and looked out at the park. The children still ran and played in the sandy play area. The man on the blanket was gone. There were no adults in the park. He glanced at the bench. The paper bag and package of doggie treats still sat waiting for his return. With swift deliberate movement, he dashed to the bench and retrieved the only evidence of his being in the park, then returned to the cover of the trees. His eyes never left the children in the playground, and none of them looked his direction.

  He quickly crossed the lot, dropping the Puppy Pretzels package into the drainpipe. He picked up the cover, placed it back on the opening, and walked out of the trees onto the street beyond. In less than a minute, he was around the corner, walking toward the bus stop.

  Just like every other day in his life, he arrived, did his job, and left for home. And no one even noticed.

  FOUR

  Cole returned the rest of the message calls. He reviewed the drafts of three pieces on his desk and called in an order for lunch. When the mail cart intern brought him a stack of mail, he asked the teenager where to shop for a three-year-old for Christmas.

  The mail kid may have been clueless but the ever-opinionated Lionel Chin offered his two cents worth: “Timeless Toys on Lincoln. Cool stuff, educational, lots of fun at Christmas. My wife always goes there for birthdays and stuff.”

  “Thanks, Lionel,” Cole said over the top of the cubicle.

  At three o’clock, Cole left for Timeless Toys. When he arrived, the store bustled with half a million soccer moms herding countless squealing, chatting, crying, and screaming kids bundled up in thick winter wear with hoods or hats. Cole was definitely out of his element. He wandered up and down the aisles for about fifteen minutes.

  He knew quite clearly what he didn’t want: no cars, trucks, monsters, Star Wars toys, Sesame Street anything, puzzles, games, or dinosaurs. He stood for a long time in front of a glass showcase with a beautiful doll on each well-lit, glass shelf. There were dolls of the world, baby dolls, beautiful Victorian bisque dolls, and an assortment of celebrity dolls—but nothing for a child of three.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?”

  Cole turned to see a woman in her 60s looking into the case.

  “They sure are.”

  “What does your daughter collect?”

  “I have no idea,” Cole said without thinking.

  “Oh,” the woman said in a judgmental tone.

  “I’m shopping for my granddaughter. She’s three,” Cole said, for some reason trying to please the woman.

  “I see. Well, these are a bit old for a three-year-old; that is, unless mom is very protective and puts the dolls up on a shelf. A child has a hard time understanding a toy they can’t play with.”

  “Good point.”

  The woman turned and left Cole just as lost as before. He strolled past the books, all looking very educational. He passed the blocks and things he felt were too young. Then he saw just what he wanted! Hanging on a circular rack, waited a whole zoo full of hand puppets—colorful, fun, and delightfully happy puppets. Cole picked a goofy-looking lion and slipped it on his hand. Suddenly, he transformed into Shari Lewis, twisting and turning the head, mugging like a drunk in a mirror, using his thumb and fingers to open and close the mouth.

  “Hi, Jenny, my name is Loxley the Lion.” Cole forgot he was standing in a toy store and took the puppet for a real test drive.

  He put the lion back on the rack and picked up a toucan, a horse, and a strange opossum-kangaroo hybrid. Toward the bottom of the rack, he spotted the perfect choice: a little brown chimp.
Big round eyes, wonderful ears the size of saucers that stuck straight out from its head, and best of all, the mouth formed a friendly smile with two buckteeth the size of Chiclets with a big gap between them.

  “Well, hello,” Cole said, picking up the chimp.

  “Hello, yourself.”

  Cole found himself face-to-face with a woman standing on the other side of the rack.

  “Uh, I was talking to the monkey here,” Cole said sheepishly.

  “I wasn’t,” the woman said with a big smile.

  Cole guessed her to be about thirty-five and well worn. As she stepped from around the corner from the hand puppets, she put out her long leg, balancing it on her stiletto, knee-high, crimson boot. Above the boot, she wore a pair of very expensive, very intentionally ragged jeans and a red leather jacket that probably cost more than Cole’s entire wardrobe. She stood shoulders back and chest out. She was tall and had obviously spent a lot of time in the gym. Sadly, she spent a lot of time in the tanning booth, too, and her skin was the worse for it. She tossed her dark brown hair over her shoulder and took a step toward Cole. As she did, the strong odor of cigarettes followed.

