Читать книгу Three Deuces Down - Keith Donnelly - Страница 7

I was in the inner office late one fall afternoon. Billy, my best friend and partner, was in the outer office working on his latest painting. The sign on our outer door read,

Cherokee Investigations

Donald Youngblood and Bill T. Feathers

Private Investigators

Billy and I didn’t start out as licensed private investigators. We were basically just hanging out. The whole thing started as a joke. Then we got our licenses and in the years that followed a lot of people began to take us seriously. I didn’t need the money but I did want to help people and bring some excitement into my dreary life. Becoming a private investigator seemed the perfect occupation to do just that. Besides, you can put anything you want to on an office door.

Billy, on the other hand, did need the money. His only other source of income was from his photography, painting, and drawing, where his reputation had far outdistanced his income. He had a small gallery where he sold underpriced original framed photos and his art. He also acted as a forensic photographer for a number of the smaller local police and sheriff’s departments in the east Tennessee area. He lived frugally and he invested well. I know because I handled his investments.

I was playing solitaire on my desktop computer when the door opened to the outer office and I heard voices. One voice was Billy’s. The other voice I did not recognize.

“Blood, you busy? Someone here to see you,” Billy’s voice rumbled back into my office. Billy did not have to talk loud to be heard. Billy had called me “Blood” since we became best friends in college. He says it is a spiritual thing. A few of my close friends have called me Blood since junior high school, but I didn’t tell Billy. Best for him to think that it was his idea.

What Billy brings to our partnership is a deep understanding of the human condition and an air of danger. Billy is a big person. He seems to be in touch with life on a different plane than I am. It gives us a nice balance and a strong and unique friendship. Billy Two-Feathers is a full-blooded Cherokee Indian. I call him “Chief.” I started that in college as a joke. It was not very original, but it stuck as sort of an inside joke. Billy finds the nickname rather amusing and teases me that it is racist, but I suspect he likes the bond that it creates between us. Only one other person calls Billy “Chief,” though others have tried.

“Send them in,” I answered as I shut down solitaire.

A tall, lean man entered my inner sanctum. I would guess six-foot-two. He had salt and pepper hair and steel gray eyes. Ruggedly handsome, a woman would say. He was dressed in an expensive suit and was maybe ten years older than me, but in really good shape.

“Mr. Joseph Fleet requests your presence as soon as possible at his residence,” the man said in a monotone. He wore a deadly serious expression. He stood waiting for a response from me as I stared at him. He seemed in no hurry.

“I’m supposed to bring you now,” he added, matter of factly.

I didn’t know Joseph Fleet but I certainly knew of him. If he wasn’t the richest man in Mountain Center he was at least in the top five.

“You have a name?” I asked the messenger.

“Roy Husky,” he said. Upon closer inspection Roy did not exactly look like a typical employee. More like a bodyguard. He was polished and spoke with some education but I guessed that underneath it all he was basically a thug.

“So, Roy, it’s take me or die trying?”

“Something like that,” he said, with a tight grin.

“Think you could?” I smiled.

Roy looked over his shoulder toward Billy in the outer office. “Probably not,” he said with a little larger smile. At least he was honest.

“You’re in luck. I’m not busy. Let’s go.”

I followed Roy out to a black limousine. He opened the back door and I got in. Once we were moving he lowered the privacy partition.

“You Fleet’s chauffeur?” I asked.

“Among other things,” he answered in a flat tone.

I didn’t want to know what the other things were and so I kept my mouth shut.

After a few minutes Roy broke the silence. “The other man at your office, American Indian?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What tribe?”

“Cherokee.”

“Been inside?” asked Roy. He wanted to know if Billy had been in prison. Billy had. I guessed that Roy already knew the answer. He was just looking for confirmation.

“For him to say,” I answered, and paused. “You?”

“Yep,” he nodded, and the conversation was over.

The drive took a while. The Fleet Addition was an exclusive neighborhood on the extreme north side of town. The rumor was that when Joseph Fleet developed the subdivision and built his mansion there he pulled some political strings and had the Addition annexed so that his children could go to city schools. Fleet was supposedly a devout family man. Actually, he had only one child, a daughter, Sarah Ann. She was a few years behind me in high school and I had not really known her and had not seen her in years. Fleet’s wife died a few years back and he had not remarried, at least that I had heard.

