Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  He frowned but sat down. “Did Vicky Ramirez tell you about my situation, Chuck?”

  “A little, but, please, assume I know nothing and start from the beginning.”

  “Okay, I will. I guess you know my father was Sam Simonetti.”

  “Vicky told me.” Every sentient human in the state knew of Sam Simonetti. “I read about your father’s funeral. As I remember, the governor, both U.S. senators, and three congressional representatives attended. And, of course, the mayor. Sam was well-loved in Port City.” It wasn’t hard to remember what I’d read just a few minutes earlier.

  “The politicos didn’t come to his funeral out of love, unless it was their love of his money. I’m cynical enough to think those jackals came to get their faces on the news and their hands in my family’s pockets.”

  Imagine that: a politician wanting to get on the news. “What brings you to see me, Ike?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Lorraine insists that Ramona—my father’s widow—is trying to steal two hundred million from me.”

  “Two hundred million, as in ‘dollars’?”

  Wallace nodded.

  “How does Sam’s widow plan to steal your money?”

  “It’s not my money; it’s Ike’s. Pop’s wife was pregnant when he died. Now she has a three-month-old daughter, Gloria. Ramona claims her child should inherit half of Pop’s estate. But I don’t think Pop was the biological father.”

  I opened my laptop. “Why not?”

  “From the baby’s birth date, we know Ramona got pregnant while Pop was in the hospital.”

  I knew a patient could have sex in a hospital bed. I had happily participated in two such events while recuperating from battle wounds in Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Of course I was twenty years old then, not seventy-five like Sam.

  Simonetti looked embarrassed.

  “If Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, you inherit the entire estate?”

  He nodded. “But if Ramona’s daughter gets a share, I get just half.”

  “I read that his estate was worth over a billion dollars.”

  “Dad left a lot of money to charity. After taxes, and the widow’s share of thirty million, the remaining estate is only four hundred million dollars.”

  I’d never heard anyone refer to four hundred million dollars as only. “The widow’s share?”

  Simonetti rose abruptly and paced around the room. “Their prenuptial agreement said if Ramona survived him, Dad would leave her thirty million, with the remainder to be divided among his children.”

  “How many children did your father have?”

  “When he married Ramona, Dad had three—me and two daughters from his previous marriage to Allison Montrose. Dad made his will right after he married Ramona.”

  “So, Allison’s daughters are your half-sisters?”

  “Were. Allison and both daughters died in a house fire six weeks before Dad passed, so he thought I was his only remaining child. He never knew Ramona was pregnant. At least, he never mentioned it.”

  “So if Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, you inherit the four hundred million?”

  “That’s right.”

  It didn’t take a math genius to do the arithmetic. “Hence your ‘theft’ being pegged at two hundred million.”

  Simonetti looked toward his wife. “That’s why we’re here.”

  To order Six Murders Too Many, click here Amazon.com.

  Double Fake, Double Murder

  The second novel in the Carlos McCrary series, Double Fake, Double Murder is available in both electronic and print editions on Amazon.com. Free to Kindle Unlimited members.

  Mob boss Garrison Franco is gunned down in the street, and the police think they know who did it—Jorge Castellano, one of their own homicide detectives whose wife had been threatened by Franco. Castellano claims he’s been framed and pleads with private investigator Chuck McCrary to find the real killer.

  Chuck discovers a mysterious teenager who ran away from an abusive foster home who may have witnessed the murder. But the boy doesn’t trust anyone and won’t tell Chuck what he saw. Chuck must gain the boy’s trust before he can solve the crime.

  Chuck’s prime suspect is Ted Smoot, a disgraced, former police detective and convicted blackmailer, now out of jail and plying his trade again. With shameful secrets and millions of dollars at stake, three of Smoot’s super rich victims try to hire Chuck to kill Smoot. He refuses, but days later Smoot is found shot to death with Chuck’s gun. Chuck is arrested for murder.

