Chapter 16
THE NEXT MORNING FOUND Dwight Chambers behind the wheel of his Impala once again, driving himself and his junior partner east. Pendergast had volunteered his Rolls-Royce, but Chambers thought this a bad look for two FBI agents on a case, and instead suggested they meet outside his usual breakfast joint a few blocks from work.
Chambers was just mopping up the last of his grillades and grits when he saw the polished bulk of the Rolls glide to a stop beyond the window.
He met Pendergast in the parking lot, and together they headed for the Mississippi line.
As they drove, Pendergast once again looked through the morgue and CSI photos of Kenneth Drakos.
It creeped Chambers out, especially when Pendergast pulled out a magnifying glass for closer inspection.
What the hell he was looking at, or for, Chambers couldn’t guess.
He figured he’d probably find out soon enough.
They reached Haul-U-All Self Storage around half past ten.
It was surrounded by a chain-link fence on a property that ran alongside a stagnant bayou full of abandoned shopping carts.
The lower part of the fence was overgrown with weeds.
Passing through an entrance of chain-link gates, they rolled onto blacktop that was cracked and pockmarked.
Dark clouds scudded across the sky, giving the place a menacing look.
Chambers pulled up to a shed with a lean-to tin roof that was evidently the office.
Nobody came out to meet them, so the two got out and went in.
The office consisted of a battered green chair, a desk with built-in file drawers, a locked key cabinet, and a toilet with no door.
A skinny, withered-looking man of at least sixty sat at the desk, rolling a cigarette.
His thinning black hair was slicked down against his scalp, and as they entered he rolled a bugged-out pair of eyes their way.
Chambers was reminded of Peter Lorre in one of his later roles.
“Help you boys?” he asked in a distinctly unhelpful tone.
Chambers took a meaningful step back, and Pendergast got the cue. He took out his badge. “Agents Pendergast and Chambers, FBI. And your name is—?”
“Rockelton.”
“Mr. Rockelton, we’re here to have a look at the unit in which Kenneth Drakos was found three nights ago.”
“Again? The police been here already—two different teams for hours—looking the place over with a fine-tooth comb. Told me they were done.”
“I am sorry to tell you, Squire Rockelton, that we are not done,” said Pendergast. “Among other things, we would like to interview the gentleman who found the body.”
“That would be me,” the man said, rolling his eyes from one agent to the other.
“I see,” said Pendergast. “And your position in this fine enterprise?”
“Owner.”
“Ah. So you’re owner and night watchman.”
“No night watchman. Place is open eight AM to two AM.”
“But the body was found at three on the morning of August ninth.”
“Sounds about right.”
“By you.”
“Yessirree.”
“Then is this shack your domicile as well as office?”
“Nope. But I come by after closing now and then. Making sure there’s no tomfoolery going on. Live half a mile down the far side of that river.”
As Chambers followed the man’s gesture, he saw that the clouds had parted briefly and the sun was coaxing a chemical sheen to the water’s surface.
“And you found the body after noticing the storage door had not been properly locked.”
The man paused to lick one edge of the cigarette paper.
“The door wasn’t all the way down. Some of them doors are ornery, and if you don’t give ’em a good hard pull, they hike back up an inch or two.
Well, I was driving past, and I saw this one was closed and locked—except the lock wasn’t tight in the hasp, and that killer or whoever didn’t close the door properly, and sure enough it had hiked up a couple inches, pulling the shackle of the lock with it.
” He lit the cigarette. “I got out to check… and that’s when I noticed the stink. ”
It wasn’t hard to see the operation this old geezer was running, Chambers thought.
After closing time he’d come by now and then, test the locks, see if any could be opened.
If he found one, maybe he’d help himself to a little of what was inside.
Storage units—at least, the ones that didn’t contain dead bodies—were usually so full of crap it wasn’t likely anybody would notice something missing.
“And the name of the person who rents out that unit, please?”
“I gave that to the cops. Go ask them.”
“If you wouldn’t mind looking it up again?” Pendergast asked. “We would hate to feel left out.”
With a muttered curse, the man rolled his chair over to the file cabinet, unlocked it, and rummaged through its contents. Then he pulled out a card.
“The cops kept the original, gave me this copy,” he said, handing it over.
Pendergast took the card, and he and Chambers read over the scrawled writing: Mr. Jack Daniel, PO Box 8949, West Gulfport.
