Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  Elvis Sightings

  By Ricardo Sanchez

  I’m Floyd—no last name needed, thanks—and I’m a P.I. The only other thing you need to know about me is that I’m not an Elvis impersonator. I live my life fast and hard and yes, in sequined jumpsuits, but more importantly I live my life the way Elvis would have wanted me to. Honestly. With integrity.

  It was a tip that the King was still alive and living under an assumed name that brought me to Kresge, Wyoming. But there’s something bigger than Elvis happening out here. I’ve been beaten bloody by an acrobatic bartender, roped into the search for a missing councilman, fallen for a bearded lady, and threatened by men in black who really don’t want me poking my nose into the town’s business. Half of my leads look like dead celebrities. The other half are either refugees from a broken-down circus or spear-holding Viking wannabes.

  I’m in Crazytown, USA, but I can’t leave. Not yet. If I don’t find the missing councilman soon, Kresge will be turned into a Danish-themed amusement park. I’ve never been so close to finding Elvis. And I need to know if my new self-appointed sidekick James Morrison is really who he claims to be...

  81,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  September might herald the end of summer fun and the vacation season, but the one thing you and I both know, as avid readers, is that we can always escape the daily grind thanks to books! This month, Carina Press is placing extra emphasis on the mystery genre, with the last week of September dedicated to not only our entire backlist of mysteries, but also four brand-new frontlist releases in four different subgenres of mystery.

  Within the mystery program, we welcome debut author Ricardo Sanchez with his novel Elvis Sightings. In this unique mystery that absolutely delighted our team from the first moment we read it, Floyd is a private detective who lives his life the way he thinks Elvis would have wanted him to—fast and hard in a sequined jumpsuit—and if he can avoid the billy clubs of government agents, a Viking reenactment and the amorous attention of the bearded lady sheriff, he just might prove, once and for all, that Elvis is still alive.

  Rosie Claverton brings us the second book in The Amy Lane Mysteries (a series that has some of my favorite Carina Press covers!). Welsh amateur sleuths Amy and Jason return in Code Runner, with Jason framed for the murder of a gang runner. When his prison transport is broken open, Jason is caught between the police, the gangs and the mastermind behind Jason’s downfall, while Amy races to prove his innocence.

  In Mistress of Lies, a historical mystery by Holly West, a young beggar girl claiming to be Isabel Wilde’s niece—previously unknown to her—shows up unexpectedly and reveals that Isabel’s brother Adam was murdered, compelling Isabel to take up an impossible task: discover the truth about her brother’s death, twelve years later.

  And joining these three in the mystery category, with a new release in her Patience Price Mystery series, Julie Anne Lindsey brings us Murder in Real Time. When a popular reality show host is murdered at the local bed-and-breakfast, Patience’s small town is overrun with grieving fans, paparazzi and a gunman who puts Patience in the crosshairs.

  If mystery isn’t your favorite genre, we have nine new releases in September in romance subgenres. Starting with contemporary romances, first up is Breaking His Rules by Alison Packard. If you love the friends to lovers trope as much as I do, you’ll love this story of two good friends pretending to be a couple at a coastal wedding, who find things get passionate when their true feelings rise to the surface.

  Rebound flings are supposed to have soft landings, but one sexy cop is about to fall hard in Christi Barth’s fun romantic caper Love on the Boardwalk. And in Emma Barry’s Private Politics, when a glamorous non-profit fundraiser becomes entangled in a political scandal, she turns to a savvy DC blogger for help clearing her name. As their hearts and ambitions collide, they find that everything in Washington comes with a price.

  If you like contemporary romance with an edge, reach for new adult romance Losing Streak by Kristine Wyllys. Rosemary Young was just another bartender until her boyfriend, Brandon Williams, lost a bet, leaving them with no choice but to sell their souls to the Lane’s crooked king.

  Author Stina Lindenblatt returns with Let Me Know, a contemporary romance with a new adult flavor. College freshman Amber Scott is propelled into the media spotlight when love letters she supposedly sent to her stalker surface prior to his upcoming trial.

  Switching gears to three books outside the contemporary romance genre, I’d like to turn your attention to Tyler Flynn’s newest male/male historical romance, Hunting the Spy. Nathan Kennett is hunting down a traitor who is selling the secrets of England’s defenses to the French rebels—could it be Sir Peter Ross, the man he loves?

  Don’t miss the final book in Jeffe Kennedy’s fantasy romance Covenant of Thorns trilogy. In Rogue’s Paradise, our scientist heroine discovers the origin of the fae and of her own nature, and whether she can make true love actually work. And it’s not too late to catch up with the first two books in this fantastic trilogy, Rogue’s Pawn and Rogue’s Possession.

  Eleri Stone’s Gun Shy has a wonderful Firefly-esque Western feel in a paranormal romance world. When criminal boss Gideon Moore sends men to steal the fort’s dwindling supply of Reaper cure for sale on the black market, Jane Fisher offers to guide Lieutenant Lyle Dalton through the shady side of Stormking Territory in an attempt to recover the serum.