  Now Chuck must not only find out who killed Franco and framed his friend Castellano for the murder, but must solve the new murder or face a lifetime in prison himself. His efforts to untangle the web of fabricated evidence in both murders take him from the crime-filled streets of a South Florida ghetto to the waterfront mansions and high-rise condos of the mega wealthy in pursuit of the mysterious and elusive killers.

  Chuck must deal with millionaires and billionaires on the one hand and hoodlums and drug dealers on the other.

  A preview of

  Double Fake, Double Murder

  Chapter 1

  The gunman pulled a Glock 17 from its holster, took a breath, and gripped the pistol tighter. He’d better show up soon. From the shadowed entrance of the warehouse, he stared across the empty parking lot and held his breath.

  A car crawled down the deserted street and rolled to a stop in the dark gap between two streetlights. The driver’s door opened. Garrison Franco stepped out of the car onto the pavement.

  That’s got to be him.

  The keys in the ignition set off the car’s warning bell, ding, ding, ding. Franco pushed the door closed, silencing the alarm.

  In the distance, a siren shrieked, the sound echoing off the concrete block walls of the neighborhood.

  The gun Franco held close to his leg was barely visible in the night. He twisted slowly in a circle.

  The gunman clenched the pistol grip. He’s suspicious.

  Franco stood in the middle of the pavement, his gaze passing like a searchlight across the buildings that lined the street.

  He’ll never see me in the dark, especially with this ski mask. He’d tested the line of sight earlier, before he called Franco’s cell phone. The parking lot added forty yards to the distance from the warehouse to the street. The extra distance hid the gunman better, but it made the pistol shot chancy.

  The man shifted his weight back and forth. Come on! Come on! You’re turning the wrong way.

  Franco continued to turn, surveying the empty buildings. His gaze reached the near side of the street, the circle almost complete.

  He raised his pistol in a two-hand grip. Almost there… keep turning. Bracing against the wall, he held his breath, sighted with one eye, and squeezed off four rounds.

  Franco’s jacket jumped as three of the four bullets ripped through his body and shattered the car windows behind him. A scream of pain filled the night as his body bounced off the car door. His gun clanged to the pavement. He cursed as he collapsed and sprawled on the asphalt.

  The gunman ran across the pavement to the curb and looked both ways down the street. No one. He rolled up the ski mask so he could see better.

  A light shone in a third-story window of the building next door. That window had been dark when he arrived. The light went out. Shit. These buildings are warehouses. No one’s supposed to live here.

  Hurrying to the fallen man, he rolled him onto his back and felt for a pulse. God, the bastard is still alive. He fired another round into Franco’s forehead and holstered his gun. Then he picked up the shell casing and stuck it in a pocket. Searching the dead man’s pockets, he transferred the contents to his own.

  With gloved hands, he retrieved the fallen gun and wrapped Franco’s fingers around it. Gripping the dead man’s hand from the palm side, opposite where the gunshot residue would spray, he aimed at the entrance to the building where the light had flicked on and off and fired three times. That should convince the
m.

  Returning to his shooting position, he pulled a flashlight from his pocket and glanced nervously at the window next door. Shielding the lens with two fingers before he switched it on, he aimed it at the pavement where he had stood and spotted two spent shell casings against the wall. Glancing again at the window, he bit his lip, undecided whether to run. He scooped up the casings and searched frantically for the others, his breath coming faster. Six feet away, he retrieved another one. Only one more. Where is the damn thing? His breath came thick and ragged now. Don’t panic, don’t panic. It’s here somewhere. A glint of brass in the crack between the entrance landing and the asphalt parking lot gave him hope.

  Aiming the flashlight into the crack, he reached for the casing. Too far down. He snatched off his leather gloves and jammed his little finger into the crack, feeling for the brass, but he couldn’t hook it. The little finger of his other hand yielded no better result. No use. He cast around for anything to dig out the casing. Nothing. The third floor window next door caught his attention as he spotted a figure, dimly illuminated by the streetlight, move back from the darkened window. Christ!

  He bolted down the street. Homicide will find the slugs from Franco’s gun in the next building. They won’t find any casings there, so they won’t even look next door. Right? Right?

