Justice Rain (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 11)

by Rex Bolt

  And naturally you’d have to turn the thing on and wait . . . and that was a bit aggravating but what could you do . . . and finally you had workable activity and Chris went immediately to Facebook . . . and there was your make-or-break -- the login stuff -- and thankfully when you clicked in the open space, boom, it did fill it all in for you . . . and you hit Enter, still not convinced until there was your main page in your face -- or specifically Lucy’s -- cute little photo of her in the small avatar in the top left corner.

  Now . . . hopefully the a-hole communicating with Lucy had been doing as she described, nothing more complicated than Facebook messaging . . . and Chris hit that icon . . . and man, there were a ton.

  Maybe not hundreds, as he scrolled to the bottom, but 25 plus . . . and a few that at a quick glance looked like old friends finding Lucy or vice-versa -- but the rest were all from a Grady Melindoo.

  No surprise though that when you started open to up the messages they were continually signed off by this guy Alan.

  So . . . not worth figuring it out, whether Grady Melindoo was even a real name . . . and it didn’t matter, did it? In the big picture?

  You had some sleazebag trying to blackmail the woman -- weren’t those kind of details irrelevant?

  When Chris scrolled all the way to the bottom, the first few messages -- from around two years ago, just as Lucy had estimated -- the guy did add Hettinger to his sign-off . . . so Alan Hettinger . . . the same name as the claimed grandpa who perished in the robbery.

  Then scrolling up through the oldest messages one by one Chris hit a little paydirt. The guy, in the third or fourth message, had left an email address . . . casually telling Lucy that that may be the easiest form of communication going forward.

  It seemed that Lucy never took that bait, and limited all contact with this guy to the messaging . . . though separately, Chris would have to agree with the guy here . . . he hated Facebook messaging, you could barely even see what you were typing.

  Either way . . . you had GradyMelindoo followed by a few numbers at gmail.com.

  Chris weighed snooping a little more in the account, but the downside of hanging around any longer than necessary didn’t seem worth it. You established that the fucker was all over Lucy asking for money . . . you already had it clear from the newspaper research that the poor unlucky guy in the bank that day back in 1961 didn’t have a son . . . and Chris had seen enough in these messages where Alan talked about his grandpa being his dad’s dad . . . reaffirming what Lucy had said.

  And obviously -- if you were the guy, and you carried the grandpa’s last name in real life -- why do you need to fake-name it both on Facebook and gmail?

  So Chris shut off the computer, not before writing down the guy’s email address, and he opened the shade again and peeked outside before making his move -- and Gee, there was a chance wasn’t there, he hadn’t considered, that Lucy and Gertrude had only made a trip to Target, and he was more relieved than he expected when he closed the door and headed back to his place.

  Chapter 16

  Chris was out on his little terrace with the laptop, the sounds of pickleballs connecting with paddles booming all over the place, and he figured that really would be a problem if you put down permanent stakes here, you’d need a unit clear on the other side of the complex, that otherwise, you could start to go slightly nuts.

  But he was dealing with it for now, and he was deciding which fake email address of his own to use to contact the fake grandson idiot -- and the latest one seemed to be fine, the one he’d used to set up the fake Gedmatch account, in the ill-fated attempt to solve the golf course murder.

  As such he composed the email to Grady Melindoo -- portraying himself as Lucy’s son-in-law, and opening with:

  Dear Sir:

  On behalf of the Lucy Pitts family, we wish to resolve this matter equitably and fairly for all parties.

  As you may know, Ms. Pitts suffered a health crisis recently, a stroke, and although she survived it and is expected to make a semi-full recovery, common sense would dictate that she face no more outside stress in her Golden Years than absolutely necessary.

  That said, you have indicated 10 thousand dollars as fair compensation for the unfortunate events of 1961, and we agree.