  And last this month, we’re thrilled to present Shattered Bonds, the final book in Lynda Aicher’s Wicked Play erotic romance series. At the same time, we’re sad to see these characters go, as Lynda has captivated us with the emotional ups and downs of the relationships between this compelling cast of characters. Don’t miss this book, in which everything could change when the past comes back to destroy the members of The Den. Look for Game Play, the first book in Lynda’s new erotic romance trilogy, in spring 2015.

  Coming in October 2014, Dana Marie Bell returns us to the world of Maggie’s Grove, we welcome co-authors Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels and their incredible male/male romance duology, and R.L. Naquin is back with her urban fantasy Monster Haven series.

  Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Editorial Director, Carina Press

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for helping to get Elvis Sightings out of my head and into your hands: My wife Kristy for her infinite patience, my daughter Adara with her excellent suggestions, my good friend Sandy Resnick who made so many introductions, Karen Stoddard Hayes for her editing pen, Joshua Bilmes for pushing me to be better, and Jaime Levine for all of her excellent advice. But I would particularly like to thank Kerri Buckley, my editor, who brought me in, believed in Floyd, and turned the manuscript I submitted into a much, much better book, and one I hope you’ll find worth reading.

  And, of course, Elvis.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

/>   Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Call me Floyd. I have a last name, but nobody can pronounce it. I don’t even put it on my business cards. Those just say, Floyd: Private Detective.

  Professional snooping is what brought me to Reno, a city I hate like some people hate spiders. But when Buddy called after almost a year of silence and asked me to drop everything to get proof that some guy was cheating on his wife, I quit the bail jumping case I was working and hit the highway. Elvis once said, “friends can never be family, but sometimes they’re a whole lot more.” He could have been describing the way I feel about Buddy. So I found myself lurking in the vending room of a sleazy motel with a camera in my hand, waiting to get some shots of my target.

  People have an idea in their heads about P.I. work. That it’s glamorous or exciting. I blame TV. Hollywood could make mopping floors look fun. Truth is, detective work is like any other job.

  I was on a long stakeout once and made a list of criteria you would need to meet to make it as a TV detective. Top of the list is a cool car. Magnum had a Ferrari, Rockford a Firebird. Me, I drive a ten-year-old Ford Taurus, bought secondhand. But you know what? I like my car. It’s reliable. If it does break down, any mechanic anywhere can fix it. And it blends in. Nobody notices a taupe sedan with a fading paint job. Ever.

  The only info Buddy had given me on my target was a detailed description of his car and when he would be in Reno. That wouldn’t normally be enough to go on, but this guy drove a pimped up ’70s Camaro. Cherry red and loud as thunder. It just took a few bribed valets and an hour of cruising the casino parking lots to find it. All I had to do next was park nearby and wait. The dude eventually came out of the Golden Horseshoe with a tall skinny blonde of the large-breasted variety on his arm and I followed them to the Mermaid Motel.

  There’s more to being a TV sleuth than a set of wheels of course. A quirky sidekick or partner helps, or having a buddy on the force. I have neither because I like working alone. It’s a lot less awkward when you’re trying to get photos of a philandering Camaro-driving jerk, or “Phil” as I’d come to think of him, putting his, uh, nose, where it doesn’t belong.

  I raised the viewfinder of my PENTAX and pointed the lens out the window of the vending room. The Camaro was parked a few spaces away from the lobby. Phil had parked it diagonally across two spaces to prevent anyone from getting too close to it with their doors. Made me dislike him even more.

  It had started to rain while Phil was inside the office getting a room. Fat, heavy drops were coming down in a light shower. The blonde in the passenger seat was grimacing at the rain as she primped her hair. A good photo op. I zoomed in and snapped a few shots. Still no sign of Phil, so I stepped back from the window and listened to the tuneless humming of the ice machine while I waited.

  A few more things separate real-life detectives from their fictionalized counterparts. On TV, P.I.s live somewhere cool, like a billionaire’s guest house, or Albuquerque. Spenser’s place was an old firehouse and it doesn’t get better than that. I’m based in Pocatello, Idaho, same city where I was born, and there is exactly one thing Pocatelloians have to brag about—we are the world’s largest supplier of french fries to McDonald’s.

  The TV-inspired misconceptions that snoops such as myself are always packing heat and tripping over dead bodies like cracks in the sidewalk are the dumbest ones. I am happy to inform you that I have never seen a dead body that wasn’t dressed up in Sunday best, varnished and carefully displayed in a casket. I’ve also never fired a gun, let alone owned one, and I’ve been doing detective work since I was a teenager.

  I don’t care that being a private eye isn’t as exciting as it seems on TV. I love my job and I’m proud of what I do. But it is just a job. Buddy told me something once when I was nine or ten that has always stuck with me: “Work doesn’t make the man. It’s how you live.” He was quoting Elvis when he told me that. I decided a long time ago he was right.