  Chapter 2

  Chuck McCrary finished the first section of the Port City Press-Journal and turned to the local news. Break Expected in Franco Murder splashed across the top of the page. Underneath was a picture of Detective Kelly Contreras at a news conference. Chuck’s cell phone rang as he began reading the story.

  He didn’t recognize the number. “Good morning. McCrary Investigations. This is Carlos McCrary. How can I help you?”

  “Amigo, this is Jorge.” Jorge Castellano was a detective lieutenant for the Port City Police Department.

  Chuck smiled when he heard his old friend’s voice. He leaned back in his office chair, pulled the bottom desk drawer open with a practiced toe, and put his feet on the edge. He was never too busy to catch up with old friends. The newspaper could wait.

  Chuck switched to Spanish. “Hey, it’s the Cuban Supercop. Been a while, bro’. How’re things at the North Shore Precinct?”

  “Not so good, Chuck.”

  “What’s up, Jorge?”

  “I need your help.”

  Chuck put the phone on speaker. He grabbed a notepad and pen. “Sure, bro’, anything you want.”

  “I’m in trouble. I need a private investigator.”

  “I’m in my office, amigo. Can you come down here?”

  “No, I’m at the precinct.”

  He glanced at his watch. “So come over after your shift.”

  “I’m not at work.”

  “Then why are you at the precinct?”

  “I’m in jail. I’ve been arrested for murder.”

  Chapter 3

  A sergeant led Jorge into the precinct visitation room. The orange jail clothes were too small on him and, in shackles, he shuffled like a seventy-year-old man.

  Chuck remembered the sergeant’s face but couldn’t recall his name. They nodded to each other. The cop shrugged. Chuck knew he didn’t like to watch over another cop. Chuck waved through the partition at Jorge.

  “Thanks, Barry,” Jorge said. “You know I don’t take this personally, right? You’re just doing your job.”

  Chuck remembered the sergeant’s name now: Barry Kleinschmidt. Kleinschmidt clapped Jorge on the shoulder. “Hang in there, Jorge. You did Port City a favor. That rat bastard Franco deserved it.” He moved back and leaned against the wall.

  Jorge sat in a metal chair. Chuck did the same on his side of the wire mesh.

  Jorge’s eyes were bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved. “Boy, am I glad to see you, Chuck.”

  Chuck studied his friend through the wire barrier and tried to smile. It wasn’t easy. “You look like death warmed over, amigo.”

  Jorge rubbed his stubbled cheek. “I feel worse than I look. I didn’t sleep all night.”

  “You should’ve called me as soon as they arrested you.”

  “I thought it was a misunderstanding. I figured that as soon as I explained everything, they’d take me back home. Instead, they processed me into a cell and slammed the door. Next thing I know, it’s 6:00 a.m. and they’re serving breakfast. I decided to eat before I called you.”

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  Jorge’s eyes widened. “I didn’t do it, Chuck. I’ve said that all night long to anybody who’d listen.” His hands shook. “But no one pays any attention. They won’t listen to me. Nobody will listen to me.”

  “Kleinschmidt said ‘that rat bastard Franco.’ Is this about the Garrison Franco murder?”

  Jorge nodded and started to speak.

  Chuck raised both hands to stop him. “I know you’re pissed, Jorge, but don’t say anything more about the case. Nothing you tell me is privileged. Don’t talk about the case with anyone until your attorney retains me. And don’t talk to any cops—even to deny you did it.”

  Jorge looked about to protest.

  “I mean it, amigo. Don’t talk to anyone, friend or stranger. Right now, the cops aren’t on your side.” He leaned toward the plastic partition and lowered his voice. “Nobody around here is on your side.”

  Jorge scowled. “I get so frustrated that they all think I did it.” He slammed the metal counter with a fist.

  “Easy, big fellow. You heard the sergeant. Even if they think you whacked him, they consider it a public service. Who’s your attorney?”

  He glanced at the sergeant standing against the wall. “I can’t afford an attorney. I’ll have to take my chances with a public defender.”

