Rigged

by D P Lyle

  “Good. Truth is, I think both of them are ready for it to end.”

  “I understand they were married for four years?”

  “About that.”

  “And no kids,” Pancake said, a statement. He knew.

  “That’s right. Early on they planned to but put it off until they were settled and more on their feet.” She gave a half shrug. “Right now, that looks like a wise choice.”

  “Kids do make divorces more difficult. And a whole bunch messier.”

  She nodded, glanced at her watch. “I wonder where she is.”

  “Did you call her?” Pancake asked.

  “Couple of times. No answer at home. Her cell went to voicemail.”

  “That unusual?”

  “Yeah. She’s usually pretty easy to locate.”

  Pancake finished the second croissant. “Let me pay up and then I’ll head over to the bank to pick up some stuff. Maybe I’ll swing by her place after that.”

  “She’ll probably come in soon.”

  “If so, give me a call.”

  “Will do.”

  He refused her offer that the food was “on the house” and paid. He gave her his number and ventured back into the sunlight.

  CHAPTER 3

  PANCAKE SAT WITH bank manager Noah Hicks. He had called Hicks the day before to arrange a late morning appointment, figuring he’d be with Emily for a couple of hours at least. Going over everything. Maybe reminiscing about school days. But, with Emily a no-show, he called Hicks and moved the appointment forward. No problem. He could see why. The bank was essentially empty.

  Hicks was a slight man, with thinning, combed-over hair. Wire-rim glasses made him look studious. Like, well, a banker. On a credenza behind him sat a gold-framed picture of him with an also slight woman and two girls, both in soccer uniforms.

  After offering coffee, which Pancake declined, Hicks got right to it. He produced a letter from Walter Horton, stating that he was the attorney of record in these proceedings and that he had hired Longly Investigations as part of his team. He also had a signed statement from Emily that allowed him to discuss her financial matters.

  “Looks like we have everything in order,” Hicks said.

  “Good.”

  Hicks gave a nod even as a look of pain, maybe even despair, fell over his face. “I hate to see young couples fall apart this way. Especially this one. I’ve known Emily since she was a teenager. Her family banked with us for many years. They were part of our family here.”

  “I knew her in grade school,” Pancake said. “Down in Gulf Shores.”

  “You did?”

  “We were an item in the sixth grade.”

  “So your inquiries have a personal angle?”

  “On one level. But we were hired to look into the financials. Make sure everything is in order.”

  Hicks seemed to consider that briefly. “Seems like maybe too often married couples don’t work it out. Give it a chance. Think ending it’s the best option.”

  “Sometimes the writing on the wall is clear,” Pancake said. “I’ve seen quite a few divorces in this business. Most turn into mud wrestling.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “From your perspective, any financial contentions in play here?”

  Hicks flipped open the file folder in front of him. “Not really. I’m sure you know there’s no such thing as community property in Alabama so the house won’t be on the table.”

  “Because Emily inherited it from her parents?”

  “Exactly. Their will passed it along to her and such property stays with the inheritor in that case.” Hicks pushed a page toward him. “She received title to it when her father passed just over four years ago. Shortly before she and Sean married. Her mother had passed a year earlier. It was free and clear, but after she got married, she and Sean took out a mortgage for sixty thousand to do some remodeling. Been paying on that. The balance is around forty.”

  “So Emily’s net is what?”

  “The house is appraised for three-fifty, minus the forty, plus she has about twenty thousand in her savings and checking. A couple of CDs that currently are valued at another thirty. So around three sixty or so.”

  “The loan they took out? Could that be a sticking point?”

  “It shouldn’t. Since it’s secured with the property, the debt would fall into the lap of the owner. So, that would be Emily’s debt.”

  Pancake nodded. “And Sean Patterson? The soon-to-be ex?”

  “He banks here, too. They each opened individual accounts six months ago. When they separated.”

  “He doing okay, too?”

  Hicks leaned back, folded his hands over his abdomen. “Can’t say. I don’t have his permission to release that information yet.”

  “He reluctant to do so?”

  “Not really. He works two jobs. One is over at the lumber supply. The other is out on the oil rigs. He’ll go out there for two weeks, then back here for the same. I think he’s out there monkeying around on a rig right now.”

  “I know assets acquired during the marriage,” Pancake said, “minus the property we talked about, are considered pooled assets. So any issues there you see?”

  Hicks shrugged. “I can’t get into the details yet. Until Sean officially signs off. But it’s my understanding that Emily’s CD would remain hers. It was set up by her father in her name. I believe that would be considered inheritance. But the judge might feel otherwise.”

  “They often do.”

  “But, that aside, I can say that Sean’s cash on hand and Emily’s aren’t that far apart so that should be a simple resolution.”

  Pancake nodded. “So, you don’t see any financial storms brewing?”

  “Sure don’t. You can dig into the nuts and bolts once he gives permission. And I’m sure he will when he gets back onshore.”

  “Any idea when that might be?”

  “I think in the next day or so. He always comes in to make a deposit when he returns to dry land.”

  “Hopefully he’ll release his financials then.”

