Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  Ramirez cleared his throat. “How do they keep the people from leaving or working their fields?”

  Malik translated the boy’s answer. “There is just one road in the valley to connect with the rest of the province. The town is surrounded by mud walls with few gates. Atash say the Taliban let people work the poppy fields, but that is the only work they allow.”

  Ramirez grunted. “They’ve got to have their opium to sell, don’t they?”

  After the Afghans left, Ramirez briefed team Triple Seven while they waited for their transports to arrive. “I’ve checked with the higher-ups. Satellite intel for the last week over Ghar Mesar shows the kid’s story holds up. The op is a go.” Ramirez refolded the provincial map that Major Malik had left with him. “My instructor at Fort Benning used to say, ‘Wars are God’s way of teaching geography to Americans.’ Looks like we’re going to learn a lot more about the geography of Ghar Mesar.”

  To order I’m No Hero, click here Amazon.com.

  Six Murders Too Many

  The first novel in the Carlos McCrary series, Six Murders Too Many is available in both electronic and print editions on Amazon.com. Free to Kindle Unlimited members.

  Private investigator Carlos “Chuck” McCrary digs into a paternity dispute and uncovers a series of murders.

  Millionaire oil man Ike Simonetti tells Chuck McCrary that his late father’s widow is trying to steal over $200,000,000 from him.

  While seventy-five-year-old billionaire Sam Simonetti was hospitalized for his second heart attack, his two daughters from an earlier marriage died in a house fire, leaving Ike as Sam’s only child and sole heir. Or was he?

  After Sam’s death, his trophy wife (now widowed) produced another contender for the fortune—a baby girl born six months later. The widow stakes a claim to half of Sam’s estate for her infant daughter Gloria.

  Now Ike wants Chuck to uncover the identity of Gloria’s real father and cut her out of the will.

  The investigation takes Chuck from the sun-splashed beaches of South Florida to the burned-out Cleveland home of the two dead daughters. He stirs up a hornet’s nest and uncovers a triple murder.

  When three hit men ambush Chuck, the case becomes a matter of life and death. To save his own life and that of the supposed infant heiress, Chuck must discover if one of the billionaire’s surviving family members is the real puppet master behind the murders.

  Then Chuck learns that there may be two Black Widows dueling over the billionaire’s estate—willing to kill anyone who gets in their way… including an infant heiress and a nosy private investigator.

  A preview of

  Six Murders Too Many

  Prologue

  The trespasser picked his way through the darkness along the rocky beach. The city lights of nearby Cleveland reflected off the cloud cover, but barely relieved the darkness. He stumbled again. Damn these rocks, he thought. He dared not use a flashlight. An occasional glimpse from the light of his cellphone would have to do. It had been just as difficult to find his footing the previous two nights, but he had managed with only a skinned knee and torn pants, a small price to pay for invisibility.

  The lakefront houses had fences that ran down to the water’s edge. He waded around them. The six o’clock news had said the water in Lake Erie was sixty-five degrees, but the north wind whipping across the lake made it feel colder. Goddamn water. He had been here four days and still couldn’t believe how cold sixty-five degrees could be. He was used to the warmer water and gentler breezes of home. When is the damned air temperature going to get cold enough for the friggin’ furnace to kick on?

  The intruder waded around the last fence, shivering. He examined the slope above by the light of his cellphone screen and stepped carefully into the footprints he’d left the night before—and the night before that. He climbed to his hiding place in the azaleas at the edge of the lawn, resigned to wait in his cold, wet shoes until dawn.

  The north wind blew against his wet pants. He shivered, stuck his hands further into his pockets. God, I wish I had a cigarette. Or a joint. Yeah, as long as I’m wishing for something I can’t have, why not wish for a joint? My parole officer hasn’t run a drug test on me in months.

  From his outpost, the stranger could see the glow from the TV in the living room of the old, stone house. He thought about what a great chimney those stone walls would make for the bonfire of dry, weathered joists and floorboards inside. Soon, he reminded himself. Soon.