Chambers snorted when he read the name. “You didn’t think this was fake?”
“I don’t pay no mind to people’s names.”
“What did this Mr. Daniel look like?” Pendergast asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Didn’t you see him?”
“People come and go. How’m I supposed to remember? All I can tell you is, he didn’t stand out noways. Although I seem to recall he was a big guy.”
“And his payments?”
“In cash, dropped through there, regular as clockwork.” The man pointed to a mail slot in the door. “Paid by the year. Got the 10 percent discount.”
“So he’d rented that space for a long time?”
“I already told the cops all that.”
Chambers sighed. Naturally, the rental card had no date on it. He decided he’d had just about enough of this vinegar-pussed old bastard. Pendergast, he thought, was being too deferential. He’d mention it to him later.
“Do you remember seeing a rather dilapidated white van passing in and out of here—especially in recent days or weeks?” Pendergast went on.
“Mister, everybody who brings their stuff in here uses a van. It’s a storage facility, not a safe-deposit box. If I had a dollar for every white van I’ve seen, I’d have retired years ago.”
“Then it seems you can be of no further use to us.” Pendergast’s tone was starting to change. “Take us to the unit, if you please.”
A truculent look came over the wizened features, and the man sucked in half an inch of hand-rolled cigarette, then streamed the smoke out his nostrils. “It’s number thirty-two. It’s locked up. You gents go find it yourself, ‘if you please.’”
“You’ll lead us to it,” said Chambers, breaking in, “and you’ll bring the key and open it for us, to boot.”
“I run an honest place here,” Rockelton said, his voice rising in complaint. “It don’t look good, having you fellers here questioning me. The cops have been here again and again. I’m just waiting for the word so I can hose the place out and rent it again.”
Just waiting to hose it out and rent it again. Putting a light hand on Pendergast’s arm, Chambers stepped forward. “If we have to get a court order, we will.”
“It’s a free country. Do what you want. Sure, bring me a court order… and then I’ll open her up. I know my rights. Otherwise, forget it.”
“Getting a court order is a pain in the butt,” Chambers said.
“Ain’t no pain in my butt.”
“But here’s a pain in your butt, Rockelton—losing your customers and getting shut down.”
Rockelton snorted.
“How do you think your customers will feel when they learn just where they’re storing their belongings? I’m talking about the history of this property.”
“What history?”
“You mean you didn’t do a title search of this shithole when you bought the land?”
The truculent look remained, but now there was a glimmer of concern in Rockelton’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”
Chambers snorted. “Well, four of your lovely acres were once a cemetery for children who died of tuberculosis. The rest was owned by a factory that made munitions during the Second World War. They used arsenic and lead and all kinds of poisonous chemicals in the manufacture of shells and primers.”
“I… I don’t give a damn about that.”
“I know a journalist in town who does give a damn, and he’d just love to break a story about a potential new Superfund site—and get your peckerwood operation shut down in the process. Now: If. You. Please.”
Within five minutes they were back in the Impala, following an ancient 1950s Dodge Power Wagon driving past row after row of storage units. It was a bigger place than Chambers had realized.
“Prickly old geezer,” he said as he drove.
“I’m curious. What made you decide to research this site? We didn’t anticipate this uncooperative reception.”
“Research? Never did any.”
“How did you know those details about the old munitions factory? And the TB cemetery?”
“There was no factory or cemetery.”
A silence. “In other words, that was a fabrication.”
Chambers nodded.
“So you blackmailed that man into giving us access.”
Chambers chuckled. “Criminals blackmail. FBI agents insinuate. I wasn’t interested in twiddling my thumbs waiting for a court order.
” He looked over at him. “To be honest, Pendergast, if you want a bit of advice, you seemed a little too obliging to that uncooperative old fucker. I hope you didn’t object to my butting in like that. ”
“Certainly not. It was most entertaining. Good Lord, a TB cemetery and a munitions factory? What a delightfully noxious combination.”
“Thank you.”
“Agent Decker told me to pay close attention to your methods. Now I see why.”
Chambers scoffed. “You’re not bullshitting me, are you, Pendergast?”
“I do not, as you so colorfully put it, engage in bullshitting. Especially to my respected senior partner.”
As Pendergast turned his eyes once more to the front, Chambers could have sworn he saw the faintest of smiles play along the edges of his patrician mouth.