  And furthermore to solidify the transaction, so that all parties are fully satisfied moving forward -- with no “unfinished business” -- still on the table -- now, or in the future -- we are prepared to up the compensation to an even 20 thousand dollars, in cash currency.

  This payout however, is contingent upon your physically taking receipt of, and signing off on the compensation, within 5 calendar days -- with the clock running, beginning immediately.

  Thereby the acceptance deadline for this agreement is set at midnight, Thursday June 6th 2018 -- after which any un-executed agreement will expire and will thereafter be null and void.

  Additionally, please confine all subsequent contact to the currently employed email address. Any deviation thereof will also result in the above-referenced contractual agreement being declared null and void.

  Sincerely

  John P.K. Worthington

  on behalf of Lucy Pitts and family

  Chris reviewed the croc of BS, adjusted a couple typos, figured it would be a bit of a crapshoot, that first of all the guy’s email address might not even work -- and even if it does, he might be thinking I’m scamming him.

  But you were doing what you could, and right as he was zoning in on the Send button, his phone rings.

  Which alone was unusual, and possibly disturbing, since no one around here he could think of had his number . . . meaning there might be some unfortunately timely news from California -- which could stem from multiple sources at this point -- and Chris checked the number and it was blocked and he stiffened a bit and said hello.

  It was Reba, and it took a moment to remember that he had given his number to her, that night when they semi got together. Not sure why she needed it, both of them living right here, but he did fork it over.

  “Hey,” she said, and a little out of breath was Chris’s impression, “Jeff, can you help me, do you think?”

  “Are you playing pickleball -- running -- biking, swimming, hiking, what?”

  “Is there a reason why you have to be a jerk?”

  This did sound a bit serious, and Chris said fine, what do you need help with?

  Reba said, “Can you just . . . get over here? Please?”

  “Oh . . . kay,” he said. “A mystery woman then.”

  “Something like that. Please . . . thank you.”

  Chris hated to actually run on someone’s behalf, meaning physically move his rear end at above-average speed . . . but this seemed unusual, and maybe you should.

  With Waylon and McBride going at it the other night, he sauntered over there casually, whereas maybe hustling it a little more and getting there earlier could have deflected some of the outcome . . . though he doubted it.

  So against his will now he did scramble a bit to get there, and Eclipse was full-blown into the late afternoon business characteristic of early summer where the ground heated up and continued cooking and retaining heat until about 2 in the morning.

  Chris was sweating and thinking he was dressed too heavy, and meanwhile you could hear voices in Reba’s apartment and he rang the bell.

  “Thank God,” Reba said, trying to limit her response confidentially to Chris. He could see a man and a woman inside, standing up, neither of them looking pleased.

  Chris followed Reba into the open kitchen area and the man said, “Who are you, now?”

  Pretty good edge to this guy, and Chris frankly couldn’t deal with anything more like this right now, especially trying to do an innocent (and as yet undisclosed) favor for the woman -- either way Chris was leaning toward turning around and taking a hike if this guy proved any more difficult.

  Reba was nervous, no doubt about that. She said, “Okay people please. Can we reach a harmonious accord? . .
. For all of us? Can we try?”

  Chris was dragging, and it felt natural to sit down, so he did and soon the others did too without thinking too hard.

  “The problem around here,” Chris was saying to the guy, “you’ve got to pick your spots, for exercising. Otherwise there’s no distinction between intentional exercise, and walking around normal but still sweating like a piece of work.” He knew he was babbling but the guy seemed to calm down a bit.

  “Okay the thing of it is,” Reba said, and you at least admired the woman for getting right to it, “is Elba here, she’s upset about the artwork.”

  “How so?” Chris said.

  “She feels . . . I’ve taken some liberties with her style.”

  “Bitch,” Elba said, “what part of the concept of plagiarism is not penetrating your numb skull?”

  “Babe, go a little softer,” the guy said, who Chris thought someone had called Jacks.

  “Where you folks from?” Chris said, like everything was good.

