Page 43 of Primal
A short while later, we pull up at a little rundown house on the outskirts of the city. The grass outside is overgrown, and the stairs leading up to the front door are cracked and lopsided. The front window is open, and a TV is blaring an afternoon court show as I approach the entrance. There’s no car in the driveway nor is there a garage, so that means someone probably stole it. Shit. If that’s the case, it will be hard to track down.
I knock on the door, but it’s drowned out by the loud TV. I knock three times before someone calls, “What do you want?”
“Old lady” is putting it nicely. Martha is just over half my height, bent over a cane that matches her frail legs. She squints at me from behind huge glasses as she opens the squeaky screen door. A hearing aid in her left ear is barely visible between her tightly permed white hair.
“Who are you?” she demands.
I put on my best businessman smile. “My name’s Braken, and I’m about the?—”
“I ain’t selling the house, so get off my porch.”
“I’m actually here about the car.”
“Already sold it, so scram.”
Martha’s about to slam the door in my face when I grab it and keep it open. She stares up at me half-pissed, half-curious, and lets go of the metal handle.
“You seem like a straight-forward person, so I’ll cut to the chase. Your car was used in the murder of my brother-in-law.”
Martha’s eyes go wide before she narrows them again in suspicion. “What’s that got to do with me? You a cop?”
“Not quite.” I open the screen door further and keep it propped open with my side, fishing for the burner phone in my coat pocket. “I just want to know who you sold it to.”
“It ain’t none of my business.”
“The car is still in your name, which would make it your business if I called the cops here, wouldn’t it?” I pull the phone from my pocket and shake it to prove my point. “The choice is yours.”
Martha hesitates for a moment before she grumbles at me, motioning into the house with her head.
Her house reminds me of my grandmother’s, with pictures and knick-knacks everywhere and years of history piled up in every corner of the room. The house smells like a mix of potpourri and moth balls. A cabinet full of old china stands next to a dining room table covered in newspapers, old books, and mail.
Martha leads me to the living room and starts rifling around an old oak desk as she rants.
“I told my granddaughter you can’t trust no one from the internet, but she insisted Craigslist was safe. Made the post for me and all. And now I’m on the hook for murder? No, sir, I ain’t never been in trouble with the law in my life. Except for that one time in ’77 when I got booked for weed, but that was all on the coppers.”
Martha grabs a huge notebook that looks like it’s seen better days, barely held together with rubber bands and tape. I’m sure it’ll fall apart as soon as she slams it on top of the desk.
“Wild life you live,” I muse as she rifles through the papers.
She hums before continuing to look through her papers. “You can’t trust young people these days. I told that boy to transfer it out of my name before using it. I signed the papers and everything. I’m not allowed to drive anymore, doctor’s orders. Bad eyesight and all that. It’s why I sold the car in the first place.He gave me cash, but I made a receipt anyway. That’s just smart business.”
These days, it’s more like concrete evidence to put your ass in jail, but I keep my mouth shut.
Martha pulls out a piece of paper from somewhere in the middle of her journal and hands it over. It’s a handwritten receipt for the sale of an old 2002 Toyota, from Martha Viscant to a guy named James Porter. It’s a basic-as-hell name and could be an alias, but the same name is signed on the bottom of the paper on a dotted line. It’s dated for four days before Mason’s death and the license plate matches the one from the footage.
I fold up the receipt and tuck it into my coat pocket. “You have my thanks, Martha.”
“You’re lucky I had that. My grandkids always say I keep too much stuff. They want me to throw it all out. Probably don’t want to clean up after I die. They can fight over this house. Sell it to some rich guy, I don’t care, but no one’s takin’ it before I pass. No sirree.”
Before Martha can start another tirade against her ungrateful family, I take my leave. Jasper opens the door for me, and I slip into the backseat and out the burner phone. I text Nexxor the name of the chimp who bought the old car and offer double for a rush job.
His answer comes almost immediately.
Triple since it’s a basic ass name. Might take me a few days.
I agree to his terms but demand the information before the end of Monday. I don’t wait for him to answer before turning off the phone and placing it in my pocket.
“Where to, sir?” Jasper glances at me from the rear-view mirror.