Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  Last I heard, he had been standing trial for a bizarre crime outside a nightclub in Seal Beach, California, where Jerry Blum had uncharacteristically lost his cool and popped someone with a handgun. Yes, witnesses were everywhere.

  I asked Stuart about this, and he confirmed that his wife had indeed been one of the witnesses. She had seen the whole thing, along with five others. She had agreed to testify to what she saw, thus putting her life in mortal danger.

  I tapped my longish fingernail on the green plastic table. My fingernails tended to come to a point these days, but most people seemed not to notice, and if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. Maybe they were scared of the weird woman with pointed fingernails.

  I said, “Why do you think Jerry Blum was involved in your wife’s plane crash?”

  “Because as of today he is a free man. No witnesses, and thus no case. It’s been ruled self-defense.”

  “But we’re talking about a plane crash, and if the plane was headed to a military base, then we’re probably talking about a military aircraft.”

  “I know I sound crazy, but look at the facts. Jerry Blum has a history of silencing witnesses. This case was no different. Just a little more extravagant. Witnesses silenced, and Blum’s a free man.”

  I continued tapping. People just didn’t take down military aircrafts. Even powerful people. But the circumstantial evidence was compelling.

  Whoops! I was tapping too hard. Digging a hole in the plastic. Whoops. A vampiric woodpecker.

  I asked, “So what have federal investigators determined to be the cause of the crash?”

  “No clue,” said Stuart. “The investigation is still ongoing. Every agency on earth is involved in it. I’ve been personally interviewed by the FBI, military investigators and the FAA.”

  “Why you?”

  “No clue,” he said again. “But I think it’s because they suspect foul play.”

  I nodded but didn’t tap.

  Stuart added, “But he killed her, Sam. I know it, and I want you to help me prove it. So what do you say?”

  I thought about it. Going after a crime lord was a big deal. I would have to be careful. I didn’t want to jeopardize my family or Stuart. Myself I wasn’t too worried about.

  I nodded and he smiled, relieved. We discussed my retainer fee. We discussed, in fact, a rather sizable retainer fee, since this was going to take a lot of time and energy. He agreed to my price without blinking and I gave him my PayPal address, where he would deposit my money. I told him I would begin once the funds had been confirmed. He understood.

  We shook hands again and, once again, he barely flinched at my icy grip. And as he walked away, with the setting sun gleaming off his shining dome, all I wanted to do was run my fingers over his perfect bald head.

  I needed to get a life.

  Chapter Three

  A half hour later, I was sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot and waiting for 7:00 p.m. to roll around.

  I had already concluded that traffic was too heavy for me to get back to my hotel in time to call my kids, and so I decided to wait it out here, just off the freeway, with a view of the golden arches and the smell of French fries heavy in the air.

  My stomach growled. I think my stomach had short-term memory loss. French fries were no longer on the menu.

  The sun was about to set. For me, that’s a good thing. The western sky was ablaze in fiery oranges and reds and yellows, a beautiful reminder of the sheer amount of smog in southern California.

  I checked the clock on the dash: 6:55.

  My husband Danny made the rules. We had no official agreement regarding who could see the kids when. It was an arrangement he set up outside of the courts, because in this case he was judge, jury and executioner. A month or so ago he threatened to expose me for who I am, claiming he had evidence, and that if I fought him I would never see the kids again. Danny was proving to be far more ruthless than I ever imagined. Gone was the gentle husband I had known, replaced by something close to a monster of his own.

  Not the undead kind. Just the uncaring kind.

  For now, as hard as it was not seeing my kids, I played by his rules, biding my time.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. A small wind made its way through my open window, now bringing with it the scent of cooking beef. Maybe some McNuggets, too. I sniffed again. And fries, always the fries.

  I looked at my watch. Three minutes to go. If I called early, Danny wouldn’t answer. If I called late, then tough shit, 7:10 was my cut-off no matter what time I called. And if I called past 7:10, he wouldn’t pick up. Again, shit out of luck. The calling too late thing had only happened once, when I was in a client meeting. I vowed it wouldn’t happen again, clients be damned.

  Two minutes to go. I treasured every second I had with my kids, and I hated Danny for doing this to me. How could he turn on me like this?

  Easy, I thought. He’s afraid of you. And when people are afraid they do evil, hurtful things.

  One minute. I rolled up my window. I wanted to be able to hear my kids. I didn’t want some damn Harley coming by and drowning out little Anthony’s comically high-pitched voice, or Tammy’s too-serious recounting of that day’s school lessons.

  Thirty seconds. I had my finger over the cell phone’s send button, Danny’s home number—my old home number—already selected from my contact list and ready to go.

  Ten seconds. Outside, somewhere beyond the nearby freeway’s arching overpass, the sun was beginning to set and I was beginning to feel good. Damn good. In fact, within minutes I was about to feel stronger than I had any right to feel.

  And I was about to talk to my kids, too. A smile that I hadn’t felt all day touched my lips.

