MOLLY

by Dan Ames

  A USA TODAY BESTSELLING BOOK

  Book One in The JACK REACHER Cases

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  MOLLY

  A Wade Carver Thriller

  Dan Ames

  MOLLY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Copyright © 2018 by Dan Ames

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Slogan Books, Inc., New York, NY.

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  Contents

  MOLLY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Also by Dan Ames

  MOLLY

  A Wade Carver Thriller #1

  by

  Dan Ames

  “Killing the time between corpses…”

  O FLORIDA, VENEREAL SOIL

  -Wallace Stevens

  1

  Delray Beach sounds like a nice place.

  Anything with the word ‘beach’ in it usually does. Unless it was Hell Beach. Or Herpes Beach.

  Delray Beach, though? Pretty good.

  Del, meaning ‘of’ in Spanish. ‘Rey’ translates to King.

  The King’s Beach.

  Not quite.

  Oh, the beach is nice and there are a few funky little historic houses here and there but some of the city-planning chowderheads decided not to bother enforcing regulations for drug and alcohol treatment centers. Meaning, any Tom, Dick and Cocaine Harry could set up shop calling themselves a treatment center. Have some beds, throw a few brochures at the junkies you encourage to crash at your place, and you can bill the insurance companies five grand a week, per person.

  Recently they busted one of these guys who was raking in over a hundred grand a month by scamming the insurance companies on his ‘treatment centers.’ Here’s a clue. The guy was driving a Lamborghini. Even better? He was a full-force drug user and alcoholic. The cops busted him doing over a hundred miles an hour on the freeway. Once the newspapers got hold of the story, his days running a treatment center were over.

  Anyway, thanks to the city’s lax regulations, the situation has gotten pretty bad. In fact, there are places in Delray Beach where the treatment houses fight over the derelicts. They troll the bus stations for derelicts with at least one form of genuine identification.

  How do I know all this?

  Well, I live here now, part-time. I’ve got a place up in Michigan on a little island in a corner of Lake Huron. It’s my favorite place in the world up there, although winters do get a bit long and in the summer you’ve got to deal with the deer flies. Those bastards will bite you through your shirt and draw blood.

  My jobs have brought me down to Florida a few times and feeling those warm ocean breezes in the middle of February, accompanied by some rum, beer, or both, is quite pleasant.

  So I bought a home here in Delray Beach.

  And set up an office not too far away.

  Not just because it’s The King’s Beach.

  No, I’m here for a more practical reason.

  It’s the last place my sister was seen alive.

  2

  “Mr. Carver?”

  She was a damn good-looking woman. Older than me by at least five, maybe ten years. She was blonde, but with highlights that probably cost what I spent per week on groceries.

  Her eyes were blue, lips wearing just a hint of pink and perfect white teeth. Her face was classic, an elegant jaw line, fine nose and the bearing of sophistication.

  She wore a sundress, with sandals and her toenails were painted a light pink.

  She was tall, and that caught my interest immediately. Tall women have a way of spotting weak men who are easily intimidated.

  I’m not weak.

  And of the emotions I might feel being in the presence of a tall, good-looking woman, intimidation ain’t one of ‘em, if you know what I mean.

  In my experience, a tall woman appreciates that.

  “Depends who’s asking,” I said.

  “My name is Margaret,” she said. She cocked her head slightly to the side, and took in my office.

  My place was a building from 1967, the Summer of Love. It was white, with circular exterior patios that reflected a contemporary modern aesthetic. At least, that’s what the real estate agent told me.

  Whatever.

  I bought the tenth floor penthouse because it had a front room I could use as an office, and in the back it had a double patio that provided views of both the open ocean, downtown Delray and the intercoastal.

  Many days I would lock up the front office, and sit out on the back patio with some drinks and good music. Not a bad way to spend winter. Much better than hunkering down against wind chills twenty below zero, taking the occasional break to shovel snow.

  “What brings you here, Margaret?” I asked.

  The choice between answering my question and leaving was in her eyes. Hiring a private investigator was an iffy proposition for a lot of people. Something shady about it, furtive.

  A small percentage of prospective clients would back out of the office at this point. Claim they had the wrong address. Those were cases of a much more personal nature. A cheating spouse, usually.

  It was the ol’ chicken out and bail. Not that I could blame them, it was probably similar to going to a therapist for the first time. Telling a complete stranger your worst secrets.