  I checked the number of shots left on the film load. Say what you will about digital cameras, but there’s simply no replacing 35mm film and a fast lens for night shooting.

  The door to the vending room opened while I was fiddling with my camera and I had a brief moment of panic that Phil or The Blonde were on the way in. I breathed a small sigh of relief when I saw a wizened old man in a green flannel robe standing in the doorway with a hotel ice bucket.

  He squinted his bloodshot eyes as he looked me over.

  “Hello,” I said, and smiled at him.

  It’s hard to act nonchalant when you’re in a hotel vending room wearing a sequined jumpsuit with a camera in your hand, but I thought I pulled it off.

  “You supposed to be Elvis or sumthin’?” he grumbled. The cigarette stuck between his lips bounced as he spoke.

  “Floyd.”

  “Back off, ya fuckin’ freak,” he said, raising a palsied hand and pointing his shaking finger at me.

  This is why I hate Reno.

  Mr. Wizened opened the top to the ice machine and dunked his bucket, letting Little Mr. Wizened out. “Damn Elvis impersonators make me sick,” he spat, knocking an inch long tube of ash from his cigarette into the machine. Bucket filled, he gave me one last disgusted glare and let himself out.

  For the record, I am not an Elvis impersonator, I am a Lifestyle Elvis. There’s a difference. Yes, I wear a cape. And yes, it invites questions. It even makes it harder to do my job sometimes. But I’ve been dressing like Elvis since I was six and I’m not stopping now. Say what you will, but Elvis did have it right when it came to clothes. Jumpsuits are comfortable. You don’t have to worry about matching your shirt and pants. And contrary to popular belief, they’re functional. Most of them have lots of pockets, which is very helpful for a P.I. The one I had on was a powder blue one-piece with a gold lace-embroidered V-neck and cuffs. Not too showy, but still a bit of flair.

  I put Mr. Wizened out of my mind and took a look out the vending room door. Phil was standing under the shelter of the lobby’s overhang, holding up a key and a bottle of whiskey.

  I raised my camera and fired off a few frames as The Blonde got out of the Camaro and ran, rather ungracefully I might add, through the rain and into Phil’s waiting arms. I captured everything on film as she rubbed up against him, took a hit off of the bottle, coughed, grabbed Phil by the hand and led him up the concrete steps to the second floor rooms. I even got a few good stills of Phil standing halfway inside room 22, looking around to make sure no one was watching.

  The ironic thing about jilted spouses is that even though they are suspicious enough to hire me, and I can show them pictures of their beloved going into a hotel room with a strange man or woman, they almost always convince themselves that there is a benign explanation for this activity. I’ve heard it all, from “That looks just like his brother,” to “Maybe she’s planning a romantic weekend and wanted to see the room first.” This is where the Peeping Tom part of the job comes in. I used to feel a little guilty about taking pictures of people during their most private moments. I don’t anymore. No one, not even the most self-deluded spouse, can argue with action photography. Infidelity can have devastating effects on a husband or wife, but not knowing for sure is worse. Providing the knowledge that the love of my client’s life is a cheater is an incredibly valuable service. So, guilt gone, I take pictures that would make Hefner blush.

  Elvis once told a reporter that patience gets better results than impatience, which makes me think that maybe he’d hav
e made a good private detective. You can’t rush up to a room and start trying to snap shots right after a couple goes in. If they have even half a brain between them, they’re usually still a little nervous about getting caught. For the first fifteen minutes or so, a cheating couple is excited, giggling and hyper aware of their surroundings. Then biology—or lust, if you prefer—takes over, and they get on to what they came for. That’s when you can walk right up to a window and take whatever pictures you want, in full view, without being noticed. Speaking of which, Phil’s fifteen minutes were up.

  If you’re ever going to cheat on your spouse in a cheap motel, let me offer you a piece of advice. Always, always check the curtains. My guess is they are shabby and don’t quite fit right, leaving gaps for any nosy parker to look through. The truth is there are a lot of Peeping Toms out there without my altruistic motives, and you can usually find them meticulously checking every window in a place like the Mermaid. People don’t go there for the continental breakfast.

  I doubt these two checked the curtains in room 22 at all, because there was at least a three-inch gap between the shades, giving me a perfectly framed shot of the bed, Phil, and The Blonde. Who, as it turns out, is not a natural blonde at all.

  The next morning I took the photos to a discreet one-hour place I know and called the number Buddy had given me.

  “Hello,” a woman answered.

  “I’m calling for Buddy.”

  “Is this...Señor Floyd?” She had a distinct Hispanic accent.

  “Yes.”

  “And did you get the proof?”

  I could hear the eagerness in her voice.

  “I don’t discuss my cases,” I told her.

  “Uh-huh,” she replied. “Buddy can’t get to the phone right now. He’d like you to come out and see him.”

  She gave me an address on a rural route outside of Sparks, Nevada, a one gas station kind of town about sixty miles from Reno, but as good a place as any for Buddy to park his truck. With the pictures in hand, I was on my way.