  Inside, a woman and her two grown daughters finished watching the eleven o’clock news and weather. “Current temperature is fifty-two degrees,” the meteorologist said, “with lows expected in the forties.”

  “Sounds like it’ll be chilly by morning,” the older woman said. “I’m going to turn on the furnace and throw a blanket on my bed. Do either of you want one?”

  “Not me, Mom,” replied the older of the sisters. “The furnace heats this place up enough and then some.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t set the thermostat so high,” said her sister. “The furnace sucked the moisture right out of the air last winter and I woke up with a headache every morning. I’d rather just have a couple of extra blankets and keep the heat off.”

  “God, no! I nearly froze to death growing up in this old house. My mother refused to turn the furnace on unless it was down in the thirties.”

  “So, why didn’t you sell it after your mom died?”

  “I thought about the old place sitting up here empty, but I knew Mama would roll over in her grave for betraying the ‘family trust.’”

  “Well you could at least update the heating system and put in a humidifier.”

  “I know, sweetie, but I kept thinking I’d move to an apartment in town when you two girls went off to college.”

  “But, Mom, we’ve always loved this old house. And it’s easy to commute to college from here. You should put some of the money you got in the divorce settlement into this place.”

  Her sister laughed. “According to Mom, Dad left her penniless, remember?”

  “Enough, you two. Since you’re determined to stay here, when you inherit the place, you can do what you want. Tonight, I’m turning up the heat.”

  She stopped at the bottom of the stairway and looked back at her daughters—her treasures. They were the only good thing that had come out of her marriage to Sam Simonetti. Well, that and sixty-five million dollars. “Good night, my loves.”

  “‘Night, Mom.”

  “We love you, too.

  Two shadows remained in the living room. Will they never go to bed? The wind had dried the trespasser’s pants, but the dropping temperature made him shiver even so. I shoulda brought a warmer coat. Who knew that September could be so Goddamned cold up here? It was much colder than it had been three nights before when he’d picked the lock on the basement door. He had waited three hours after the women had turned the lights out before making his stealthy invasion. All he’d needed was access to the basement. Tonight he wouldn’t have to wait that long.

  In the upstairs hallway, the mistress of the house paused in front of the thermostat. Sixty-eight ought to do it with a blanket. She switched the thermostat to heat and set the temperature.

  On the way to her room, she pulled an old woolen blanket from the linen closet in the hall.

  Downstairs, one of the sisters switched off the TV with the remote. “Too bad Dad and Mom got a divorce.”

  “Yeah, but at least we’re still his daughters and when he dies he’ll leave us some money and we can fix up the house.”

  “Are we gonna be spinster sisters and live here together ‘til we’re in our nineties?”

  “I’m gonna live to be a hundred and five.”

  “Okay, you win. You can have the house.” The older sister rose from the couch, leaned over, and softly kissed the top of her sister’s head. “Good night, Sis. I love you. I’m off to bed.”

  “I’m right behind you. Love you too.”

  The last lights went out o
n the second floor. Finally. He peered from the azaleas, studying the dark windows through his binoculars. He got excited thinking about the brilliance of the preparations he had made—the inferno he was about to experience. When the inside of the mansion cooled enough, the thermostat would send a current down the wire to the basement where the furnace had hibernated since spring. The current would activate a solenoid in the firebox, and the heating oil would catch flame. The air in the firebox would warm to the right temperature. It could be happening right now. Right this very instant. A second thermostat in the firebox would send a current to the air handler. The air handler was supposed to force warm air through the ductwork to heat all three stories above. But it would fail. Instead, when the current tried to find its way to the air handler, it would arc and cause a spark. The spark would hit the nest of flammable material he had left near the breaker box—a small flame would start.