  “You like to play monkey?”

  Cole frowned and laid the head of the monkey across the open palm of his left hand. “Present for my granddaughter.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Old Mother Hubbard.”

  “Probably not.”

  “You about done in here?” she asked.

  “Getting close,” Cole said, returning to the menagerie on the rack.

  “Almost Happy Hour. Think we might go get something to warm us up?”

  “It’s only 3:45,” Cole said flatly.

  “Okay. Well, it’s Happy Hour somewhere, right?” Her cutesy voice must have gotten her a lot of drinks over the years.

  “Just not in Chicago,” Cole said, turning to walk toward the counter.

  A kid of about sixteen, in a green vest and Santa hat, watched Cole approach. The kid’s eyes darted from Cole to the woman, who now stood fists on her hips in the middle of the aisle. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge!” she called out at Cole’s back.

  “And to you, Mother Hubbard!” Cole said, not turning.

  “Man, she’s hot,” the kid said, as Cole got in line.

  “And therein lies the problem, son.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Be thankful,” Cole said, smiling.

  The kid walked away, looking back over his shoulder at Mother Hubbard.

  Back at his apartment, Cole juggled bags and packages while unsuccessfully attempting to unlock his door, and dropping his keys. Once he was finally inside, he dropped the bounty from his shopping trip onto a chair and flipped on a light. He tossed his heavy winter outerwear onto a coat rack by the door.

  The second-floor apartment was not what most people would expect of Cole Sage. Though he seldom invited people over, on those occasions, he always delighted in people’s reactions to the five rooms he called “home.” The décor was not as dark and brooding as one might expect.

  Since Cole spent most of his time alone. He spent a lot of time watching movies. He hated TV. Cole loved suspending the veil of disbelief. They weren’t actors and it wasn’t a story. For those 100-plus minutes, he entered another world and watched the lives of people who traveled to other worlds and took part in events he otherwise would never see. Totally submerging himself into a story, provided the great passion of his life and his only real vice.

  Therefore, Cole’s living room truly defined ‘home theater’. On the ceiling was mounted a three-lens video projector and the wall was covered by a twelve-foot screen. His needs were few and his rent low. His money went to his passion for movies and his ever-expanding DVD collection, which recently passed the thousand-title mark.

  Cole’s bedroom was built for comfort. He special-ordered a bed nearly eight feet long. He was a “scooter,” always ending up two feet down from the headboard, and he hated his feet hanging over the end of a bed. Total blackout curtains hid the dark film that covered the windows. Since childhood, sleeping problems had plagued Cole. His bed was soft and the sheets were silk. His pillows were three feet long and full of the softest down feathers. Cole worked hard at getting a good night’s sleep.

  The second bedroom acted as an office and library. There were bookcases and shelves ceiling to floor and wall to wall. CDs, DVDs, books, and even records were stored and meticulously sorted and filed. An antique oak teacher’s desk took up the center of the room. On it sat Cole’s computer and stacks of folders, notepads, and scraps of paper. To an outsider, it would look like mayhem, but Cole knew where every scrap and sheet lay waiting. At any time, he could reach out and grab what he needed, almost without looking.

  Cole went to the kitchen, got a drink of water, and made his way to the living room. He plopped down on the sofa and kicked off his shoes. It was quite a day. He was quite pleased with himself and the Christmas presents he had purchased. Other than the occasional bottle of scotch for Brennan, Cole hadn’t bought a Christmas present since his father died, nearly 18 years ago. Today, he went shopping and found just what he was looking for: a cashmere sweater for Erin, a sock puppet and a Cubbies sweatshirt for Jenny, and a first-edition of The Johnson & Wellsford Book of Anatomy, published in 1868, for Ben. Then he remembered the call from Chuck Waddle.