  No fun at all.

  I watched Margaret weigh her options.

  I gave it a 50-50 chance. A soft exhalation of breath and I caught the scent of coffee and citrus.

  Margaret pulled out a chair across from my desk and sat down.

  “I’ve heard your specialty is finding and retrieving women.”

  “Put it that way, I sound like a dog breed.”

  “Specifically,” she said, ignoring me, “young women who may have some issues with drugs.”

  Margaret didn’t have a wedding ring. No tan line from one either, which was not the case more often than you might think.

  “I don’t know if you’d call it a specialty,” I said. “But I do have some experience in that regard.”

  “Good, because I need help. From someone like you.”

  When she said that, her eyes gave me the once-over.

  I know what I look like.

  Not the prettiest creature God put on this green earth. A misspent youth left me with some scars and some facial features that weren’t exactly classic. But I was packed with muscle, especially broad in the chest and shoulders, and occasionally people crossed the street when they saw me coming.

&n
bsp; Men and women alike.

  “I’m not a cheap date,” I said. The fact was, I had money in the bank from some of my past activities, and when I didn’t have a paying gig, I continued to search for my sister. I had spent years and a small fortune trying to find her, but I would never give up.

  Sometimes, though, it required multitasking.

  “Good, I don’t like cheap men,” Margaret said. She withdrew a folder from her purse, which was an orange thing made of leather. I could tell it was an expensive deal, but it was well-worn. A woman who pays for quality and doesn’t discard it.

  She placed the folder on my desk.

  “I did some research and you come recommended,” Margaret said. “I’d like to hire you for a week to start. If it takes longer, we can talk about it.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find my daughter.”

  Margaret closed her eyes and the next few words rang with the echo of rapidly disintegrating hope.

  “Her name is Molly.”

  3

  The tall woman’s full name was Margaret Hornor, at least, that’s what it said on the check she gave me. It was a nice chunk of change and represented a retainer for me for a week. She also signed a new client form that doubled as a contract.

  “I’m going to need a few more things, as well,” I said.

  “You name it,” Margaret answered.

  “For starters, usernames and passwords for all of her social media accounts and email, if possible. Her cell phone number and even better would be her usage bills. If you give me the login for her wireless account, I can analyze her calls and texts as well as the numbers they were sent to.”

  Margaret had taken out a neat little leather portfolio – who knew they made pink leather – and jotted down my requests.

  “I’ll also need a list of friends, boyfriends, anyone in her inner circle. Full names and phone numbers if you have them.”

  It was interesting the way Margaret wrote. Smooth, unhurried, with bold, confident strokes. Her perfume had managed to fill my office space and it was like a warm ocean breeze tinged with eucalyptus had somehow wafted its way inside.

  My guess is Margaret had been an athlete. A little too tall for soccer, not beefy enough for softball. That left basketball or volleyball. Maybe a swimmer.

  “Other than you, does she have family in the area?” It was an honest question, with the added benefit of asking about Molly’s father. The man who was most likely Margaret’s ex, by my educated guess.

  “No,” Margaret said. “Her father lives in California. Her sister is going to college in Massachusetts.”

  “Harvard?” I asked.

  Again, another guess. There were a lot of colleges in Massachusetts. When a parent is telling someone they just met about a college-aged student, they almost always say the name of the school. When Margaret failed to mention it, I figured it was either a really expensive school, or a desire for privacy. My guess had been the former.

  “Yes,” Margaret said. “How did you know?”

  “Process of elimination.”

  She didn’t know quite what I meant but I didn’t expand on my answer.

  “Has she ever gone missing before?” I asked. “Extended periods of time away from home without telling anyone where she was? A lack of communication for more than a few days.”

  “Of course,” Margaret said. “She’s got a problem. She would go out and often not come home at all. But when she did finally drag herself back, it was almost always within twenty-four hours. I think there was only one time it was longer than a day, and that was a weekend where she went out on Friday and didn’t come home until Sunday.”

  “How long has it been now?”

  The first change in my client’s demeanor appeared. Just a subtle shift of facial muscles changing the expression from professional determination to sorrow.

  “Three weeks.”

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “So they’re looking for her, too?”

  “They claim they are, but Molly had been arrested a couple of times. Once for drunk and disorderly. Another time for minor possession. I think once they saw her record, they assumed she was out partying. This is south Florida, after all.”

