Second Chance

by Renee Pawlish

  “Besides the gun, what other evidence was found at the crime scene?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “You can talk to Herb’s lawyer. His name is Gil Cassidy.”

  She gave me his address and phone number, and I jotted that down. I stared at my handwriting for a moment. I didn’t have a lot to go on. “Do you work?”

  “Not any more. I was a secretary at a doctor’s office, until I had Peggy. She’s our daughter. She’s two. She’s been staying with my parents in Texas. We sent her there during the trial because I wanted to be in court with Herb. You can call me at home, anytime you need anything.” She gave me the number.

  “Is your husband at the Denver County Jail?”

  She nodded. “He’ll be transferred to prison sometime next week.”

  I stood up. “I’ll do some poking around and see what I can find. I’ll call you in a day or two with an update.”

  For the first time she smiled. “Thank you.”

  She got up, and I escorted her out to the hallway. Her eyes held relief as she thanked me again. I waited until she went downstairs, and then I went back into my inner office. I spent a few minutes creating a file for Herb Washburn. Then I took a pack of Lucky Strikes from my pocket, lit one, and stared at its glowing end. I used to smoke Camels, but Luckies were included in the C rations I received during the war, and I got hooked on them. Images of the war flashed in my mind, and I forced them back. Then my mind returned to Herb Washburn. I took a drag on the cigarette and thought about him.

  There was a very good reason he’d been convicted of killing Melvin Templeton. All the evidence pointed to it. But what if Herb was innocent? Who else had a motive to kill Templeton? I didn’t know anything about Templeton, or Herb, for that matter. I was going to have to dig deep for answers. I’d need to talk to Herb, but the first thing I wanted to do was familiarize myself with the crime scene.

  I took one last drag on the cigarette, crushed it out, then grabbed my fedora and headed out the door.

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  A NOTE FROM RENÉE

  Thank you for reading Second Chance. I hope you enjoyed it. You might also like the Reed Ferguson mystery series. They are about a present-day private investigator with a love of film noir. The stories are full of suspense and humor. The first in this award-winning series is This Doesn’t Happen In The Movies, and Reed finds himself helping a femme fatale search for her missing husband.

  Turn the page for a sample of THIS DOESN’T HAPPEN IN THE MOVIES!

  THIS DOESN’T HAPPEN IN THE MOVIES SAMPLE

  “I want you to find my dead husband.”

  “Excuse me?” That was my first reaction.

  “I want you to find my husband. He’s dead, and I need to know where he is.” She spoke in a voice one sexy note below middle C.

  “Uh-huh.” That was my second reaction. Really slick.

  Moments before, when I saw her standing in the outer room, waiting to come into my office, I had the feeling she’d be trouble. And now, with that intro, I knew it.

  “He’s dead, and I need you to find him.” If she wasn’t tired of the repetition, I was, but I couldn’t seem to get my mouth working. She sat in the cushy black leather chair on the other side of my desk, exhaling money with every sultry breath. She had beautiful blond hair with just a hint of darker color at the roots, blue eyes like a cold mountain lake, and a smile that would slay Adonis. I’d like to say that a beautiful woman couldn’t influence me by her beauty alone. I’d like to say it, but I can’t.

  “Why didn’t you come see me yesterday?” I asked. Her eyes widened in surprise. This detective misses nothing, I thought, mentally patting myself on the back. She didn’t know that I’d definitely noticed her yesterday eating at a deli across the street. I had been staring out the window, and there she was.

  The shoulders of her red designer jacket went up a half-inch and back down, then her full lips curled into the trace of a smile. “I came here to see you, but you were leaving for lunch. I followed you, and then I lost my nerve.”

  “I see you’ve regained it.” I’ve never been one to place too much importance on my looks, but I suddenly wished I could run a comb through my hair, put on a nicer shirt, and splash on a little cologne. And change my eye color – hazel – boring. It sounded like someone’s old, spinster aunt, not an eye color.

  She nodded. “Yes. I have to find out about my husband. He’s dead, I know it. I just know it.” Her tone swayed as if in a cool breeze, with no hint of the desperation that should’ve been carried in the words.

  “But he’s also missing,” I said in a tone bordering on flippant, as I leaned forward to unlock the desk drawer where I kept spare change, paper clips, and my favorite gold pen. Maybe writing things down would help me concentrate. But I caught a whiff of something elegant coming from her direction, and the key I was holding missed the lock by a good two inches. I hoped she didn’t see my blunder. I felt my face getting warm and assumed my cheeks were turning crimson. I hoped she didn’t see that either.

  Perhaps I was being too glib because she glanced back toward the door as if she had mistaken my office for another. “This is the Ferguson Detective Agency? You are Reed Ferguson?”

  “It is and I am.” I smiled in my most assured manner, then immediately questioned what I was doing. This woman was making no sense and here I was, flirting with her like a high-school jock. I glanced behind her at the framed movie poster from the The Big Sleep, starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It was one of my favorites, and I hung the poster in my office as a sort of inspiration. I wanted to be as cool as Bogie. I wondered what he would do right now.