  Cole leaned over and grabbed the remote. With the push of a couple of buttons, Tom Waits came, piano tinkling, from the front of the room, so real you could almost hear the piano stool creak. Cole always listened to Waits or Leonard Cohen when he needed to think.

  Could he move to San Francisco? In the years he had lived in Chicago, he made a lot of connections. His doorman, Sammy; Elsa, at the Norway Bakery on the corner; Phil, at the Wicker Basket market; and Louie, at the deli around the corner, all knew him by name. They never bought him a Christmas present, though. Granted, he was the recipient of free cinnamon rolls at the bakery and a free potato salad at the deli now and then, but those weren’t like gifts; they were more like discounts or promotional items to keep him coming back. Was he being too cynical?

  So, who would he leave behind that mattered? Tom Harris, Cole’s best friend. But Tom had Marianne and the kids. Over the years Mick Brennan had become the nearest thing to family, but, as much as Cole hated to admit it, he’d soon be gone. Cole was very fond of Olajean, but other than the few times he went to a birthday party or Fourth of July barbeque at her place, they only saw each other at work. At work he would gratefully forget almost everyone else within a week. So why not go? Cole closed his eyes and heaved a great sigh.

  FIVE

  At nine fifty-one, the morning of the 20th of December, Cole flew out of O’Hare on a first class ticket to San Francisco. Two movies, eight truffles, one milk, and two Diet Cokes later, Cole touched down in San Francisco. A balding Asian man with badly tobacco-stained teeth stood at the gate holding a sign that said “Coal Stage.” The man introduced himself as ‘Rick’ and said he would be Cole’s driver while he was in town. Sitting only six feet in front of a marked police car, a shiny, black Lincoln Town car sat in a tow-away zone. Rick stowed Cole’s bags in the trunk and opened the door.

  “Here’s my card.” Rick shoved a black card with embossed silver lettering at Cole. “My number’s here. You need anything, you call. Women, liquor, I’m not too happy about getting dope but I can give you a number. I know everybody, what you need, I can get. Hush, hush with me.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll only be here tonight and tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I can do things fast, you just ask. Mind if I smoke?”

  “Just keep the window open.”

  “You and me, we are going to get along. Mr. Chuck, he said to bring you to his place at 7:30. So we have to get going. Please use your seatbelt. It’s the law.”

  The lights of San Francisco looked like the inside of a kaleidoscope through the rain-speckled windshield. Cole loved San Francisco. He clearly remembered the first time he went to the City by t
he Bay. In 1962, Cole and his father attended a Giants game at Candlestick Park. The Giants played the Mets and lost. He had a hot dog. The kind of frank they advertised on TV. It even had Gulden’s mustard on it. His dad bought him an orange pennant and a black baseball cap with an orange ‘SF’ embroidered on the front. Later that day, they went to Fisherman’s Wharf for dinner in a place where a guy wore lederhosen and played the accordion. To Cole’s delight, they walked around the Wharf and saw a mime and an old man playing saxophone on the street. Even as a kid, Cole knew that there was something very special about this city. For a brief moment the memory of his father saddened Cole.

  When Cole left the lobby of the St. Francis Hotel, he found Rick parked at the curb, leaning on the front of the Lincoln.

  “Mr. Stage! Ready to get rolling?” Rick ran up with an open umbrella. “Dinner at 7:30, just enough time.”

  * * *

  Chuck Waddle and his companion of 20 years, Chris Ramos, lived in the Noe Valley district of the city. They lived in a beautiful Victorian house on a very short street. Rick double-parked and bounced out of the car, umbrella ready as he opened the door for Cole. It was six steps up to the heavy, leaded-glass doors. With a twist of the antique brass bell key, his arrival was announced, and the sound of footsteps could be heard in the hall. The form of a tall man became an out-of-focus blur on the leaded-glass doors.

  The door opened and Chris Ramos stood barefooted in a skintight yellow T-shirt and a multi-colored geometric print wraparound Burmese skirt. He wore a royal blue silk jacket that reached just below his ribs. On his fingers he wore long brass fingernails at least four inches long. Chris beamed with the smile of someone obviously pleased with himself.