  “You don’t think she’s out partying, though?”

  “Anything is possible,” she said, without resignation. “Either way, I want you to find her and bring her back.”

  Margaret stood, and she was only a couple inches shorter than my 6’3”. She held out her hand, I took it. A strong grip. Cool.

  Definitely an athlete.

  “Please keep me updated as much as you can,” she said, and then she hesitated.

  “Full disclosure?” she asked.

  “That’s the best way.”

  “I hired you because of your reputation. I’m afraid my daughter may have fallen in with some people who are a level above your average substance abusers.”

  She sounded so clinical. Probably the way she was forcing her way to think about it to keep her emotions in check.

  “I won’t do anything illegal,” I said. Of course, that was complete and total bullshit. Someone famous once said that the more laws we have, the less justice. Cicero, I think.

  “And I wouldn’t ask you to,” she said.

  There was a slight smile on her face.

  It matched the one on mine.

  Two people lying to each other, knowing what each is doing.

  It was sort of romantic.

  4

  There are no basements in Florida.

  This is something I learned recently. So where does everyone put their crap, the kind of detritus most people in the Midwest put in their basement?

  The garage.

  They fill their garages, often times to the brim. It’s not uncommon to drive around a Florida neighborhood and see people with their garage doors open, revealing mountains of boxes, furniture, shelving units and sporting goods.

  You know what you never see in Florida garages?

  Cars.

  So to fit in with the locals, I decided to put my home gym in the garage.

  In my line of work, it’s fairly essential to be in good shape. I’m not the fastest guy in the world, but I can run at a steady clip for miles and miles, and if I catch you, not even the good Lord can save you.

  I’ve got mostly free weights and a heavy bag that I beat the hell out of every other night.

  After the visit from my tall-drink-of-water new client Margaret, I closed up the office, went home and put in a good workout. Now, dripping with sweat, I chugged from a huge, ice-cold bottled water.

  The place I’d chosen for my Florida home was a ranch house from the 1950s. It was all open, with an all-white kitchen, basic, comfortable furniture, and a great room that opened out onto a pool.

  The pool was going to be my next stop, but my cell phone buzzed and I fished it out, checked the screen.

  Hammerhead.

  A bizarre little guy with a smashed-in face that I often used for information on the street scene, up and down the east coast of Florida. He had a lot of connections, everywhere except in his brain. He’d fried so many synapses that people often wondered if he had Tourette’s syndrome.

  “Wade!” Hammerhead screamed at me.

  Wade isn’t my real name. But sometimes I need a name to put on official paperwork, and here in Florida, that’s the name I came up with, when I was standing in two feet of water just walking around.

  “Jesus, stop screaming,” I said.

  “I’m in deep shit!”

  “I’m not a plumber.”

  “No, no. Not literally. I mean, I’m in trouble.”

  With my free hand, I slid open the glass sliding door, stepped out onto the pool deck.

  “Good,” I said.

  “Good? No, it’s not good! It’s bad!”

  I slid off one shoe and sock, dipped a toe in the water.

  Perfect temperature.

&n
bsp; “Being in trouble is good,” I said. “Sharpens your senses. Makes you feel alive. Hey, I have another call coming in.”

  Not true. I hung up on Hammerhead, went inside to my bedroom and looked for my swimming trunks.

  Hammerhead called back.

  “Wade, you’ve got to come over here. They think I stole from them and they’re going to do God knows what to me.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Steal from them.”

  “No! These guys are nuts! They want me to sell for them and they’re pretending I ripped them off, but it’s bullcrap. You need to help me.”

  He lowered his voice.

  “My Mom is here. They said they would…do things to her.”

  That made me stop. For starters, I knew Hammerhead was very close with his Mom. She kept bailing him out, and he depended on her.

  Two, nothing pisses me off more than street thugs hassling a woman. And it really gets under my skin if it’s an older woman. All the shit she probably dealt with her whole life, and what’s the reward? To get hassled by some drugged out scumbags?

  No, I didn’t think so.

  “Ok. On my way.”

  No need to shower. I threw on a black T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of black trail shoes.

  I left the shirt untucked, so I could slip my every day carry, a .45 semiautomatic pistol with an 8-round magazine, into a concealed holster in the back of my jeans.