The Stray. Alessio Chiadini Beuri

      Alessio Chiadini Beuri

      The Stray

      Transl.: Simona Casaccia

      Cover: ©Jason McCann ©Cottonbro © Alessio Chiadini Beuri

      ©Alessio Chiadini Beuri 2021

      Summary

       Andrew Lloyd

       The precinct

       Police Line Do Not Cross

       The witness

       A taxi ride

       Non-stop

       On two sides

       Sunshine Cab

       Bump in the road

       Family portrait

       Tennant’s

       The rescuer

       Vesper

       Stray

       A lovely man

       5 years

       Watery grave

       Distractions

       A small world

       Burning coals

       Ace in the hole

       It doesn't add up

       Gloria Stanton

       Treasure hunt

       No answer

       Chicago

       A lovely father

       The rat hole

       Scripta manent

       Shelter

       Fog in Rochelle

       End stop

       Light

       Back to school

       Little girl

       On the river

       Building 25

       John Doe

       Appointment

       Collect call

       Crossroad

       The Shadow

       Adele's

Andrew Lloyd

      "Good thing I'd left my gun here. The night is so quiet sometimes." he said as he entered the detective agency. The door closed behind him with a resounding slam.

      The woman on the other side of the desk, typing out some incomprehensible notebook notes, jumped with a lump that had knotted in her throat without warning. The man walked towards her without lifting the brim of his hat with his index finger to hide his eyes or remove his raincoat.

      "Didn't go, boss?"

      "That bastard Jimmy's gone rogue. One more time." Mason Stone leaned his elbow wearily on the lamp on the desk of his assistant, April Rosenbaum, a very blonde girl from a good family who, for her age, could have been his little sister.

      "He seems to do that when you look for him."

      "It's not that it looks like, he does it on purpose!"

      James Garfield, one of her informants, was a man who favoured easy joys and cheap vices. When he disappeared, you could be sure he had plucked someone's chickens or left a big hand uncovered in some gambling den.

      "When I get my hands on him..." he promised.

      "I forgot; you have visitors." April pointed with her eyes to the closed door of Mason's office. The detective turned to look too, as if he could see through the walls.

      At first, he grunted, surprised, then, annoyed, asked, "Federal?"

      "I don't think so..." replied April, biting her lip at that forgetfulness.

      "How is he dressed, like a dandy?"

      "He gave me the impression he was a Wall Street guy," she tried to make up for it.

      "Even worse then," sighed Mason. He had never taken his eyes off the door.

      As he entered his office, the dusty light from the window illuminated his mottled clothes. The hubbub of the door opening awakened the man at the back of the room, who was looking out over the beautiful view from the wall of the building opposite. His hands were buried in the pockets of his mouse-grey suit. He barely turned his head, as if he did not expect to see anyone enter. For his part, Stone did not say hello. He closed the door behind him, shook out his raincoat, which fell better on him, and walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall. He opened the top drawer and took out a small revolver. He checked that it was loaded, rotated the cylinder and closed it with a flick of his wrist. He put the pistol down and lit a cigarette. He did all this without so much as glancing at the man who, in the meantime, had approached and was standing three steps away from him.«Mr. Stone?»

      "Bingo."

      Only then did the man extend his hand. To return the gesture, Mason should have moved closer. He didn't.

      "If it's for Senator Marlowe's campaign, forget it: I voted for the other candidate."

      "No Mr. Stone, I'm not from the committee," the man explained, unable to stifle a nervous giggle.

      "Then who is? I've had a bad night and will most likely have a worse day, help me with this transition."

      "Andrew Lloyd." he hurried on.

      "Good. What can I do for you, Andrew?" the suit was as FBI as he was a prom queen.

      "I want you to find out who killed Elizabeth Perkins." he said all in one breath, as if a weight was being lifted from his stomach.

      Mason