  The shivering trespasser saw a light flicker through the small basement windows. He imagined the women sleeping soundly, oblivious to the hungry monster that would soon devour the basement ceiling joists, gaining strength and appetite as it grew. The trespasser stared as windows on the first floor began to glow. It’s happening. It’s finally happening. Then a flicker in a window on the second floor. By the time those bitches wake up, the smoke will burn their eyes. They’ll panic. They’ll try to scream, but the smoke will clog their lungs. He imagined them throwing their bedroom doors open, only to be faced with a wall of flame. Yes! Yes! Now that’s what I call a fire! Ohhhhh, yeah, baby!

  In a few minutes, sirens howled in the distance. It was risky to stay and watch the orange beast digest the house, but he couldn’t just leave now that his goal was in sight. That would be like leaving the job half done. He turned back to the house and watched, enthralled, as the fire engines arrived and the firefighters struggled in vain to get ahead of the monster consuming the house.

  He hunkered down lower in the azaleas so no one would see him in the flickering orange light from the inferno. Finally, the roof collapsed and fell into the space inside the stone walls.

  In a couple of hours all was dark. He turned away from the husk of the house, feeling as depleted as the house looked. But he always felt like this afterwards. He eased his way silently down the slope. At the bottom, he was once again invisible.

  Chapter 1

  “Chuck, I may have a client for you.” The caller was Victoria Ramirez, an A-list partner with a boutique law firm here in Port City. Sounded like the clients she’d sent me over the last eight months had been happy with my services.

  “Great. Who is it?”

  “Ike Simonetti.”

  I leaned forward and grabbed a notepad and pen from my desk. “Any kin to…?”

  “His son.”

  I whistled and wrote it down. Ike Simonetti’s father, Sam Simonetti, had been one of the richest men in Florida. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Vicky. Why does he need a private investigator?”

  “Ike’s got a big, expensive problem.”

  That was good. Big, expensive problems usually require big, expensive solutions.

  “This could be a winning lottery ticket for you, handsome. Don’t screw it up.”

  “No way I’d let that happen.”

  “I can list a dozen ways, including your so-called sense of humor. But mainly because Simonetti doesn’t think he has a problem.”

  “Then why does he want me?”

  “Lorraine Wallace, his wife, is the one who wants a PI. Ike doesn’t want to pursue the issue.”

  “What issue?”

  She told me. I could see why this was an expensive problem. I took more notes. “What did you tell Simonetti about me?”

  “That my firm had worked with you many times. And that you were honest, persistent, and tough.”

  “But not funny?”

  “He’s not going to hire you for your jokes. You’re an acquired taste, big guy.”

  “Vicky, seriously, I owe you big time. How can I repay the favor?”

  “I’ll think of something—maybe a foot massage.”

  Foot massage? Where did that come from?

  “He’ll be at your office in less than an hour.”

  “How did he know I’d be here?”

  “He didn’t. My secretary called your receptionist and she said you were in. Ike said, and I quote: ‘Might as well get this over with.’ So they’re on their way.”

  “They… meaning?”

  “Ike and spouse, right now your best ally in corralling his business.”

  “I’ll get back to you on the foot massage.” No, I won’t, I thought.

  Chapter 2

  I researched Ike Simonetti online and realized a thorough job would take hours, so instead I skimmed the newspaper and magazine articles from the last twelve months about him and his famous father. I decided to skip the tabloid stories, amusing as I knew they would be.

  Glancing at my clock, I saw that I probably had a few minutes before they arrived. I’d eaten a lot of rice and beans and ramen noodles while I built my PI business. That was about to change. I could upgrade to hamburger meat and day-old buns. I pulled out the bottom left drawer of my second-hand desk, leaned back with my ankles crossed upon it, and gazed out the office window while I waited for my ship to come in.

  Instead of my ship coming in, a silver Ferrari slewed into the parking lot and glided gracefully to the far side, away from the other cars. It came to rest diagonally across two slots so no one could squeeze in beside it and ding the doors. He parked the same way I did, although my 1963 Avanti sitting a few slots over was worth a great deal less than his Ferrari.