  “Whyn’t you put a lid on it there Bud,” the guy Jacks said. Not asking, but telling . . . and again, Chris thought I need this like a hole in the head.

  Reba said, “Folks I’ll admit to miscalculating. I’m very sorry.”

  “Bull-shit,” Elba said. “You couldn’t give a hoot about miscalculating. You just didn’t think you’d get caught, was all.”

  “Okay,” Chris said, “I gotta get going. But the issue is what? The bank stuff?”

  Jacks nodded. “It’s not even the money she’s been raking in over there, as much as it’s the dilution of Elba’s brand . . . Artists sue over copyright infringement, it strikes at the core of the profession, and this is a classic case.”

  “You’re saying,” Chris said, “the new batch of paintings hanging up over there . . . what, she copied ‘em? What are you saying?”

  “Correct,” Elba said. “Found my website and copied my work stroke for frigging stroke.”

  “Right down Broadway,” Jacks said.

  “I have to admit,” Chris said, “second time I stopped over there, the manager’s all fired up, she indicates paintings have been flying out off the walls -- all of a sudden.”

  “Well yes,” Reba said, “I re-evaluated, gave myself a jump start. And fine . . . under Elba’s influence.”

  “You’re a pig,” Elba said.

  “I did ask you, I believe,” Chris said to Reba, “isn’t there some sort of violation here -- when you announced you shifted gears and sold that first painting . . . and how?”

  “What did she say to that?” Jacks said.

  “If I remember right,” Chris said, “she said you make some changes to keep it your own. Like you alter the cloud formation, cut the foreground scene short on the left edge -- that type of thing.”

  “I said all that?” Reba said.

  “You did,” Chris said. “You said artists take those kind of liberties every day, that it’s all kosher.”

  “That,” Elba said, “is so funny I forgot to laugh.”

  Reba cleared her throat. “Folks,” she said, “I brought Jeffery here, because maybe an outsider with common sense, not too close to the situation -- can help us mediate it.”

  “Nothing to mediate,” Jacks said. “And the worst part? You’ve shown us no respect.”

  Chris said to Reba, “I was the first choice? As an outside mediator?”

  Reba hesitated a moment and Chris assumed he had the answer, that no . . . Waylon’s in the hospital, Dale must be working tonight, and she must not have been able to reach McBride.

  So Chris figured he was the fourth choice.

  And not at all sure how you’d mediate something like this, even if he was skilled in that field, which he definitely was not.

  But if Reba simply took the paintings down and destroyed them . . . and paid Elba whatever she made off the ones that sold . . . that wouldn’t do the trick?

  From the tone of it, that might not. This Elba and Jacks couple seemed pretty dang hot under the collar. And Chris couldn’t blame them. He thought back again to Joyce trying to make a go of it with Sonoma County landscape art -- and it was pretty brutal, and you didn’t need someone copying your stuff on top of that fact, that’s for sure.

  Chris wondered how they found out, but that probably wasn’t rocket science, since artists seemed to spend plenty of time on Facebook and Instagram -- probably more time than they actually spent painting -- and all it takes is one person to mention that hey, a show in the lobby of a bank in the Phoenix suburbs sure looks a lot like someone else’s stuff too.

  But separately, Chris was getting real hungry. That he understood.

  “Tell you guys what,” he said, “I got some ribeyes in the fridge. Actually just two, but we can whip up some cavatelli, throw some pesto, garlic and onions over the top . . . So being just a bit forward, come on over to my place. Nothing resolves a little human to human hostility like food.”

  The other three seemed caught off guard. After a moment Elba said, “Why that’s very considerate of you Jeffrey. Are you certain?”

  “Without a doubt,” Chris said. “We can even finish it off with some Dutch Uncle butter-brickle ice cream -- which if I’m out of, I’ll run to the store and get more.”

  “I love that flavor,” Reba said. “If I knew we had so much in common, I would have asked you to counsel me sooner . . . you know, the errors of my ways . . . and we wouldn’t have ended up here like this.”