  At 7:00 p.m. on the nose, I pushed the send button. The phone rang once and Danny picked up immediately.

  “The kids aren’t here,” he said immediately in his customary monotone.

  “But—”

  “They’re with Nancy getting some ice cream.”

  Nancy was, of course, the home-wrecker. His secretary fling that had become more than a fling. The name of that witch alone nearly sent me into a psychotic rage.

  “They’re with her?”

  “Yes. They like her. We all do.”

  “When will they be back?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s none of your concern.”

  “So when can I call back?”

  “You can call back tomorrow at seven.”

  “That’s bullshit, Danny. This was my time with—”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, and hung up.

  Chapter Four

  An hour later, I was boxing at a little sparring club in downtown Fullerton, a place called Jacky’s. Jacky himself trained me, which was a rare honor these days, as the little Irishman was getting on in years. I think he either had a crush on me, or didn’t know what the hell to make of me, since I tended to destroy his boxing equipment.

  The sun had set an hour ago and I was at maximum strength. I was also still pissed off at Danny, hurt beyond words, and now the old Irishman was feeling the brunt of it.

  He was wearing brand-new punch mitts, which were those little protective pads trainers use to cover their hands. I was leveling punch after punch into his mittened hands, sometimes so rapidly that my hands were a blur even to my eyes.

  And I wasn’t just punching them, I was hitting them hard. Perhaps too hard.

  Jacky was a tough guy, even though he was pushing sixty. He was an ex-professional boxer back in Ireland who had suffered his share of broken noses, and no doubt had broken a few noses himself. I had never known him to show pain or any sign of weakness. And so when he began wincing with each punch, I knew it was time to ease up on the poor guy. He was far too tough and stubborn to lower the gloves himself and ask for a break.

  I paused in mid-strike and said, “Let’s take a break.”

  To say that Jacky was relieved would have been an understatement.

  Still, he shot ba
ck. “Is that all you got, wee girl?” he asked loudly, and, I think, for the benefit of anyone watching, since I sometimes attracted a crowd of curious onlookers, and Jacky had a tough-guy image to uphold.

  Of course, I never wanted to attract crowds of onlookers, as I generally avoid bringing attention to myself. But since that incident last month with a Marine boxer, an incident in which I put him in a hospital, well, I had become somewhat of a hero in this mostly women’s boxing club.

  “Well, I could probably go another round or two,” I said lightly to Jacky.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said.

  Jacky shook off the protective gloves. His hands were ruddier than his Irish complexion; his fingers were fat and swollen.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I had a bad night.”

  “I’d hate to get on your bad side.”

  “Doesn’t seem to worry my ex-husband.”

  “Then I say he’s not right in the head. You punch like a hammer.” He shook his head in wonder. I often caused this reaction from the old boxer, who hadn’t yet figured me out. “Harder than anyone I’ve ever trained, man or woman.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve all got our talents,” I said. “Yours, for example, is having red hair.”

  “That’s not a talent.”

  “Close enough.”

  He shook his head and held up his red hands which, if I looked hard enough at them, I could probably see throbbing.

  “I need to soak these in ice,” he said. “But if I soak these in ice, the women here will think I’m a pussycat.”

  I leaned over and kissed him on his sweating forehead. The blush that emanated from him was instant, spreading from his balding head, down into his neck.

  “But you are a pussycat,” I said.

  “Well, you’re a freak of nature, Sam.”

  Jacky, of course, didn’t realize how freaky I was. In fact, I could count on one hand the number of people who knew how freaky I was.

  “You could be a world champion,” he said. Now we were making our way over to the big punching bag.

  “I’m too old to be a world champion,” I said. Jacky was always trying to get me to fight professionally.

  He snorted. “You’re, what, thirty?”

  “Thirty-one, and thank you.”

  However, Jacky was closer than he thought. I was indeed thirty-seven calendar years old, but I was frozen in a thirty-one year old’s body.

  The age I was when I was attacked.

  Granted, if a girl had to pick an age to be immortalized in, well, thirty-one would probably be near the top of her list.

  And what happens ten years from now when you’re forty-seven but still look thirty-one? Or when your daughter is thirty-one and you still look thirty-one?

  I didn’t know, but I would cross that bridge when I got there.

  Jacky took up his position behind the punching bag. “So what’s eating at you anyway, Sam?”

  “Everything,” I said. I started punching the bag, moving around it as if it were an actual opponent, using the precise body movements Jacky had taught me. Ducking and weaving. Jabs. Hooks. Hard straight shots. Punches that would have broken jaws and teeth and noses. Jacky bared his teeth and absorbed the punches on the other side of the bag like the champion he was, or used to be. I took a small breather. So did Jacky. Sweat poured from my brow.

  “Let me guess,” said Jacky, gasping slightly, and looking as if he had taken actual physical shots to his own body. “Is it that no-good ex-husband of yours?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Does he realize you could kick his arse from here to Dublin?”