  The driver unfolded himself from the low-slung car. I recognized him from the Internet pictures and gave myself a mental high-five. Ike Simonetti was forty-three, and he looked every day of it. Slightly gray temples, conservative pin-striped suit, regimental tie. His light blue shirt had a white collar and French cuffs. A business fashion columnist would approve of the look.

  He looked a little too perfect as the wealthy entrepreneur. Was it a front? Even without the Ferrari, he’d impress you as richer than God. Was it just a little over the top?

  Simonetti got out of the car. Then he leaned back inside, said something to the passenger, and slammed the driver’s side door. He stalked around to the other side of the Ferrari and jerked the door open.

  A woman levered herself out of the low-slung sports car—not easy in a pencil skirt and spike heels. Lorraine Wallace, age forty-one. She was as thin as a runway model, but wore a pin-striped blue jacket matching her skirt and shoes. A multi-colored scarf took the place of a man’s tie. Businesswoman of the year.

  Again, almost too perfect. Hmm. Stop being a cynic.

  The two of them walked toward my building without a word or a look. But I did notice a sly smile on her face. Or was it a smirk?

  I did a quick survey of my office. Not tidy enough to impress Ferrari people. Better use the conference room.

  My phone rang. “Dr. Lorraine Wallace and Mr. Isaac Simonetti are here, Mr. McCrary.”

  “Tell them I’ll be out in two minutes.” I didn’t want to appear too eager. Besides, my receptionist would need time to get their coffee.

  To kill time, I ogled two young women through my office window as they power-walked down Bayfront Boulevard. As a former cop, I wanted to see if they were engaging in nefarious, felonious, or suspicious activities. As a trained observer, I concluded that walking did their derrieres and my attitude a world of good. Too soon, they passed from sight with no sign of nefarious, felonious, or suspicious intentions.

  Let’s go meet the Goose of the Golden Eggs.

  I set my laptop on the conference room table as I walked to the reception area.

  As I passed Nancy’s desk, she handed me two business cards. I gave her a smile and stuck the cards in my pocket.

  The couple looked up as I approached. “Dr. Wallace? Mr. Simonetti? I’m Chuck McCrary.”

  The man stood and we
shook hands. “Please, just ‘Ike’ is fine. And since you’re not my wife’s patient, ‘Lorraine’ will be fine with her too.”

  Wallace looked older than her “official” age. Faint wrinkles marked her forehead and the corners of her eyes. Her makeup was the tiniest bit too perfect, in keeping with her model-thin physique. She was the poster child for the motto You can never be too thin or too rich.

  I thought of a line from Shakespeare. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous.

  “Lorraine, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  She painted a smile on her lips as she shook my hand. “How do you do?”

  “I’m doing well, thanks. May I take your cup?” My offer merited a slightly friendlier smile. I carried her coffee to my conference room. Ever the considerate host, that’s me.

  I centered the doctor’s cup on a coaster and stood across the table from her and her husband, waiting for Wallace to sit.

  Ike Simonetti glanced absently around the room. “Where’s your desk?”

  “In my office, next door. Most people prefer talking around a table rather than across a desk.”

  Wallace sat and so did I, but Simonetti remained standing. His eyes fixed on the ego wall to my right. A photo of my Special Forces unit in Afghanistan. He was reading the citation for my Bronze Star Medal. For an instant I was transported back to Ghar Mesar in the mountains of Afghanistan. An old scar on my left bicep throbbed when I remembered one team member in particular who hadn’t come back.

  Simonetti studied my PI license, my criminology diploma, and my honorable discharge. Then his gaze turned to the large Atlantic County map on the other wall and he acted as though he intended to memorize it too.

  Mercifully, Wallace broke his trance by clearing her throat. “Dear, perhaps you should tell Chuck why we’ve come.”