  “Don’t see any reason he wouldn’t.” Hicks sat up, squared his shoulders. “I suspect if he doesn’t, there’ll be a court order issued.”

  Pancake nodded. “Usually goes that way. If necessary.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AFTER GATHERING THE documents Hicks had prepped for him, Pancake headed north, toward Emily’s place. Little traffic. Only took ten minutes. The property was in a sparsely populated area, just inland from the bayfront town of Seacliff. Looked to be around five acres, none of it plowed, or prepped, or planted. Emily apparently wasn’t into farming. The house sat back a hundred feet from the road, up a gravel drive. White clapboard, two dormer windows, green tile roof. A blue Dodge Ram 3500 pickup sat at the end of the drive, nosed up to the garage door. He knew that wasn’t Emily’s car. His research showed she drove a three-year-old white Toyota Camry. Purchased used a year ago. And she hadn’t acquired a new car. At least not since his last check, which was yesterday.

  Did she have a visitor? Maybe an overnight guest? He hated that his mind went there. This was Emily. He still remembered the sixth-grade version. But she was separated, heading into a divorce, so companionship wouldn’t be unexpected. Truth was, he couldn’t remember a divorce where such liaisons weren’t in the soup. Seemed folks always grabbed for something to soften the landing.

  Gravel crunched beneath his tires. The dashboard temperature gauge said it was 84. And it was only ten in the morning. News had said it’d reach the mid-nineties. August in this part of the world tended to be overheated. Even though this entire area edged up against Mobile Bay, and the water moderated the heat somewhat, summers could still be a bitch.

  Pancake rolled to a stop beside the truck and climbed out. Quiet and peaceful out here. Open fields, scattered with pines and gums and oaks. Crows fussing in the distance. The thought that it could have been him and Emily that lived here germinated in his brain but he squashed it
. No need to play the what-if game.

  Three steps led to the porch, the shade of the gallery welcome. A pair of wooden rockers to his left, a chain-suspended slat porch swing to his right. The screen door was closed, but the front door beyond was cracked open a few inches. Cool air spilled out.

  He rapped a knuckle on the doorframe.

  No answer.

  Another rap, then, “Emily? You here?”

  Silence.

  He walked around the house to the backyard, most of the five acres beyond. No one there. Open land, more trees. Picnic table, fire pit, and a grill beneath a spreading oak. Cozy. The perfect place for a summer evening.

  The back door was locked, the kitchen and dining area visible through the windows, empty. He completed his lap. The first two side windows curtained; the final offered a view between open drapes into the living room. He had seen that from the front. He returned to the front porch where he stood facing the door again.

  If she had company, could they still be in bed? Maybe the shower? Why would they leave the door open and the AC running?

  This time he banged on the doorframe with a fist. Hard enough to shake the walls. He shouted again, much louder than before.

  Nothing.

  Something was wrong. Even in the heat, his skin cooled, the hair on his neck and arms rose.

  The screen door hinges creaked as he pulled it open. He nudged the front door back with one foot. Another shout.

  He stepped inside. The air cool, bordering on cold.

  The idea that he was essentially breaking and entering Emily’s house crossed his mind. Was her friend armed? Hell, was Emily armed?

  More shouting, moving through the living room, kitchen, hallway; a quick peek into a pair of open bathrooms and three bedrooms revealed nothing. Then the final bedroom. The door was closed.

  He knocked, shouted her name. No response, no movement inside.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, murmured a soft, “Please,” and opened the door.

  No bodies, no blood. Nothing. He exhaled. Rein in your imagination, he told himself.

  Back outside, he walked to the garage. Through the side-door window, he saw Emily’s white Toyota Camry. He tried the knob. Locked. Next, he inspected the pickup. Also locked. He saw nothing of interest through the window.

  He called Allison.

  “Any word?”

  “No.”

  “I’m here at her place,” Pancake said. “The front door was open but there’s no sign of her.”

  “If the door’s open, she must be there.”

  “She isn’t. I checked the house. Do you know who might own a blue Dodge Ram 3500?”

  “Yeah. Jason Collins. Why?”

  “It’s here in the driveway.”

  “Emily’s been seeing him.”

  “Her Toyota’s in the garage. She have another car?”

  “No.”

  “You think maybe they went for a walk or something?” Pancake asked.

  “Not if she was supposed to be here for a meeting.”

  “Maybe she forgot.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Allison said. “And she wouldn’t miss work without calling me. It’s not her way. She’s very reliable.”

  “I don’t like it,” Pancake said.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Maybe I’m overreacting.”

  “What are you going to do?” Allison asked.

  “Drive the neighborhood. See if I can find them.”

  And that’s what he did. All of it. Back at the house, nothing had changed.

  He called Ray. Ran the situation by him.

  Ray took it all in. “I don’t like it either. Maybe you should call the locals. Get them to sniff around.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Call Jake and Nicole. They can drive up and give you a hand.”

  “Why don’t you?” Pancake asked.

  “You know the answer to that. I’m the boss and shit flows downhill.”

  “So, I have to be the bearer of bad news?”

  “That’s how it works,” Ray said.

  “And babysit Jake and Nicole?”

