Holding The Bag

Crime Fiction by J. David Harper

My money was on the fat guy in the tracksuit, but the brunette with the diamond stud earrings and the Louis Vuitton bag swore he didn’t show up until after the shooting.

Besides, she said, she saw the whole thing and the shots came from the other direction, so it couldn’t be the fat guy in the tracksuit. She didn’t call him the fat guy in the tracksuit. She called him “that guy you keep looking at.”

I kept looking at him because he was across the street talking to my partner, Denny, and I didn’t like the way he was doing it. Something about the way he was leaning a little bit to the right, and the way his right foot was turned out. When I was in college I played hoops, and I could always tell where a guy was headed by looking at his feet.

I might have stuck around long enough to go pro, but when my dad got sick, I decided family was more important and gave up the dribble and hoop to help take care of my sick old man. He didn’t last long. He might still be here today if the HMO hadn’t lingered over whether to pay for his surgery. I think that was their strategy the whole time. Just dick around until it wasn’t their problem anymore.

Once the life insurance paid out, we tried to sue the HMO. Their lawyers did the same thing the health insurance did. They dicked around until we ran out of cash, and I went to the police academy to pay the bills and take care of mom. Twelve years later I was a detective standing on Santa Monica Boulevard watching the right foot of a fat guy in a tracksuit. It was in a hurry to get somewhere.

I asked the brunette if she was sure he wasn’t there when the shooting happened. She said she was. I put a peg in it and moved on.

I asked for a description of the shooter, but she said she didn’t see who shot the dead guy with the Patek Phillipe and the tailored suit. She just saw his shirt explode before he fell back and crashed onto the sidewalk. I asked how she knew the watch was a Patek Phillipe. She clutched her bag a little tighter and said a woman of taste can tell. I asked how she knew the suit was tailored, seeing as how the guy was splayed out on the concrete and the suit was covered in blood. She said she knew the suit was tailored because he was wearing a Patek Phillipe.

The fat guy in the tracksuit kept glancing our way. I figured he was looking at me because I had been looking at him. Then I took a good look at the brunette and figured he was looking at her.

She stood about five-nine, every inch of it a pleasure. She had curves where they should be, none where they shouldn’t, and a dress that wasn’t shy about pointing it out. If there was a flaw, I couldn’t see it. That’s how I knew there was one. The more perfect somebody is, the more certain I am they’re not.

“Ok,” I said. “Let’s go find out if you’re right.”

“Oh,” she said and stepped back. She held the bag in both hands and looked right at Track Suit. “I really need to -“

“Humor me,” I said.

She got all puffed up in that way rich women in their thirties get when somebody doesn’t notice their shoes.

“I’m sorry, am I under arrest?”

“No,” I said. “Would you like to be?”

“On what grounds?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Failure to comply, maybe. I’ll make something up.”

She took a hard look at me, and for a second I thought she was going to call my bluff. She was under no legal obligation to talk to me. As far as the law was concerned, she was free to go. I think she knew it, too. But she looked over at Track Suit, who was starting to dance around like he had to pee, and nodded her head.

“Fine.”

Denny clocked us walking towards the body and raised an eyebrow. I flashed my eyes towards the brunette then nodded towards Track Suit. Track Suit didn’t look so good.

Denny led him over and the four of us stood by the guy in the Patek Phillipe and the tailored suit. His eyes were still open. They were looking up at the sky like he was trying to remember where he left his wallet. Maybe that’s the last thing he was thinking.

Denny nodded towards Track Suit.

“Mister Hembro here says he saw someone run off towards Rodeo Drive after the shooting.”

The brunette’s eyes flashed at the newly christened Mister Hembro. He looked away.

“That’s hard to understand,” I said. “This lady tells me he didn’t get here until after the shooting.”

This time Track Suit’s eyes flashed, and the brunette shook her head.

“I could be mistaken,” she said. “Everything happened so fast.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Memory is a funny thing. I seem to remember being a good husband, but my ex remembers it different.”

Denny looked at Track Suit.

“You think you could come down to the station and give a description to our sketch artist?”

Track Suit did a little soft shoe.

“I didn’t get a good look,” he said. “Just from behind.”

“Still,” Denny said. “You might remember something while you talk to her.”

“Do I have to,” Track Suit said.

“No,” Denny said. “You don’t have to. Any reason you wouldn’t want to?”

Track Suit licked his lips and glanced at the brunette. She looked away. I saw a tiny shake of her head. I looked back at Denny. He saw it, too.

“Yeah, ok,” Track Suit said.

The brunette’s eyes got wide. She tucked the bag under her arm and squeezed it close to her side.