  She puckered pink lips at me. “I need your help.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Now I sounded cocky.

  The pucker turned into a fully developed frown. “I’m very serious, Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Reed.” I furrowed my brow and looked at my potential first client with as serious an expression as I could muster. I noticed for the first time that she applied her makeup a bit heavy, in an attempt to cover blemishes.

  “Reed,” she said. “Let me explain.” Now we were getting somewhere. I found the gold pen, popped the top off it and scrounged around another drawer for a notepad. “My name is Amanda Ghering.” She spoke in an even tone, bland, like she was reading a grocery list. “My husband, Peter, left on a business trip three weeks ago yesterday. He was supposed to return on Monday, but he didn’t.”

  Today was Thursday. I wondered what she’d been doing since Monday. “Did you report this to the police?”

  She raised a hand to stop me. “Please. I already have and they gave me the standard response, ‘Give it some time, he’ll show up.’ ”

  That one puzzled me. The police wouldn’t file a missing persons case for twenty-four hours, but after that, I was certain they would do something more. “They didn’t do anything?”

  “They asked me some questions, said they would make a few calls to the airlines.” Amanda paused. “They were more concerned about my relationship with Peter,” she said, gazing out the window behind me. The only thing she would see was an incredible view of a renovated warehouse across the street. For a brief moment, her face was flushed in as deep a sadness as I’d ever seen. Then it was gone, replaced by a foggy look when she turned back to me. “You see, Peter wasn’t exactly what you’d call a faithful husband.” She frowned, creating wrinkles on an otherwise perfect face. “Well, that’s not completely true. He was faithful, to his libido at least. But not to our marriage.” I paraphrased the last couple of sentences on the notepad. “He travels quite a bit with his company, computer consulting, so he has ample opportunity to dally. And he never tries hard to conceal what he’s doing.”

  “Did you tell the police all of this?”

  “Yes. I believe that’s why they’re not doing that much. That, and the fact that there appears to be no foul play, has kept them from doing little more than paperwork.”

 
“You’re afraid they’re not treating his disappearance seriously.”

  “Exactly.”

  I scratched my chin with the pen. “I’d have to disagree with you about that.” I didn’t have much experience – okay I didn’t have any experience – but in the tons of detective books I’d read and all the movies I’d seen the police would treat someone of Amanda’s obvious wealth with some concern. At least until she gave them a reason not to.

  “They don’t have the resources to track him down,” she countered. “That’s left up to me, which is what I’m here to do.”

  “And this way you also keep any nasty details private.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why come to me?”

  Amanda glanced around the sparsely furnished office and the stark white walls decorated with nothing more than movie posters, as if she were second-guessing her choice of detectives. “You came recommended. I know you’re not licensed but…”

  “You don’t have to be in the state of Colorado,” I interrupted. Anyone who wanted to could be a detective here, just hang up a sign. Hell, you didn’t even need a gun. I could testify to that. Never had one, never shot one.

  She waved a hand at me. “I don’t care if you’re licensed or not. I know your background. You come from a well-to-do family; you know when to be discreet.”

  I came recommended. Now that caught my curiosity. The only thing I’d done was to help a wealthy friend of my father track down an old business partner. It was slightly dangerous but not noteworthy, and at the time I didn’t have an office or a business. I had been between jobs, so I decided to pursue an old dream. I hung up a shingle to try my hand at detecting. I loved old detective novels, had read everything from Rex Stout and Dashiell Hammett to Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain. I’d watched Humphrey Bogart, William Powell, and all the classic film noir movies. I pictured myself just like those great detectives. Well, maybe not. But I was going to try.

  “Who recommended me?” I asked. The list was surely small.

  “A friend at my club.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Paul Burrows. Do you know him?”

  I shook my head. “Does he know my father?” I assumed he was someone who’d heard about me helping my father’s friend.

  “I don’t know, but Paul said you were good, and that you could use the work.”

  She was right about that. I lived comfortably off an inheritance from my obscenely rich grandparents, plus some smart investments I’d made over the years, so I’d never had a real career. I had always wanted to work in law enforcement, but my parents had talked me out of that. Instead, I got a law degree, flitted from job to job, and disappointed my father because I never stuck with anything. I hoped being a detective would change all that; it was something I’d always wanted to do, but my father still thought I was playing around. I needed to solve a real case to prove him wrong.

  “Are you a fan of old movies?” Amanda asked, noticing the posters for the first time.

  I nodded. “I like old movies, but especially detective film noir.”

  “Film noir?”

  I pointed to a different poster on another wall of The Maltese Falcon, one of Bogie’s most famous movies. “Movies with hard-boiled detectives, dark themes, and dark characters.”

  “And dark women?” Amanda said.

  I kept a straight face as I gazed at Lauren Bacall. “Yeah, that too.”

  “I hope you’re as good as Sam Spade,” Amanda said.