  “Okay. At your arraignment, the judge will allow you to ask for a PD. Who was the arresting officer?”

  “Kelly Contreras and Bigs Bigelow.”

  That was a break. “I’ll talk to them and poke around a little. I’ll come back tomorrow and find out who your attorney is. I’ll get the public defender to retain me, so my work will come under their attorney-client privilege.”

  Chuck gestured at the institutional green walls. “Then we can meet in an interview room without this partition and without an audience.” He pointed to Sergeant Kleinschmidt at the wall. “You can tell me all about this mess, but not here and not now.”

  “Sure, Chuck.”

  “Anything you need? Anybody you want me to call?”

  “I’ve talked to Karen and my parents. And Dan knows, of course. But how the hell can I pay you?”

  “You and I go back a long way, amigo. Remember when you took that bullet for me?”

  Jorge smiled a little. “Just a flesh wound.”

  Chuck remembered his time on the force with Jorge. Chuck was a rookie and it was his first time to break up a fight between rival gangs. Police policy was to respond in force and arrest the leaders of both gangs. Chuck made the mistake of trying to be a peacemaker. He stepped between the two gangs. Jorge, standing on the sidelines where Chuck should have been, saw one gangbanger aim a pistol at Chuck’s back. Jorge shouted a warning and tackled Chuck as the gangbanger fired. The bullet hit Jorge instead of Chuck.

  “If you hadn’t knocked me to the ground… Let’s just say that I’m not worried about money right now.”

  “Well I am.” Jorge put a hand on the counter. “You gotta make a living, and I don’t have that kind of money. And don’t give me your crap about truth, justice, and the American way.” He looked down at the counter. “I wasn’t thinking clearly when I called you.”

  Chuck stopped him. “Jorge, you’ve had my back more than once. Now it’s my turn. I just collected a large check from another client—and I mean large—so I have enough money to last for the duration. I’ll put your fee on the cuff. After we get you out of this, you’ll find a way to pay me. Or not. I don’t care much either way.”

  Jorge started to object and Chuck raised a hand. “Don’t say another word about money until t
his is over. You know what I always say about friendship.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What are friends for, if you can’t use and abuse them once in a while?”

  Chapter 4

  When Kelly Contreras was promoted to detective, she’d tried wearing tailored jackets in various sizes so she could wear her badge on the pocket like the male detectives did. Whatever size she tried, her ample bosom and service pistol combined to make it look like either a straitjacket or a circus tent. She tried wearing her shield on her shirt pocket, but it just called more attention to her breasts. So, she’d decided to wear it clipped to her gun belt. She’d wanted the formality that male detectives achieved by wearing a tie and had settled that by wearing a scarf around her neck. Today she’d chosen a gold and black one and tied it just above her white silk shirt.

  Kelly glanced up from her desk in the squad room of the North Shore Precinct when Chuck McCrary walked in. She patted her hair into place and straightened her scarf. She’d had a crush on Chuck when he’d been a detective there, but the guy had been oblivious to her hints. After he left the force, he’d taken up with Terry Kovacs, a patrol cop from the same precinct. Oh well, it just wasn’t meant to be, she thought as she waved Chuck over. “Nice to see you, Chuck. I was glad you called. I know how close you and Jorge are.”

  “Thanks for seeing me, Kelly. Where’s your partner?”

  “Bigs went to pick up lunch. He’ll be back. Make yourself at home.” She gestured to the visitor’s chair. God, he looks good in that suit and tie.

  Chuck sat. “I saw your picture on the front page of the local section this morning. I guess the break in the case the Pee-Jay was referring to was the arrest of Jorge.”

  Kelly reached over and put her hand on Chuck’s. “I can’t begin to tell you how bad I feel about arresting Jorge. But the lieutenant always says to follow the evidence, and that’s where it led.”

  “It’s not like I blame you for it, Kelly. You didn’t have a choice.” He smiled at her and she almost melted. “On the bright side, at least you looked great in the picture.”