Murder Deja Vu

charge of records grumbled when she heard the year, but she came through. One hospital entry fit—a man treated for a broken hip a day after Harris said the accident occurred. The man would have been forty-three at the time, not as old as Harris described.
    Payton remembered his youth when everyone seemed older. Now that he had broken the half-century mark, older people seemed a lot younger. The rationalization made him smile, the only smile in a long few days.
    He drove to the address he’d copied from the hospital record, doubtful he’d find the patient after all this time. But he owed Harris his best shot. The address led to a small, well-kept cottage a mile off the back road Harris had taken. Neatly planted rows of corn bordered the side of the house, flower beds teeming with color edged the front. The face of the man rocking on the front porch was as smooth and unlined as polished onyx, the close-cropped gray hair the only clue to what Payton surmised to be his sixty-odd years. He held a mug of something in his hand. A cane hooked over the back of his chair. Denim overalls over a pristine white T-shirt covered his rangy body.
    “Jeremiah Livingston?” Payton asked.
    “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
    “I want to ask you about an accident you had on your bicycle about twenty years ago.”
    Livingston took a drink from his cup. A smile revealing cigarette-stained teeth spanned from ear to ear. “Been wondering when someone would get around to that,” he said.
    * * * * *
    J im Payton took Barry Kanter’s call.
    “Boy, were you onto something,”
    “What’ve you got?”
    “My man followed Harry Klugh all over town yesterday. He finally caught him eating dinner at one of those mall food courts. Good thing Klugh’s a litter bug. He left his trash on the table to the delight of Bubba.”
    “Bubba?”
    “Yup. Bubba looks the opposite of what you’d expect a Bubba to look like, which is why he’s so good at what he does. Anyway, Bubba collected the trash and brought it to me. A police friend owed me a favor and put them through AFIS. My friend is as happy as a pig in shit.”
    “Okay, so who is he?”
    “Name’s Victor Castell. My cop friend said Castell was a small-time hood from Chicago who decided to go for the big score. He hit one of the mob’s banks and got off with a tidy sum. Sixty grand, it’s rumored. But he killed one of their guys, and almost took a bullet himself, the story goes. He escaped clean, then disappeared off the face of the earth. His former employers were understandably pissed off. So pissed off, there’s a standing contract on Castell, even after all these years. Of course, the theft was never reported, but the murder was. Chicago police want a crack at him. Apparently, they pegged him for a few more unsolved crimes.”
    “I suppose when the real Klugh went missing on a fishing trip on Lake Michigan, there’s a reason why no one ever found his body.”
    “Castell wouldn’t want him to pop up unexpectedly, excuse the pun. Half a year later, Klugh number two, aka Victor Castell, transplanted from Philadelphia to Atlanta to start a new life in Klugh number one’s old profession as a private detective. Perfect cover for a crook. With a resemblance to the real Klugh and a little finagling, he bought himself a license and a gun permit. No telling how he and Minette zeroed in on each other. Scum attracts scum as if they had radioactive pheromones.”
    However they connected, Payton assumed Klugh engineered the disappearance of Minette’s witness in the Charlotte case. The puzzle pieces were beginning to fall into place. “You think I could talk your police friend into working with me on this.”
    “I mentioned that. He’d like the collar, but since you’re the one who set him on Castell, and someone else is in danger of losing his life, he’s willing to do whatever you want. ’Course, Chicago has first dibs, don’t they?”
    “After I get my man cleared for at least one of the murders, and nail the prick who set Klugh to do it, I really don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to him or who gets the collar. I have a different agenda.”
    “I take it you’re coming to Atlanta.”
    “First thing Monday morning if you set me up with your friend. I have jurisdiction problems.”
    “Wild horses couldn’t keep him away. I have one question. Why should Klugh tell you anything? He’s damned no matter which crimes he confesses to. It’s a lose/lose for him. Not