As we drove I thought about Roy’s interest in Billy. I suspected that Roy recognized and respected power and danger when he saw it. Billy was an imposing figure. At six-foot-six he didn’t look so tall at first glance because his body was so perfectly proportioned. He did look immense.

Billy and I had met during our first basketball practice at the University of Connecticut. Billy was there on a basketball scholarship and trying desperately to get an education. I was there on an academic scholarship and trying desperately to forget about Marlene Long who had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Since I was a pretty good high school player, I had decided to take my just over six-foot frame and walk on to the UConn basketball team. I hoped to win a guard position, but two weeks later I was told my services were no longer needed.

Billy and I sat next to each other in a freshman Geography class. Billy was very quiet. I think he was afraid of saying something stupid, so he said nothing. I rarely got more than a one-word response to anything I said to him. But I hung in there with him and one day after class he asked if I wanted to go someplace and get something to eat. I said yes and that was our start.

Billy gradually opened up. In fact, sometimes I could not shut him up. I don’t think he had anyone else to talk to. We became the dynamic duo, the basketball star and the playboy scholar. For countless hours I helped him study. He was brighter than he gave himself credit for, but he was deliberate and he was afraid of books. It took him a while to get things, but when he finally understood he didn’t forget. We both graduated in the spring of 1980, Billy with a degree in Art and I with degrees in Finance and Economics. We went our separate ways vowing to stay in touch.

I ended up on Wall Street. Billy made some bad decisions, kept some bad company, and ended up in prison. I visited Billy on a regular basis while he was in Danbury prison for the entire five years I worked in New York City. It took years for Billy to tell me what he was in for and up until that time I never asked or tried to find out. When he got out, I quit the rat race and we headed south. I was amazed that Roy had spotted Billy as an ex-con. It takes one to know one ran through my mind.

At the driveway to the Fleet mansion, the big iron gate magically opened. The drive was long and gently winding between well-placed trees that hid the big house from the road. It was early October and the leaves were beginning to change color. When the leaves were gone I suspected the house might be seen from the road. The house was splendid in a facsimile of the old Southern tradition. Four giant white columns framed the double-door front of a three-story center section flanked by two-story side sections. I looked for a Marriott sign but didn’t see any.

Roy turned back toward me and said, “Stay in the car. I’ll let you out.”

I’m not too fond of taking orders of any kind, but I let it pass and waited until Roy opened the door. After all, opening doors was part of a chauffeur’s job. He led me up the steps and into a large tiled oval foyer. To the right were double doors that were shut. Just to the left of those doors was a circular staircase to the second floor. To my immediate left was another set of double doors, also closed.

“Wait here,” Roy said as he walked down a wide hall in front of me and just to the left.

More orders. I obeyed. Roy’s job description was becoming increasingly clear. Part chauffeur, part butler, and part bodyguard. I wondered if he cooked.

Roy returned.

“Mr. Fleet will be with you in a moment. You can wait in the study. Come,” he said as he turned and walked back down the hall.

I followed.

Roy nodded toward a doorway to the right and waited until I was inside the study and then shut the door behind me. I smiled to myself and wondered if he locked it to be sure I stayed put.

The room was a typical rich man’s study. Bookshelves were everywhere and full of books. Leather-bound classics, books on politics, novels, and reference books. Facing away from a picture window obscured by sheers was a large leather-topped desk with a big overstuffed black leather chair behind it. The chair was showing some wear. Evidently Joseph Fleet spent a good deal of time at his desk. A computer desk was on the right within swivel distance of the main desk. Fleet had basically the same setup as I did: monitor, hard drive, modem, CD player, and printer. A fax machine and answering machine were within reach on a small table to the left. There was a large leather couch, a large coffee table, two leather chairs, two end tables with matching lamps, and a floor lamp that serviced both chairs, all set strategically around an ample fireplace. In one corner was the obligatory freestanding globe. I gave it a spin. It seemed to be current.

“I cannot resist doing that from time to time myself,” said a large man entering the room.

Caught in the act.

