Framed for Murder

Chapter 1 The second I saw the body I knew I’d been set up. Someone had done a number on the guy and I’d blindly walked in on the scene thinking I was delivering a message to him. The message was from a man I didn’t know who was willing to pay me enough to make it worth my while. Of course, given my living situation at the moment, ten dollars would have been enough and he’d given me four times that, with the promise of another forty dollars when I’d completed the job. Why did I have the feeling that the second forty wasn’t going to happen? My name is Charles English, Charlie to my friends—of which I have very few at the moment—and I’m just past my thirty-eighth birthday. Not to put too fine a point on it, but when this all began I was sitting on the sidewalk beside a restaurant, looking for handouts. A necessity, since I didn’t have a job. Haven’t had one since the company I worked for closed its doors well over two years ago. You’d think there would be plenty of other places that would want to hire a decent plumber with good recommendations. Not even. Hell, as far as that went, finding any job seemed to be a no-go in this economy. Not for a guy my age, anyway. With no job, I couldn’t pay the rent on my apartment, or put gas in my car—which hadn’t been in the best of shape to begin with. I dumped the car for a few hundred dollars so I could eat and pay for a room at a cheap motel. When that was gone, I’d ended up on the streets. Anyway, today I was at my usual spot on the street, in an area with restaurants catering to the working class, cheek-by-jowl with liquor and convenience stores, and two mom-and-pop groceries. I’d been panhandling, not doing too badly. I’ve discovered people who aren’t rich tend to be more giving than the ones who dine at fancy restaurants and shop in exclusive stores. It was early evening, barely beginning to get dark, and the temperature was falling. Not surprising, since it’s only a month or so until winter hits. Not something I was looking forward to. I was about to pack it in, since I’d made enough to eat at a cheap diner I frequent occasionally, when I saw this dude walking toward me. He didn’t really fit the neighborhood. He was well-dressed, wearing gloves, a nice overcoat, and a hat like the ones my dad used to own. He called them fedoras. The man paused a few yards away, studying me. I heard him say, under his breath, “He’ll do.” I half expected him to proposition me. It happens. Not that I take anyone up on it. I’m not that desperate and never will be—I hope. To my surprise, the man dropped a couple of dollars in my cup and then looked at me, nodding his head. “I’d like you to deliver a message for me,” he said. “I’ll pay you more than you probably make in a week of begging on the streets.” “Me?” I tapped my chest. “You sure?” “I’m sure.” The man took an envelope from his coat pocket. “You do realize I’m hardly dressed for going into a neighborhood like this,” I told him after reading the address. Rather than walking away, the man took out his wallet and handed me several bills. “This should cover going over there—” he pointed to a near-new shop, “—to buy clean jeans that don’t look like you’ve been living in them for the past six months.” I frowned at his description. Sure, my jeans had seen better days, but they weren’t ratty. “Buy a new jacket, too. Keep it zipped and you’ll be fine. Make it quick, though. The sooner you deliver this the better. When you get to the house, go around to the back door and ask for him.” He tapped the name on the envelope with one gloved finger. I whistled when I saw how much the man had given me. “Must be one important message.” “It is. Deliver it, and there will be another forty for you.” Meaning if I shopped cheap, I’d end up with maybe seventy dollars. Damn. I quickly pocketed the money before the man changed his mind, asking, “Where should I meet you, once I’ve delivered it?” So I can get the rest of my money, I thought, although I didn’t say it aloud. “I’ll find you,” the man replied before walking away. “Yeah, bet me,” I muttered. Not that I was complaining. I had forty dollars I hadn’t had five minutes ago. If that’s all I’d get for the job, I was good with it. Crossing the street, I went into the shop. A few minutes later I left, wearing the first decent pair of jeans I’d owned since I’d hit the streets two years ago. The jacket I’d found almost made me feel as if I was a real person, not the vagrant most people saw when they looked at me. My old jacket was carefully folded up in my backpack. Waste not, want not, as they say. I’d even splurged on a shirt. Sure, it was a blue work shirt, but it beat the hell out of the tattered sweatshirts and hoodies I usually wore. Before I left the dressing room I tied my hair back so I’d look even more respectable. At least I’d taken the time to trim back my beard and mustache a couple of days ago, using the washroom at a fast-food restaurant, so while I still looked scruffy, it wasn’t horrible. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, and the envelope carefully stashed in one of the jacket pockets, I headed to the bus stop. I got lucky. One was just pulling up. I told the driver where I was going and asked which busses I’d need. My luck was still with me, because I didn’t have to transfer. He said I’d be there in fifteen minutes, so I dug my dog-eared book out of my pack and read until I got to my stop. True, I was dressed better than I’d been when the guy hired me, but I still didn’t fit into the neighborhood, so I hoped anyone who saw me would think I was a gardener heading home after working on some rich guy’s yard, or—I smiled wryly at the idea—a plumber on an emergency call—or something. I found the address I needed, which was one of several houses on the obviously upper-middleclass street. Doing as the man had said, I went around to the back of the house. There was light coming through one of the windows, so I walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. To my surprise, it swung open an inch or so, letting out a sliver of light. Someone had been careless, or so I thought. I waited a moment for my knock to be answered. When it wasn’t, I pushed the door open and stepped into what turned to be a kitchen, calling out, “Mr. Anderson?” That was when I saw the body, a butcher knife protruding from its back, blood from the wound covering the floor around it. I started toward him—it was a male, maybe Mr. Anderson, maybe not—to see if