Caliber Detective Agency - Legendary

by Remington Kane

  Velma turned and gawked at her.

  “You’re leaving, why? Is it because you don’t want to be around Chris?”

  “I would love to be with Chris night and day, but it’s time for me to move on to something else.”

  Gail spoke to Jake.

  “You were right again, but I hoped you were wrong, and Rayne, I’ll miss having you work here.”

  “Thank you, Gail, and are you saying that Mr. Caliber knew I was going to quit?”

  “I’ve been reading people before your parents were born, Rayne. I know a ‘Hasta la vista,’ look in someone’s eyes when I see it,” Jake said. “Lauren has a generous severance check waiting for you at her desk, along with some exit paperwork Gail wants you to look over and sign.”

  Rayne smiled at the old man.

  “I should have realized you knew, and I want to thank you, Mr. Caliber. It was an honor to work for you.”

  “I loved having you here, doll, and good luck with whatever you do next, Rayne.”

  “Thank you, and you too, Mrs. Caliber.”

  Rayne headed for the door and Velma called to her.

  “I don’t even rate a goodbye?”

  “Goodbye, Velma,” Rayne said, while not even looking back at her.

  After leaving the office, Rayne stepped up to Lauren’s desk.

  “I believe you have some papers for me to sign?”

  “Um, yes,” Lauren said.

  Rayne signed the papers after giving them a casual looking over. Once she handed them back, Lauren passed her the envelope that contained her severance check.

  “What’s going on, Rayne?” Chris asked.

  “I’m leaving Caliber, Chris.”

  “What?”

  “You made your choice. Did you expect me to stay around and watch you two make eyes at each other?”

  Chris sighed.

  “I didn’t want you to leave, Rayne. We’ll always be friends.”

  “Ouch,” Rayne said, meaning it as a joke, but not feeling any humor, only pain.

  Chris looked as if he didn’t know what to do or say. Then he shrugged.

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  Rayne lit up in a smile.

  “Oh, I’ll be around. Goodbye, Chris, Lauren.”

  Rayne walked past Chris and onto the elevator. She stared at him until the doors shut on her.

  Once she was outside the building and standing on the street, Rayne paused to let her emotions settle. She was doing the right thing. She could not be around Chris, not when he was with another woman.

  Rayne walked across the street and entered the new glass tower. After taking an elevator to an office on the fifth floor, she entered it, and was pleased to see that the office furniture had arrived already.

  One good thing about living in Manhattan was that everything moved at the speed of light. But she had more to do before she could open shop.

  After sitting behind her new desk, Rayne searched the Internet and found what she was looking for. She decided to phone her order in, because she wanted to be sure they understood what she wanted.

  A few minutes later, and she was almost done.

  “All right,” said the man on the other end of the line. “You’re getting business cards, stationary, and we’ll be sending a guy out to stencil your name on the door.”

  “There’s one more thing I want,” Rayne said. “I want a banner with the company name on it, and make it big. I’ll be hanging it outside my windows.”

  The man quoted her a price and Rayne agreed, then he checked one last time to make sure he had the spelling right.

  “On the banner, it’ll be just like the stenciling on the door, right? SLOAN/CARVER INVESTIGATIONS, and that’s Sloan with no E on the end, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Rayne said.

  Now all she had to do was talk Sammy Sloan into coming to New York.

  Rayne was an excellent investigator, but with a famous name fronting the business, she was assured of getting clients, especially after Sammy Sloan’s heroics in the Nevada desert.

  When the call ended, Rayne stood, then turned to look out the window. Directly across the street was the Caliber Detective Agency.

  “Yes, Chris, I’ll still be around.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I know Velma’s voice,” Sammy Sloan said. “And you’re not Velma.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Sloan, and I’m sorry for deceiving you, but I really needed you to answer your phone.”

  “So, who are you, lady?”

  “My name is Rayne Carver, and I do know Velma. We work… we worked together at the Caliber Detective Agency.”

  “How’s Velma doing? Is she good?”

  Rayne heard the caring tone in Sammy Sloan’s deep voice and wondered just how close Velma had been to Sloan.

  “She’s doing well, but the reason I’m calling concerns a business offer.”

  Sammy laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.

  “I just finished running my old man’s business into the ground. In fact, I’m surprised the phone is still working. I have to be out of here when the lease runs out in five days, but right now, I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  “That’s perfect,” Rayne said.

  “It’s perfect that I ruined a business my father started over fifty years ago?”

  “No, that’s sad, but it’s perfect that you’ll be available to come work in New York City.”

  “Listen, about Velma, I read about her husband coming out of his coma. That’s good, and I guess she’s happy, hmm?”

  “Her husband had lost his memories of her due to the injury to his brain. He and Velma are divorced.”

  “You’re saying that Velma is free?”

  “She’s not married, but she’s… she’s dating Christopher Caliber, Jake Caliber’s son.”

  “If he ain’t put a ring on it then she’s free. Miss Carver? I’ll be there in three days and we’ll talk about your business offer. Can I call you at this number when I get there?”

  “Yes, and call me Rayne.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Rayne.”