“Joseph Fleet,” he smiled, extending his hand. It was a solid, firm handshake. “Thanks for coming. I hope Roy wasn’t too enthusiastic with his invitation.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fleet,” I said. “If I hadn’t wanted to come, I wouldn’t be here. What can I do for you?”

“I heard you were to the point. Would you like a drink?”

I looked at my watch to see it was a little past five o’clock. It’s a personal discipline never to drink before five.

“A beer would be fine,” I replied.

Fleet pressed an intercom at his desk and ordered two beers. He turned back to me and leveled an impressive stare. “I need to find somebody. Or rather two somebodies,” he said.

He paused as if wondering exactly how to proceed.

“Anything you say to me is confidential,” I said. “And I only share confidentialities with my staff on a need-to-know basis.”

Fleet looked forlorn. “My daughter Sarah Ann and my son-in-law are missing. And a lot of money.”

I noticed he didn’t refer to his son-in-law by name or as Sarah Ann’s husband.

“How much money?”

“Nearly three million dollars.” He sat down on the couch and took a deep breath.

“How could they get their hands on that much money?”

Fleet looked me right in the eye and began to lay it out.

“Sarah Ann met Ronnie on a cruise—Ronald Fitzgerald Fairchild, of Greenwich, Connecticut. I didn’t like him when I heard the name, but she was in love and they had this whirlwind courtship and ran off and got married. I thought he was a fortune hunter so I had him checked out. Plenty of money in the family and he always seemed to have plenty of money, so I didn’t think it was money he was after. Maybe he loved her, but they just didn’t seem to fit as a couple. Ronnie is a real handsome devil, I have to admit, and glib. Could charm the spots off a leopard. Sarah Ann is attractive enough but not in his league in the looks department. There was just something about him I didn’t trust, but after a year or so the marriage seemed to be working so I offered to bring him into the business and he accepted.” Fleet was rambling a bit and I just let him ramble.

Roy arrived with two beers in large pilsner glasses and set them on the coffee table. Fleet nodded. Roy left without a word.

“They have been married almost five years and Ronnie has done a good job in the business. With his charm and looks, he is a natural-born salesman. I was beginning to think I was wrong about him.”

“Did you ever meet his family?”

“No. Ronnie said they weren’t speaking. According to him, he was the black sheep of the family. I didn’t have much desire to meet some snobs from Greenwich, Connecticut, anyway.”

I smiled inwardly. Fleet was good-ole-boy rich. A son of a bootlegger, he had gone to college, taken the family spoils, and built an empire. Fleet had polished his act, but the rough edges were still there. Hiring Roy Husky certainly fit. He would have little use for the Fairchilds of the world.

“Could anyone else have taken the money?” I asked.

“No way,” Fleet said raising his voice slightly. “Only Sarah and myself had that kind of access.”

“Not Ronnie?”

“No. Him I trusted only so far.”

“When is the last time you saw them?”

“Thursday night. They were going to our condo in Destin, Florida, on Friday morning for a two-week vacation. They never showed up. I haven’t heard anything. No call, nothing.”

Today was Monday. “When did you discover the money missing?” I asked, though I already guessed it was today. That’s why he was panicked.

“This morning. I noticed a large withdrawal from one of our business accounts. I started checking other accounts. Sarah Ann had secretly cashed in stocks and securities and made withdrawals early in the week. Then I got really concerned, so I made a few phone calls and came up with your name.”

“Anything else missing? Items that you would not expect them to take on a vacation?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to tell. I haven’t had the chance to do an inventory.”

“What were they driving?”

“A brand-new white Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited.”

I sat and thought about what he had told me. Joseph Fleet watched and said nothing. He knew I was processing the information. If Ronnie and Sarah Ann had wanted to disappear with the money, what better day to leave than a Friday? The banks were closed for the weekend. By the time Fleet became suspicious, they had a two-day head start.

“If they planned this together—”

“They didn’t,” he cut me off. “I know my girl. Something is wrong and I want you to find her.” His stare was chilling. I didn’t necessarily agree, but I felt compelled to help him.