“Wait,” she said. “The person in the hoodie? Is that who you saw?”

Track Suit lit up.

“Yeah,” he said. “He was wearing a hoodie. A purple hoodie.”

“How do you know it’s a he,” Denny asked. “I thought you only saw them from behind.”

Track Suit froze for a second. His mouth moved around like it was expecting food to be in it. He looked at the brunette. She clenched her jaw and looked down the street. She was squeezing that bag like it was her boyfriend back from the war.

“The hoodie,” said Track Suit. “Whoever heard of a woman wearing a hoodie?”

“I hear of it all the time,” I said.

“I saw him,” the brunette said. “I can give you a description. You won’t need this gentleman.”

She said gentleman like it meant something different.

“Well,” I said. “Just for kicks, why don’t we all go down to the station and get this knocked out. Then you’ll both be free to go.”

A glance between Track Suit and the brunette. A quick nod from Denny.

“Can I carry your bag, ma’am,” he asked.

“No thank you,” she said.

Denny knew she’d say no. He was just letting me know he knew what I was thinking.

When we got to the car I planted myself and the brunette by the rear door on the driver’s side. Denny stood by Track Suit next to the passenger door.

“Sorry guys,” I said. “Procedure. Before you get in the car, we’ll have to frisk you.”

Another glance from Track Suit. An almost imperceptible nod from the brunette.

“No problem,” Track Suit said.

“My pleasure,” said the brunette.

They were both clean.

Denny guided Track Suit into the back seat. The brunette started to get in on our side, but I took her elbow.

“Just a sec, ma’am, I’ll need to put your bag in the trunk.”

She froze like I had put her on dry ice. I could see her face wanting to turn back to Track Suit, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Denny getting ready to move. I didn’t have to see his feet to know which way he was going. I was blocking her path in front, the car was behind her, and the open door had her hemmed in on the right. There was only one way she could turn, and her left foot was already pointed in that direction.

“It’s just a handbag,” she said. “Nothing dangerous.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, half apologizing. “It’s just procedure. Frisk first, and no personal belongings in the car. I’ll hand it back as soon as we’re done.”

She ran a finger along her cleavage and licked her lips.

“Can’t you make an exception this once? I’m afraid I’ll forget it. It’s a really expensive bag.”

“I can tell,” I said, holding out my hand. “A man of taste can always tell.”

Her eyes darted to the left a split second before she bolted. She got about a step and a half and slammed into Denny who had maneuvered his way around the back of the car. She dropped the bag and we heard a muffled clack of metal. I picked it up by one handle so it fell open, revealing a Glock .40 half wrapped in a scarf that probably cost more than I make in a month.

So we had her on a gun charge. We didn’t know what to do with Track Suit. We didn’t have to work hard to figure it out. Surveillance footage came in while we interviewed them and sent the gun off to ballistics.

The thing most people don’t know about Beverly Hills is it has more cameras than Hollywood. On light poles, rooftops, traffic lights, just about any place you can imagine, and a few you can’t. If you’re in Beverly Hills, we’re watching.

The surveillance footage gave us the plot. There was no guy in a hoodie. But there was a fat guy in a tracksuit. He shot Mister Patek Phillipe as he walked by, then kept going past a curvy brunette, where he dropped the piece in her open Louis Vuitton bag.

Like any decent plot, you need a good story to go with it. That we got from the brunette.

Mister Patek Phillipe turned out to be one Kevin Finternan, CEO of Saludus Health. A year earlier, Saludus denied coverage to the brunette’s niece. She had run the course of available cancer treatments and was staring down the barrel of some experimental approaches. Saludus decided those approaches weren’t covered, so the niece was left with nothing but pain management and the Reaper’s impatient breath on the back of her neck. Rather than make him wait around, she chased a handful of whatever pills she had left with a bottle of bourbon and slipped under a hot bath. By the time they found her the water was cold, and so was she.

Track Suit was the brunette’s brother, just out of prison for larceny, now looking at 25 to life for murder.

People ask what’s the hardest thing about my job. I usually talk about child abuse and bruised up girlfriends who won’t press charges. I think those are still at the top of the list. But I have to say, locking people up for doing a good deed is up there.

At least Mister Patek Phillipe got what he deserved.

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Bio: David Harper wrote those movies you never saw and those books you didn’t read. His short fiction, essays, and poems have appeared in Altered Reality Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Haven, Potato Soup Journal, Mystery Tribune, Right Hand Pointing, and Front Porch Review, among others. His plays have been produced on both coasts, and his films and web series have won multiple awards.

You can find him at his website HERE

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