  The call ended and Rayne looked out the window as she thought about the interest Sammy Sloan showed in Velma.

  He might be just the man I need in my business and personal life, Rayne thought.

  She had noticed how concerned Velma seemed, after learning that Sammy Sloan had been involved in a firefight, and Sloan sounded as if he had feelings for Velma.

  “This might work out better than I ever dreamed,” Rayne said.

  Her phone rang. When she checked the caller ID, she saw that it was Trace Pruitt calling again. Rayne shook her head. The man never gave up.

  A dozen blocks away, Trace Pruitt was frowning as he heard Rayne’s voicemail kick in.

  Playing hard to get was one thing, but he was starting to believe Rayne was serious when she said she didn’t want anything to do with him.

  It didn’t matter, because Pruitt couldn’t stop thinking about the woman. The trouble was, Rayne only wanted to be with Christopher Caliber.

  Pruitt was standing near the entrance to Marks’ Deli, a New York City landmark that was owned by the current Mayor’s nephew. The mayor was outside the restaurant and making a statement about a looming strike by the sanitation union.

  Pruitt was on a case. He had been hired by the wife of a reporter who was certain her husband was having an affair. The wife had been right, and Pruitt had captured several photos of the reporter kissing his female camera operator.

  Pruitt had milked the job for a week, even though he had seen the reporter and the camerawoman making out in a car the first day. In any event, he was flushed with cash and wanted to take Rayne out to dinner.

  Pruitt left another message and wondered why Rayne disliked him so much. They’d gotten along fine in Texas, he was a good looking guy, and they were both single. So why not bump uglies and see what happened next?

  Pruitt shrugged inwardly. Rayne would come ar
ound someday. She had to, because Pruitt was pretty sure he had fallen in love with Rayne Carver.

  Thoughts of Rayne fled Pruitt’s mind when he looked up from his phone and saw a blonde in a short tight dress with hair down to her ass.

  Damn, she’s hot, Pruitt thought, and as the girl rushed across the street during a gap in the traffic, Pruitt went in pursuit.

  Mayor David Marks smiled at the group of reporters who were gathered outside his family’s deli in Midtown.

  The mayor had grown up working in the deli alongside his mother, father, and two brothers. After being drafted and shipped off to Vietnam, Marks was lucky to have seen no action, and had only been in the army for five months when the war ended.

  After getting a law degree with help from the G.I. Bill, Marks made a name for himself in the D.A.’s office before starting his own law firm. He later left the firm bearing his name to run a charity that dealt with the homeless, and under Mark’s leadership, and through his connections, the city’s homeless situation improved dramatically.

  Having always been in love with the city, Marks dreamed of becoming its mayor someday, and after two failed attempts, he’d made it.

  “The best job I ever had,” Marks often said, and meant it.

  David Marks loved being mayor of New York City, and given his record high approval ratings, the city loved him too.

  If asked, most people would have said Marks was one of the last people you would expect someone would despise enough to want to kill, but they’d be wrong.

  Morrie Klein had worked at Marks’ Deli while David Marks was working at the D.A.’s office back in the early 1980’s.

  Morrie had been a nineteen-year-old with big dreams, but bigger problems, and often had trouble distinguishing reality from fantasy. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia while serving a six-month sentence for stealing from his employer, Marks’ Deli.

  Morrie had always blamed David Mark’s father, Lenny Marks, for his first arrest. He had offered to work for free for the man until the money had been paid back, but instead, the elder Marks had called the police and pressed charges against him.

  That six-month sentence for thievery was only the first of many, the most serious of which was for assault with a deadly weapon. The years of imprisonment were interlaced with stints in mental health facilities.

  Due to state cutbacks on healthcare, Morrie Klein had been released back onto the streets. The fifty-six-year-old had seen Mayor David Marks face on TV often, and once it was splashed all over the giant video screens in Times Square.

  However, it wasn’t David Mark’s face that the demented Morrie Klein saw when he looked at the mayor, but rather, he saw the face of the mayor’s father, Lenny Marks, who Klein blamed for his crappy life.

  In his mad mind, Morrie couldn’t understand how the old man could look the same as he did back in the 1980’s. Klein finally decided that Marks was a demon. He was a demon and he had to die.

  Morrie Klein pushed past a reporter who was filming the mayor with her iPhone, and as he did so, he removed the gun from his pocket.

  Pruitt had been so engrossed in watching the wiggle of the blonde’s hips that he never saw the red sports car until the car’s owner slammed on its brakes.

  Pruitt instinctively reacted by turning to face the vehicle with his arms stretched out in front of him, as if he meant to stop the car with his hands.

  The car didn’t stop; however, it had slowed considerably. When it struck Pruitt just below the knees, it sent him tumbling end over end.

  Mayor David Marks saw the twisted visage of Morrie Klein an instant before his brain registered the gun in Klein’s hand.

  The small dark hole at the end of the gun was pointed at Marks’ face, and the mayor of New York City saw his life flash before his eyes.

  Morrie Klein cackled as he saw the smile leave the mayor’s face and fear enter his eyes.

  “Die, you demon from hell, Die!

  Morrie pulled the trigger.