  “He realizes that,” I said. “And why Dublin?”

  “National pride,” he said. “So why don’t you go kick his fucking arse?”

  “Because kicking ass isn’t always the answer, Jacky.”

  “Works for me,” he said.

  “We’ll call that Plan B.”

  “Would be my Plan A. A good arse-kicking always clears the air.”

  I laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Break’s over. Hands up.”

  He leaned back into the bag and I unleashed another furious onslaught. Pretending the bag was my ex-husband was doing wonders for me.

  “You’re sweating like a pig, Sam,” screamed Jacky. “I like that!”

  “You like pig sweat?”

  He just shook his head and screamed at me to keep my fists up. I grinned and unleashed a flurry of punches that rocked the bag and nearly sent little Jacky flying, and attracted a small group of women who gathered nearby to watch the freak.

  And as I punched and sweated and kept my fists up, I knew that fighting Danny wasn’t the answer. Luckily, there were other ways to fight back.

  Chapter Five

  After a long shower and a few phone calls to some friends working in the federal government, I was at El Torito Bar and Grill in Brea—just a hop, skip and a jump from my hotel.

  I was wearing jeans and a turtle neck sweater. Not because it was cold outside, but because I looked so damn cute in turtle neck sweaters. The stiff-looking man sitting across from me seemed to think so, too. Special Agent Greg Lomax, lead investigator with the FBI, was in full flirt mode, and it was all I could do to keep him on track. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked so cute, after all.

  Damn my cuteness.

  El Torito is loud and open. The loudness and openness was actually of benefit for anyone having a private conversation, which was probably why Greg had chosen it.

  Personally, I found the noise level here a bit overwhelming, but then again, I’m also just a sweet and sensitive woman.

  It was either that or my supernaturally acute hearing that quite literally picked up every clattering dish, scraping fork, and far ruder sounds best not described. And, of course, picked up the babble of ceaseless conversations. If I wanted to I could generally make out any individual conversation within any room. Handy for a P.I., trust me. Granted, I couldn’t hear through walls or anything, but sounds that most people could hear, well, I could just hear that much better.

  “Lots of people over at HUD talk very highly of you,” he said.

  “I gave them the best seven years of my life,” I said.

  “And then you came down with some sort of, what, rare skin disease or something?”

  “Or something,” I said.

  “Now you work private,” he said.

  “Yes. A P.I.”

  “How’s that working out?”

  “It’s good to be my own boss,” I said. “Now I give myself weekly pay raises and extra long coffee breaks.”

  He grinned. “That’s cute. Anyway, I was told to tell you what I could. So ask away. If I can’t talk about something, or I just don’t know the answer, I’ll tell you.”

  We were sitting opposite each other in a far booth in the far corner of the bar. I was sipping some house zinfandel, and he was drinking a Jack and Coke. White wine and water were about the only two liquids I could consume. Well, that and something else.

  Just thinking about that something else immediately turned my stomach.

  I said, “So do you think the crash was an accident?”

  “You get right to the point,” he said. “I like that.”

  “Must be the investigator in me.”

  He nodded, drank some more Jack and Coke. “No, this wasn’t an accident. We know that much.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He smiled. “We just know.”

  “Okay. So how did the plane crash?”

  “All signs point to sabotage.”

  “Sabotage how?”

  He was debating how much to tell me. I could almost see the wheels working behind his flirtatious eyes. No doubt he was computing the amount of information he could still give me and still not give up any real government secrets, and yet leave me satisfied enough to sleep with him tonight. A complex formula for sure.

  Men are better at math than they realize.<
br />
  He said, “Someone planted a small explosive in the rudder gears. The pilot heard the explosion, reported it immediately, and then reported that he had lost all control of the plane. Ten minutes later the plane crashed into the side of the San Bernardino Mountains.”

  “And everyone on board was killed?”

  “Yes. Instantly.”

  “Is there any reason to believe that these key witnesses were killed to keep them from testifying?”

  “There is every reason to believe that. It’s the only motive we have.” He drank the rest of his Jack and Coke. “Except there’s one problem: our number one suspect was in jail at the time of the crash.”

  The waiter came by and dropped off another drink for Greg. Perhaps the waiters here at El Torito Bar and Grill were psychic. Greg picked up his drink and sipped it.

  “It would take a lot of pull to sabotage a military plane,” I said.

  “Not as much as you might think,” said Greg. “This was a DC-12, and the contract the government has with them stipulates that the makers of the planes get to use their own mechanics.”

  “So the mechanic was a civilian.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you found the mechanic?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Dead in his apartment in L.A.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Gunshot in the mouth.”

  “Suicide?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  I followed up with this some more, but Greg seemed to have reached the limit of what he was willing to tell me.

  Greg motioned to my half-finished drink. “You going to finish that?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You want to head over to my place and, you know, talk some more about what it’s like giving yourself raises?”

  I said, “When you say ‘talk’ don’t you really mean boff my brains out?”