The black wrought iron gates hung from gray concrete pedestals eight feet high; each post came to a sharpened point. A copper plaque now aged with dark green and blue streaks was embedded in the right hand post and read “WinterGlen”. Beyond the gate, the black driveway wound into a dense growth of fir trees and unkept wild growth, the type of setting that emphasizes the distance between the wanderer and civilization. It became quickly apparent to Cochran that six was the only number living on Whispering Willow Drive .
He rolled down the window and squinted against the drizzle falling from the leaden sky. He pushed the intercom button and waited.
“Yes,” came a deep, monotone voice.
“Detective Michael Cochran, Trenton Homicide. I’m looking for Brenden St. Croix. I need to speak with him about…”
“One moment,” the passionless voice interrupted.
Cochran stared through the windshield trying to see any sort of structure through the vegetation on the other side of the gate. He wondered how anyone comes into this kind of money. He brushed it away as the type of thought that only annoyed him, knowing he’d never be that lucky. Just then there was a loud crack, as if someone fired a rifle, but the gates started to swing slowly open and Cochran realized it was the electronic gate lock retracting. Pulling forward, he watched the gates close in his rearview. The woods seem to run forever and he figured it was at least half a mile before he saw the outline of black spires through the leaves. Eventually he pulled up in from of a gray and black edifice, carved marble and stone with fairy castle spired peaks at either end of what must have been a thirty seven bedroom bungalow. Cochran chuckled in his throat. He loop around the oval drive in front of the house, passing the five garage doors. Two were open, one empty, one occupied with what looked to him like a black stretch Bentley.
The door bell sounded a simple single chime, which surprised him. He expected a Wagner aria at the least. A gorilla in a black izod and black slacks answered the door. Cochran figured he could fit his entire body through the sleeve of this man’s shirt and the fabric was stretched across a muscle straining to break through the skin. The man stared silently at Cochran.
Flashing his ID and badge at the man, whose eyes never left Cochran’s face, he identified himself as he had on the intercom. “I’d like to speak with Brenden St. Croix.”
“What about?” he growled.
“Who are you?”
“Someone you have to answer to before you talk to anyone else.”
“Oooo. Mr. Tough Guy. Look Smiley, this is a police matter and I either have a friendly chat with Junior or you spend some time in some less than swanky accommodations in my office for obstructing justice. What’s it going to be?”
“You don’t want to fuck with me, asshole. I can make you disappear and nobody will ever come looking for you.”
“Hey, that’s clever. Did you think that up all by yourself or did you memorize that from the movies?”
The man moved faster than Cochran had judged, grabbing the detective by the scruff if his coat and yanking him forward, their noses inches apart.
“You got a big mouth for a dick, Dick. I may have to rip your heart out and show it to you before die.”
“Let me guess, coffee and an onion bagel for breakfast? Ever hear of brushing your teeth? You’d have more friends that way.”
“Why, you fuck..” the man’s grasp tightened.
“Terence,” came a voice from behind the ape. “Let him go. Now.”


1 Comment

Filed under writing

One response to “WSOTB…continued

  1. ok, i cracked up at the end. i just had the image of the scene in your sidebar of the yip yip dog telling the huge one what he really thinks.

    i’m enjoying this. hope we get more.

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