he was still alive. Not that I figured he could be, all things considered, but it was a natural reaction, I think. My foot landed in something sticky—drying blood—and I jerked it back, grabbing the counter to keep from falling. That’s when I heard the sirens. Yeah, definitely a set-up, with me as the patsy if I didn’t get my ass out of there and fast. I did, barely making it across the alley behind Mr. Anderson’s house into someone’s yard when a squad car came to a screeching halt a few feet away. I guess I shouldn’t presume that’s the dead guy’s name, or the homeowner’s name as far as that goes. Anyway, I crouched behind a trash container beside a garage, keeping my head down. A trick I’d learned when cops drove through downtown alleys looking for guys like me to roust. Someone was watching over me because the people in the house belonging to the garage were either not nosy enough to come out to see what was going on, or not at home. I waited what seemed like forever until the ache in my knees told me it was move or else. The squad car was still in the alley, along with another one. One of the officers was telling the others to start searching the nearby yards. That was added impetus to my getting out of there. It was full dark now, so I was able to creep and crawl through the yard, staying close to the bushes along one side, until I made it to the next street. Then, as casually as I could, considering I was beyond tense, I walked out of the area. A few blocks from where I’d started I saw a fancy strip mall. The shops were closed, the two restaurants weren’t, but they were too high-class considering how I was dressed for me to feel comfortable going into one, despite the fact I could afford a meal. Well, I could if I wanted to blow half the money I had left after my shopping spree. I spotted a bus stop with a shelter at the far end of the mall. The shelter was vacant, so I collapsed on the bench, resting my elbows on my knees, and stared down at the pavement. That was when I realized there was blood on one of my shoes. It probably wouldn’t look like blood to anyone who glanced at it, but it seemed to scream ‘murderer’ in my mind. Of course I wasn’t, but who would believe it if the cops found out I’d been at Anderson’s house and arrested me. I had some well-worn tennis shoes in my backpack I kept for emergencies, like when it was raining or snowing. I took off the pair I was wearing and put the other ones on. Then I checked the trash container beside the bench. There was a newspaper someone had thrown away. I took it out, wrapped the bloody shoe in one section, its mate in another, and stuffed them deep down under the rest of the trash. “Now what?” I asked under my breath moments before I saw a bus approaching. Digging the proper change out of my pocket, I flagged it down. I didn’t care where it was going as long as it was away from where I was. I walked to the back, slumping down into a vacant seat, keeping my head lowered. Thankfully, there were very few passengers, and the ones the bus picked up later along its route avoided sitting next to me. I rode the bus to the end of the line, which turned out to be a park-and-ride lot. Across it, I saw an area I recognized from before I’d ended up homeless. It was a mix of low and middle-class houses, apartment complexes, and various businesses. Not a bad area to crash for the night so I could get my s**t together and figure out what to do next. I crossed the lot and walked a few blocks until I came to an alley behind a row of buildings. Going down it, I saw several fire escapes and a ton of dumpsters. I clambered onto one of the dumpsters to access a fire escape and was on the roof of a five-story building moments later. I saw the housing for a swamp-cooler on the next roof and headed to it, glad that it was autumn so the cooler wouldn’t be in use. I opened the service door and crawled inside. Not exactly the Hilton, but at least it was somewhat warmer than outside. I had a down sleeping bag in a stuff sack in my pack, my one sensible purchase when I finally realized I was going to have to live rough and didn’t want to freeze to death. Yeah, it took up room, but what else did I have to carry other than what clothes I owned, which believe me weren’t a lot. At least with the sleeping bag hidden from sight I didn’t get hassled as much by the cops as the guys who strap theirs to the top of their backpacks. I took the bag out, unzipped it, and wrapped it around me. I’d have lain down if there’d been room to, but there wasn’t. Not that it mattered. I’d spent lots of nights sleeping sitting up in dark alley doorways. You get used to it. The problem was, sleep didn’t seem to be happening. All I could think about was the dead man on the kitchen floor and why I’d been sent to the house in the first place—which was ostensibly to deliver a message to him. It was then that I realized I still had the envelope in my jacket pocket. I dug it out and opened it. All it held was a blank sheet of paper, which went to prove I definitely was right. I had been set up. “Why me?” I asked aloud. “Luck of the draw? Maybe I looked like someone who would break into a place to rob it and kill the homeowner when he caught me at it?” I figured that was probably it. Sure, I’d bought new clothes for my trip to Anderson’s house, but they weren’t really new-new. And the stuff in my pack for sure wasn’t. If I hadn’t run, and the cops had caught me, one look at what was in there would have let them know I was a street person, even if my long, shaggy hair didn’t. I needed help if I was going to get out of this, because I knew for damned sure the guy who hired me would come up with some excuse for having seen me going into the yard and describe me, since the cops didn’t catch me at the scene of the crime. “f**k, he doesn’t have to,” I said under my breath when I remembered grabbing the counter to keep from falling when I’d stepped in the blood. And I’d touched the back door when I went into the house. The place was lousy with my prints. There was one man I knew who might be able to get me out of this, but would he even consider it? Or would he think it was exactly what I deserved? His name was Trent Lawson, he was a couple of years older than me, and we had been lovers once, back when I was a productive member of society. Then we decided it wasn’t working for us and split up. That was three years ago. The reason I thought he could help me was the fact he owned Lawson Detective Agency.