  It was a weak attempt at some levity, but it sort of worked, tempers did seem to dissipate, and they followed Chris over there.

  And the food, if he did say so himself, came out pretty dang good.

  “Your mixed menu, it sounded interesting,” Jacks said, “though the onions as part of the pesto ingredients, I wasn’t sure.”

  “Me neither,” Elba said, “but it works beautifully.” And man, they were both wolfing down seconds, Chris chalking it up to the aggravation, plus who knows how far they drove. You didn’t want to re-ignite anything by asking about that.

  So things were going smooth, until desert unfortunately, Chris ladeling the carmel sauce onto everyone’s bowl of Dutch Oven ice cream -- which was some local north Phoenix outfit that really hit the spot with their products -- when Reba -- for whatever reason -- had to clinically and unfortunately shift it back to the art fraud.

  “I’m so glad we could break this bread together,” she said. “What I thought then, the way to proceed . . . I will calculate my sales to this point and reimburse you . . . and then I’ll leave the works up another month -- since the bank themself requested the extension -- and on subsequent sales during that period, I’ll forward you half the proceeds.”

  Jeeminy friggen criminy.

  “Or,” Chris said, hoping for a last-second truce before World War 3 resumed, “you pay ‘em what you earned off their work -- Elba’s -- and you rip down the others ASAP, like tomorrow morning, and destroy ‘em . . . Then you go back to your original style . . . here on out.”

  Reba listened but reacted with the pouty face you’d see on a little kid when his Play-Dough got taken away. She said, “Isn’t that over-doing it slightly? Do you think?”

  “Not really,” Jacks said.

  “Nope,” Elba said, and when she pushed her half-eaten ice cream aside and sat up rigid and folded her arms, this wasn’t going to be good.

  Chris tried to offer everyone coffee, an Italian roast he wanted to try, a last ditch effort . . .

  But whatever goodwill may have developed the last hour . . . or whatever ill-will was put on hold -- take your pick -- this was going to get ugly . . . and Chris apologized that he had to get up real early tomorrow -- and no one questioned it -- and he maneuvered the three of them out the door.

  Chapter 17

  Chris was pretty tired even though he didn’t have to get up particularly early on Saturday, but before he hit the sack he checked his email.

  The mope hadn’t wasted time getting back to him.

  Hi John. />
  Hey Dude, I really appreciate you working with me on this.

  My grandpa meant the world to me, as no doubt Lucy has told you. I miss him every day, and so does my Dad still.

  When I got your message my first thought was ME TOO, I want to put this thorny mess to rest TOO.

  I’m thrilled that you upped the offer to 20 Thou.

  I mean, I did kind of expect a figure like that, in the end. I mean wouldn’t YOU?

  Therefore I started off low, with my 10 Thou.

  But we should be good now.

  Where can I meet up with you, to shake hands and put this baby to rest ONCE AND FOR ALL.

  Yours Truly

  Alan

  Now, unfortunately, Chris felt his adrenaline on the rise.

  Like so many situations -- which he never learned his lesson from -- he should have simply trusted his instincts, which in this case was crawl into a nice comfy bed and sleep for 9 hours.

  Now all bets were off, in that department.

  If the grandpa died in 1961, it was sure interesting that this guy missed him every day . . . seeing as how if the guy was old enough to know the grandpa, he’d be over 60 years old now. This guy, calling him Dude and the other lingo, didn’t sound like a 60 year old.

  All that aside of course, the poor guy who perished in the bank that day, the real Alan P. Hittenger, didn’t have any sons. Not when he left this world that day, not a year later when the company he’d worked for acknowledged him in a written remembrance.

  So . . . you could dink around with this shit, analyze it to death, getting every move just right . . . and it typically didn’t matter.

  Chris typed:

  Alan--sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow in Tonopah, Nevada.