  I watched her cross one shapely leg over the other, her red wool skirt edging up her thigh. Trouble. Just like I’d thought before. I should have run out of my own office, but I didn’t. I know what you’re thinking, it’s her beauty. No, it was what she said next that complicated things immensely.

  “I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes.” Saying that, she pulled a stack of bills from her purse. I crossed my arms and contemplated her. This sounded like I’d just be chasing after a philandering husband. Not exciting at all, even though I had little basis for making that assumption, other than what I’d read in books. But a voice inside my head said that making money meant it was a real job, right?

  I named my daily wage, plus expenses. It was top dollar, but she didn’t blink. And I had my first real case. What would my father say to that?

  *****

  “Let’s start with you clarifying a couple of things,” I said. Moments before Amanda had inked her name on a standard contract, officially making her my first client. “How do you know your husband’s dead and not just missing?”

  Amanda sighed. “Because he would’ve called me, kept in touch, and I haven’t heard a word from him.”

  “But if he was out with someone else?”

  She shook her head. “No, he always calls. He pretends things are normal. We have our routine and he always follows it. Only this time he didn’t.”

  “But he knew?”

  “That I knew?”

  I nodded. She nodded. “Yes, he knew.”

  I resisted the urge to continue the Dr. Seuss rhyme. “So he hasn’t called you, but what makes you jump to the conclusion that his not calling means he’s dead?” I leaned back in my chair, tipping it up on two legs. “What if he wanted to disappear, or he’s fallen in love with someone else and has run off with her?”

  Amanda emitted a very unladylike snort. “Peter’s not capable of love, so it’s impossible for him to leave me. Not for that reason, anyway.”

  “Have you given him another reason to leave?”

  She hesitated. “I was going to kill him.”

  We moved out of the realm of boring. The chair legs hit the floor hard. “Excuse me?”

  “I was going to kill him,” she repeated. She stared down at her hands and ticked items off on an index finger. “For the insurance money and the inheritance. Well over five million. Besides that, I would get my freedom from the farce of our marriage.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were detailing a cooking recipe. “I was trying to figure out a way to do it. I couldn’t make it look like a suicide, because I’d lose out on the insurance money. I couldn’t murder him, because I couldn’t guarantee getting away with it, and I might not get any money that way either. A domestic dispute gone bad was out of the question because Peter wouldn’t hit a rabid dog, let alone his wife. I was left with creating an accident. Only I never could figure out what to do. Help him lose control and drive off a snowy mountain road? Too much risk for me. Electric shock of some sort? But how could I pull that off? Poison? But with what, and how to keep it from being discovered?” Her breasts lifted and sank in a deep sigh. “I finally gave up,” she said and looked me straight in the eye. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Blurting out her plans like that intrigued me. Bogie never had it this easy. “But he’s disappeared,” I came back to the original point. “How do I know that you didn’t have him killed?”

  “Why would I hire you?”

  “To make it look like you weren’t involved.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. First of all, I wouldn’t know where to start. And as I said, I gave up the idea of killing him.”

  “Then how do you know he’s dead? If he knew you wanted him dead, that’s a lot of motivation not to come home.”

  “He didn’t know anything about it.”

  “But you just said that he might not come home because he knew you were trying to kill him.”

  She emitted an exasperated sigh. “Peter never knew anything,” she said again.

  “How do you know?”

  She spoke to me like I was the class dunce. “All Peter knew was that our marriage, and his money, were in jeopardy. When I was considering what I might do to him, I was less,” she struggled to find the right words, “less than kind to him. Cold. Indifferent. He sensed that. Then I decided I was being foolish, so I resumed the game. Things were back to normal, whatever that was. He didn’t have any reason not to come home.”

  I sat back again, feeling like I�
��d missed the answer to a test question. “So I’m supposed to find your presumably dead husband, whom you wanted to kill, but deny that you did, and now that he’s gone, you want him back.”

  “Yes,” she said, exasperated.

  “Fine,” I said.

  I should’ve run, right then. I should’ve, but I didn’t.

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  What Others Are Saying About Nephilim Genesis of Evil by Renée Pawlish

  5 Star Review

  Stephen King and Dean Koontz have long been known as masters of horror. I believe you can add Renee Pawlish to that list… The plot is entrancing. It grabbed my attention from the beginning and held it to the end.

  Readers’ Favorite

  A Spooky Blend of Biblical Intrigue and Modern Paranormal

  This book is clearly written by a pro. The scenes are colored with rich description, depth of character and a cast that is reminiscent of Henry Fonda's On Golden Pond. However, there is an evil in this story that FINALLY brings the Nephilim to life and uncovers the dark secrets that scripture has kept hidden for millennium. If you enjoy reading supernatural fiction that meshes our distant past and the present, you will enjoy this most excellent book.

  Kindle Book Review

  I Couldn't Put It Down!

  This book grabs you immediately and it doesn't turn you loose until you've read the last word. Carefully plan when you will begin reading it because it's more than likely you won't be able to put it down. Renee Pawlish is now on my favorite writer list and it's not a long one.

  Bert Carson, author of Southern Investigation

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