  Pruitt grunted from his impact with the sports car as he went airborne and tumbled in midair. He was headed face first toward the city street below, coming down in the opposite lane, with a truck bearing down on him.

  Before the truck driver could even respond enough to brake, his grill contacted the soles of Pruitt’s shoes and the P.I. was sent flying again. Pruitt had one arm outstretched, and as he began falling again, his body turned sideways.

  Mayor Marks heard the weapon fire just as a man appeared between himself and the gun.

  Everything after that was a blur, as his security personnel hustled him into the limo and shouted an order for the driver to head to the nearest hospital.

  Marks was breathing as if he had just run a mile, but didn’t know why. He did know one thing. He hadn’t been shot. Whoever the brave soul was who leapt in front of him had saved his life. If not for that man, Marks knew his brains would have been blasted out of the back of his skull.

  After assuring his security team that he was unharmed, Mayor David Marks told them he wanted only one thing, to know the name of the hero who had saved him from certain death.

  Trace Pruitt was lying with his eyes clenched shut against a wave of pain.

  Someone was shouting something about demons, but the man’s words were growing indistinct as he was carted away.

  Pruitt opened his eyes, saw the blood covering his shirt, then felt the blood leaking from his chest, as the world around him grew dark and fuzzy at the edges. As far as Pruitt knew, his injury was caused by being hit by a car, or was it a truck? Anyway, he had no idea that he’d been shot in place of the mayor.

  “Shit, I’m dying,” Pruitt mumbled.

  Unlike the mayor, Pruitt’s life didn’t flash before his eyes, instead, the world grew faint until he could no longer see anything but a patch of blue sky.

  As the patch of sky began to shrink down to the size of a pinprick, Pruitt’s mind filled with thoughts of a woman, a very special woman, the incredibly hot blonde he’d been following in hopes of getting a phone number.

  Damn she was hot, Pruitt thought.

  But while having what he believed might be his last thought ever, he saw Rayne Carver’s face before his mind’s eye.

  And as the blue pinprick in the sky disappeared, Pruitt smiled.

  I love you, Rayne.

  Chapter Eleven

  The morning after Pruitt “saved” the life of the mayor, Shay O’Reilly was back at the apartment building where two homicides had taken place the day before.

  The thirty-four-year-old paperboy, Grant Moulton, was ruled a victim of foul play, and his death was a homicide committed by person or persons unknown.

  One oddity discovered during the autopsy was the fact that Moulton had lipstick smeared on one cheek. The man had lived with his parents, had no known girlfriends, and was out the door at four a.m. to have time to deliver the newspaper.

  He was an unlikely sort to engage in passion at so early an hour, but both Shay and her partner, Williams, believed that Moulton must have had a relationship with someone in the building. That same someone, a woman, killed him, and possibly killed the cat lady too. But why?

  While interviewing Moulton’s grieving parents, his mother mentioned that her son had recently lost a little weight by joining a gym and eating less junk food. He had also been dressing better, but still never mentioned a girlfriend.

  Kim Williams had to testify in court on an unrelated case, but she had told Shay to go back to the apartment house and ask more questions. Shay intended to do just that, but first, she wanted another look at the cat lady’s apartment.

  The cat lady’s name was Rhonda Hart. Other than the addition of a row of litter boxes against one wall, she had left her deceased son’s bedroom the way it was on the day he’d left for the army. That was nearly fifty years earlier, and the photos taken of the room had fascinated Shay.

  The clothing hanging in the closet was like something seen in an old hippy movie. There were bell-bottom pants, tie-dyed
shirts, bandanas, sandals, and all of it was in vibrant colors.

  Rhonda Hart had been fastidious at keeping the cat boxes clean, and had been the same way with the room. However, she was an old woman who lived alone, and so she cut corners where she could, to conserve her energy.

  The closet in her son’s room, although clean, did have a thin layer of dust on its shelves. Photos taken of the closet by the crime scene investigators revealed that several objects had been moved around on a bottom shelf.

  The dust on that shelf was disturbed, but nothing appeared to be missing, as four cardboard boxes filled the space.

  Shay donned gloves after tying back her hair, then sat on the floor of the closet and grabbed the box on the far left. The cardboard was brittle, and flakes of it fell off.

  “Ah,” Shay said as she opened the box and saw the contents.

  There were comic books inside. Old superhero comic books from the fifties and sixties. Shay didn’t know what such things were worth, but she knew that the older they were the rarer they were, and rare meant that they were valuable.

  She went through each box, and as she did so, Shay noticed a pattern emerging. Rhonda Hart’s son had been a diligent collector of comics and had what appeared to be whole series of some titles up until the time he’d left for the army. Or rather, they would have been full series, but many had the first few issues missing, along with scattered gaps here and there in the series procession. The early books, along with certain key issues would be the ones that would have the most valuable.

  “I just found me some motive,” Shay said to herself.

  After putting everything back the way she’d found it, she left the apartment and went about knocking on the residents’ doors.

  At every apartment, she casually inquired into one subject, and when she saw that many were in general agreement about the same person. Shay went looking for her. She had sought to learn who the biggest gossip in the building was, the busybody that any apartment house of size invariably possessed.