There was another long silence. All parents think they know their children. The fact is that some parents don’t have a clue. Others know their kids as well as they can, but there are always those dark recesses that parents do not and should not know about. We sat staring in different directions and sipping our beers. I had the feeling this was not going to turn out well.

I didn’t see any reason to stay longer. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

I got up and held out my hand. He rose and took it.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked tired and troubled. “If you have any questions or need anything,” he said, “call Roy.”

Fleet reached into his inside coat pocket, took out an envelope and handed it to me.

Inside was a check for $10,000. “Too much,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. Find her.”

“I may want to talk to you again.”

“Just call Roy. He’ll set it up.”

Roy appeared from nowhere and stood at the door waiting to escort me out. We walked back out to the car and Roy opened the right rear door for me again. In the car, Roy turned around and handed me his card: Roy Husky, Fleet Industries, Special Projects Coordinator. It meant bodyguard, strong arm, and a lot more. There were two handwritten numbers on the back, beeper and cell phone.

“How long have you been working for Fleet?” I asked.

“Long time. Since jail. He took me on when nobody else would. I saw an ad in the paper for a chauffeur. I was supposed to send a resumé. What a joke. I was young and full of the devil and had just got out of prison. So I sent a note saying I didn’t have a resumé, but I could drive like hell. I couldn’t believe it when he called me to come for an interview. He asked me if I had been in jail and I said yes. He asked if I was tough and I said tough enough. He asked if I could take orders and I asked him what the job paid. When he told me, I said I damn sure could take orders. He taught me how to act, how to dress, even how to eat. He made me go to night school and get an associate degree in business. Joseph Fleet changed my life. He’s like the father I never had. I owe him.” Roy’s voice was intense, his eyes piercing. “Don’t let him down.”

He turned back to the windshield and put the car in gear and headed back toward Mountain Center.

I decided I would not want Roy Husky for an enemy. I knew when someone was telling me the truth and his loyalty to Fleet was genuine.

Joseph Fleet was harder to read. He had no reason to lie to me but I felt something was missing and I was sure sooner or later I would have to know what it was.

My mind wandered. I was a long way from Wall Street and there were times I missed the frantic pace of the city. The move from the University of Connecticut campus to Wall Street was a dream come true. I had always been interested in high finance and the way it worked. I graduated magna cum laude and set my sights on the Street. I knew it was a long shot. I made my resumé as provocative as possible, even including the imaginary fortune I made in an advanced finance class when they gave us an imaginary $10,000 to play the market with. According to my interviewers it was the single most impressive thing on my resumé. So much for grades! I received four offers, took the best one, and my career began. I played with my money and everyone else’s. I had considerable funds. During my junior year in college my parents were killed in a commercial airline accident in South America. Dad was on business with IBM and had decided to take Mom along. I was devastated. We were a very close family. I had no siblings. In one tragic moment I became a very rich orphan. Between their personal assets, the IBM insurance, and the airline settlement I was financially set. Seven figures rich. I had total disdain for the money and so I gambled it boldly in the market on things that I thought made sense.

Timing is everything and mine was perfect. I worked long hours and had almost no social life. In truth I was still in mourning and work was my therapy. On the Street, I could do no wrong. I made a name for myself along with a lot of connections. In five years I amassed a fortune for many, including myself, and called it quits. I was burned out, rich, alone and except for Billy, I had no nearby friends. I needed to be around friends and people I knew and so I took Billy and went back to the only place that felt safe and familiar—home. Looking out the Fleet limo window on a beautiful fall day, it seemed like a lifetime ago. Actually it was only ten years.

“You getting out or do I have to throw you out?” Roy asked. He was standing outside the car with my door open. Thank God he was smiling.

“Sorry. Lost in thought.”

Roy got back behind the wheel and the driver’s side window went down.

“I’ll need pictures,” I said. “Lots of them and as soon as possible.”

Roy nodded without question. I think he understood what I was looking for. I sensed a lot of intelligence behind those steel gray eyes.

“I’ll call,” he said.

Billy was still in the office.

“Hey, Chief. Gym time,” I said.

Today was a gym day and I needed to work out and think about the case I had just received and didn’t really want. So what did I expect? I couldn’t be an investigator if I didn’t want to investigate!