  “Just Jake. Nicole can take care of herself.”

  “True that.”

  “Besides,” Ray said, “you don’t want to eat lunch alone.”

  Pancake pondered that. He had eaten his two breakfasts all by his lonesome so company for the next meal wouldn’t be bad. But that wasn’t Ray’s agenda. “Jake know anything about this case?”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I’M AN EX–MAJOR League baseball stud, restauranteur, defender of frivolous lawsuits, lover of women, well, one in particular, and for sure a world-class avoider of work. Something my father, Ray, has as yet failed to grasp. He probably never will. Actually, no probably about it. We have a difficult relationship. Ray seems to work endlessly. As a P.I. Multiple cases in process is his norm. Lots of phone calls, computer snooping, and occasionally some sneaky nighttime work. He continually tries to involve me, and often manages to, but I twist and turn and do all I can to avoid it. Work, that is.

  Case in point: I was currently ensconced on the deck at Captain Rocky’s, my bar/restaurant, at a table that overlooked the bright white sand of Gulf Shores. Across from me sat my manager, Carla Martinez. The one that actually runs the business. Also, the one that snatched Eddie Peck’s car keys and began the cascade that landed me in court. Over the last few days I’d given her some grief about it, but she knew I was simply yanking her chain, that she had done exactly the right thing.

  This morning, she had about a thousand pages spread over the teak tabletop and rambled on about this and that. Mostly purchase orders, I think. At least she mentioned seafood, ribs, and booze. Our staples here. I pretended to pay attention. I never liked the details of running a business. Too many numbers, too many moving parts. Which is why I have Carla. For years, she has kept me from neglectful bankruptcy.

  Nicole Jamison sat at the next table. Reading through a screenplay she had in the works. I didn’t know what it was about because she wouldn’t show it to me. Or even tell me about it. She can be difficult. Gorgeous, fun, but at times difficult.

  Earlier, she and I had completed our Krav Maga class. Yes, we’re still participating in that insanity and I have the sore hands to prove it. Then here for breakfast. Egg and pulled pork burritos the guys in the kitchen whipped up.

  Finally, Carla said, “So I should go ahead with all this?”

  I had no idea what “all this” covered but was smart enough to know the right answer. “Yeah.”

  “I’m on it.” She gathered her paperwork and headed toward the office.

  I asked Nicole if she wanted more coffee, but she waved me away. Nose buried in her story. The one I knew nothing about.

  I walked to the bar, refilled my cup, and returned to the deck, this time sitting across from Nicole. I gazed out over the beach, now teeming with people, catching the midmorning sun. August in Gulf Shores was one big traffic jam. Not only on the roads but also the beaches. If the folks stretched out on towels and slathered with suntan oil were smart, they’d head for shade by noon as it was supposed to reach the nineties by then. Most visitors to Gulf Shores weren’t that smart, though. Drinking, partying, and sunburning the norm.

  The good news was that many of them would wander in here for lunch. Hard to complain about that.

  I watched Nicole read, those wonderous blue eyes moving back and forth, that sleek blond hair snaked to one side and draped over her shoulder. Quite a journey we’d been on. Now for what? A year. Amazing.

  “Quit staring at me,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. And you look like a wolf.”

  “I am.”

  “You wish.”

  “I’m admiring your beauty.”

  She glanced up. “Do you think such flattery will get you anywhere?”

  “It did last night.”

  Bo
y had it. Well, that and a bottle of tequila.

  “That was all me,” she said. “If memory serves, you wanted to crash early. I was the one that diverted your attention from sleep.”

  “You mean when you took your clothes off and jumped on me?”

  “My signature move.”

  Along with a bunch of others.

  “Wonder where Pancake is?” I asked.

  There weren’t many mornings he didn’t show up for food, hunger being his major driving force.

  She shrugged. “I know he has some case he’s working on.”

  “Ever seen that interfere with food?”

  “No.”

  She melted back into her writing, and I watched two teenage dudes negotiate their boogie boards down the face of a three-foot wave. “Has he seemed off the past couple of days?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A little too quiet. Not like him.”

  She looked at me, tapped the red pen she held against one cheek. “Now that you mention it, maybe so.” She glanced out toward the water. “Ray’s probably working him too hard. Maybe it’s this new case.”

  “You know anything about it?”

  She shook her head. “I asked, but he said it was nothing.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. He usually rattles on about that kind of stuff.”

  “Maybe it’s a boring case.”

  “Nothing is boring to Pancake.”

  “You have a point.”

  “What do you want to do today?” I asked.

  She placed her pen on the table. She stretched, arms up, some of her best parts nearly ripping through her tank top, and gave a half yawn. “Maybe drive over to Orange Beach. Have lunch at that cute little diner.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Maybe go by your place for a quick shower.”

  I lived nearby, just up the beach. Nice place. On the sand. She lived at her uncle Charles’ mega-mansion out at The Point. That’s Uncle Charles the big-time movie producer. His place is nicer. But farther away.

  “I like that plan even better.”

  “Don’t get any ideas.” She smiled. “Unless you want to.”

  “I do.”