Mr. Moto’s Fitness Solutions was an expanding and well-equipped fitness center in the heart of Mountain Center. Every time I went in it seemed Moto had added something new. Billy and I had worked out at least three times a week for years and it showed. I was slightly over six feet one inches tall, one hundred ninety-five pounds and in excellent shape if I do say so myself, except in comparison to Billy, who was a solid rock. I wasn’t sure what Billy weighed because he would never get on any scale. I, on the other hand, was obsessed with weighing every day. Billy found that amusing. In fact, Billy found a lot of things I did amusing. Blood, you are strange, he always said.

“Donnie!” Moto semi-shouted as I walked through the door, always the same greeting. He half-smiled at Billy and nodded and Billy grunted back. They never exchanged pleasantries. Billy and Moto carried on a fake feud that each found amusing and each perpetuated. Occasionally they argued for the sport of it. All the regulars in the gym understood what was going on between them and added fuel to the fake fire whenever possible. Truth be known, they liked each other a lot as evidenced a few years back when Billy came to Moto’s aid on Spring Street. Moto was being hassled by a group of bikers, maybe four or five. Billy happened on the scene and before Moto could protest, Billy had put two of them on the ground. Moto is a black belt and really didn’t need any help. Billy knew this but the scene made him angry. It was definitely motivated by racism and Billy had been there before. He couldn’t help but get involved. Mind your own business, Moto had said. I can handle this.

Then handle it, Billy had replied and left the scene, but not before the bikers had gone.

Moto told the story to me later that week out of earshot of Billy. He would not admit it but he was really very proud and very moved by Billy’s intervention. “Dumb Indian!” he said at the time. That was his pet name for Billy and always brought a smile to Billy’s face. Billy in return called Moto a “dumb Chinaman,” which infuriated Moto, which amused Billy. Moto, as Billy well knew, was Japanese.

There were days I had to drag myself into the gym, but Billy never complained about going in. Once I started my routine, I was fine and glad to be there.

“What did Joseph Fleet want with you, Blood?”

“To find his daughter,” I panted from the exercise bike beside Billy. I told Billy what I knew.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Check the obvious—planes, trains, buses, rental cars. Cover all the smaller airports within a hundred-mile radius for planes, commercial and private. Also check Roanoke, Nashville, and Atlanta. I’m almost positive they drove out of here to a major airport but you might as well cover everything. We are being well-paid.”

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand,” I lied. Billy whistled. I always lied about how much we were being paid. Cherokee Investigations was the major source of income for Billy and I certainly didn’t need the money. Billy loved our business. It made him feel important and gave him a sense of purpose. As the pedals turned, I could see Billy was already thinking about the case.

“If it was me, I’d drive to Atlanta and fly out,” Billy said.

“Good place to start,” I agreed.

We worked out hard for an hour and a half, each in our own way. We started on the exercise bikes for about twenty minutes to get a sweat going and then worked on abs. From there I went to chest and arms, then to back and shoulders, and finished with legs. Sometimes I went back to the bike for about ten minutes at maximum effort or into the side room to work on the speed bag or heavy bag with Billy. I always finished rubbery-legged and feeling justified that despite some of the unhealthy food I continued to eat, I was taking care of my body.

That day we went to the side room to finish our workout. I worked on the speed bag and Billy thumped the heavy bag. Dust flew every time he made contact. After ten minutes on the speed bag and sweating heavily, I took a break. Billy finished his heavy bag workout and reached into his gym bag and took out three knives. They were all large type hunting knives with different blades and handle designs. Billy walked back to the far wall and turned and threw the first knife into a life-sized wooden cutout of a man that was attached to the opposite wall. Billy had made the target himself and Moto, with feigned reluctance, had let Billy mount it in the side room. The knife lodged into the target in the approximate area of the heart. The second knife zipped through the air seconds later and thudded in beside the first. The third knife followed with similar results. Billy repeated this practice in silence while I watched. Sometimes he aimed at an arm or a leg, but mostly the heart. About once a month he had to replace the wood in the chest area. I guess that is why he originally made the target in three pieces, although I never asked.

Billy ended every workout with knife-throwing.

Billy and I left the gym at 7 pm and parted company. I drove back to my condo at the Mountain View condo complex. I walked up two flights of stairs to unit 5300, a penthouse corner unit on the top floor. The five was for building five. The three was for the third floor. The double zero meant corner unit, left side of building. Upon entering I was mauled by Jake, my big black standard poodle, who couldn’t contain himself to a proper greeting. He had to jump, spin, nuzzle, and perform an assortment of other acrobatic wonders. Did he really like me that much or did he have to pee? I never felt like putting Jake to the test, so I grabbed the leash and we went for a walk. I ignored the beeping answering machine. I knew it didn’t have to pee.

Jake and I stayed in town during the week and at the lake house on most weekends. Occasionally we had company of the opposite sex, mostly my company. The lake house is a good hour’s drive and belonged to my parents before they were killed. The house and property was and still is immaculate and sprawls over ten acres, a lot of it lakefront on Indian Lake. The lake house is my favorite place in the world but too far for a daily commute, and so I bought the luxury condo at Mountain View in the woods on the outskirts of town.

Every night Jake and I spend a half an hour together outside, weather permitting. Our routine begins with a walk while Jake takes care of business, and ends with a game of soccer-basketball on the tennis court that has a basketball goal.

Standard poodles need daily exercise and quality time with their masters. Fifteen minutes of our game leaves Jake winded and ready for a nap. It doesn’t tire me out at all. Jake does all the work. It proceeds like this. I dribble the ball behind the three-point line and try to shoot. Jake tries to steal the ball and occasionally does. When I try to shoot Jake defends. It is not easy trying to score from three-point range with a standard poodle in your face. Especially one that appears to have pogo sticks for legs. I shoot and occasionally score. Jake tracks down the ball and maneuvers it around the court with his nose until he has finally rolled it back to me and the process starts over. We went through our routine and when I thought Jake was sufficiently winded we went back inside.

The answering machine was still beeping. I punched the button and was greeted by a familiar sexy voice. “Hey, Donnie, what’s happening? Call me when you and Jake are finished horsing around.”

Cassandra Alexandria Smith, a.k.a. Sandy, was my current love interest although the “L” word had never been used and wasn’t likely to be. I teased her about her name suggesting that her parents must have been looking for something complicated to go with Smith. An exercise they chose not to go through again. Sandy was an only child. She stood about five foot four inches tall with a very muscular, athletic and well-proportioned body. In a word, Sandy was built. She worked out three times a week. We liked each other a lot, enjoyed spending time together, had great sex, and for the most part led separate lives. Sandy was an investment broker. We met on the telephone when she tried to sell me on her services. I was intrigued by her voice and therefore granted an appointment hoping the rest of the package looked as good as the voice sounded. It did. She was single and “taking a sabbatical from men.” I asked her out anyway. She said yes. That was a year ago.

We never demanded each other’s time. If getting together wasn’t convenient for both parties, neither got offended. “Not tonight” was okay. We rarely planned far ahead. I liked her a lot but I wasn’t in love. I was still carrying a twenty-year-old torch that seemed to burn brighter as time passed, no doubt fueled by adolescent hormones left unsatiated. I think something in Sandy’s past haunted her also, but so far it had been left undiscussed.

I called her back. “Do you need to be investigated?”

She laughed, “Absolutely!” Sandy had a great laugh.

“Tonight?”

“No, not tonight.” she said. “I’m beat. I couldn’t give you my best tonight and I have an early appointment tomorrow.”

“No problem,” I replied, although I did feel a pang of disappointment in my lower extremities. I asked about her day and she told me in a language of fine detail that only Wall Street junkies would have understood. She had had a good day, a very good and stressful day that had left her limp. A day I understood very well. Once upon a time I had been on that roller coaster. I listened intently and interjected at the right moments. She had to tell it to someone who understood. She had to share the excitement, get it all out, unwind.

Finally, Sandy ran out of steam. “God, I’m talking a lot tonight,” she said.

“It’s okay. You had a big day. Besides, we private investigators need to hone our listening skills.”

She laughed again. “Tell me about your day.”

I told her and she was fascinated. “What are you going to do? How do you start?”

“Ma’am,” I mimicked in my best Bogie, “I haven’t a clue.”