DEAD RINGER
A Ron Shade and Alex St. James Mystery
Michael A. Black & Julie Hyzy
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Copyright 2013 / Michael A. Black & Julie Hyzy
Cover design by: David Dodd
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Authors
Michael A. Black graduated from Columbia College, Chicago in 2000 with a Master of Fine Arts degree in Fiction Writing. He previously earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Northern Illinois University. Despite his literary leanings, he has often said that police work has been his life. A former Army Military Policeman, he entered civilian law enforcement after his discharge, and for the past twenty-seven years has been a police officer in the south suburbs of Chicago.
The author of over forty articles on subjects ranging from police work to popular fiction, he has also had over thirty short stories published in various anthologies and magazines, including Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. His first novel, A Killing Frost, featuring private investigator Ron Shade, was published by Five Star in September 2002, with endorsements from such respected authors as Sara Paretsky and Andrew Vachss. The novel received universally excellent reviews, and was subsequently released in trade paperback.
He has worked in various capacities in police work including patrol supervisor, tactical squad, investigations, raid team member, and SWAT team leader. He is currently a sergeant on the Matteson, Illinois Police Department. His hobbies include weightlifting, running, and the martial arts. He holds a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. It is rumored he has five cats.
Book List
Novels
A Final Judgment
A Killing Frost
Dead Ringer (with Julie Hyzy)
Freeze Me, Tender
Hostile Takeovers
Melody of Vengeance
Random Victim
The Heist
Windy City Knights
Non-Fiction
Tank: The M1A1 Abrams
Volunteering to Help Kids
New York Times bestselling author Julie Hyzy has won the Anthony, Barry, Lovey, and Derringer awards for her mystery fiction. She currently has two amateur sleuth mystery series with Penguin/Berkley Prime Crime: The White House Chef Mysteries and the Manor House Mystery series. Julie lives in the Southwest suburbs of Chicago with her patient husband and is fortunate to be able to write full time.
Book List
White House Chef Mysteries
State of the Onion
Hail to the Chef
Eggsecutive Orders
Buffalo West Wing
Affairs of Steak
Fonduing Fathers
Home of the Braised (January, 2014)
Manor House Mysteries
Grace Under Pressure
Grace Interrupted
Grace Among Thieves
Grace Takes Off
Alex St. James Mysteries
Deadly Blessings
Deadly Interest
Dead Ringer (with Michael A. Black)
Riley Drake Mysteries
Playing With Matches
www.juliehyzy.com
CONTENTS
DEAD RINGER
A Preview of Michael A. Black’s THE HEIST
DEAD RINGER
Dedication
To the writers who inspire us:
Ray Bradbury
Sue Grafton
John D. MacDonald
Stephen Marlowe
Richard S. Prather
Ken Rand
Chapter 1
Ron Shade
I was back to driving the Beater. The red Pontiac Firebird, with all its bad memories, was history. I only hoped that the guy who’d bought it had better luck with it than I did. It had originally belonged to my first love—who’d been murdered—and given to me as payment for finding her killer. I’d barely driven it a few months when someone, thinking it was me, shot a friend of mine through the window. While all the damage had been repaired, the mental scars remained, and I was happy, finally, to let it go even if it was for much less than it was worth.
Still, for me, things had turned around. Mostly. For a change, my bank account wasn’t resting just above empty, and I’d won the World’s Heavyweight Kickboxing Championship in the roughest fight of my career a few months back. I was hoping that a nice, lucrative case would come my way to sort of round out my good fortunes. So when a blast from the past, Dick MacKenzie, called me, I figured easy street was going to continue a bit longer. Big Dick, as I loved to call him, worked for Midwestern Olympia Insurance, one of the huge companies that kept me on retainer as an investigator.
And after all, I thought, what could be easier than a routine insurance investigation?
Midwestern Olympia had gone through some problems of its own back a year or so ago, riding the crest of the wave to barely avoid bankruptcy, but now they were back in the black. I’d heard that they’d cut a lot of claims from people in disaster areas and hoped that wasn’t the kind of investigation they wanted this time. Dick had worked his way up the corporate ladder and had a nice office in the huge brick building. His secretary wasn’t bad, either. She smiled and told me to sit in one of the chairs while she purred into the telephone. When she hung up, she looked up at me and said, “Mr. MacKenzie says he’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Shade.”
I nodded and spent the time taking in the scenery. The walls were papered with some kind of design that was supposed to resemble wood. Large pictures, reproductions actually, hung on the opposite wall. Early Norman Rockwell from the looks of them, one depicting an insurance adjustor inspecting a smashed-up car while a young couple stares on anxiously. The guy in the painting didn’t remind me of Dick, though. In the painting it looked like the insurance guy really gave a shit.
After about five minutes the phone on the secretary’s desk rang, and she picked it up. I figured the Great One was now ready to see me.
I walked into his office. His large figure was slumped forward, elbows on the desktop, a thick file in the center. I expected to see the overhead fluorescent lighting reflected off his bald head, but didn’t. Instead he’d acquired a full crop of new hair. Whose, I wasn’t so sure. I had to give him one thing. His desk was well organized. It looked as neat as a chessboard. As I approached, he rose to his feet with the ponderous grace of an elephant and extended a big hand with a natural salesman’s practiced smile.
“Ron, glad you could come over.”
I shook his hand and grinned. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
Dick’s smile was about as genuine as a politician’s campaign promise. He indicated the chair in front of his desk, and I sat down, studying his new hairpiece. I could see the fine netting along the front of his hairline. After exchanging a few amenities, he got right to the point.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “A big one, and we need someone reliable to check it out. Discreetly, of course, but quickly.”
I looked at him. �
�That’s a lot of adverbs.”
His brow furrowed. I could see I’d thrown him off his game.
“What’s the case?” I asked.
Dick raised his big fingers and rubbed them over his chin, like he was checking to see if his whiskers were sprouting.
“We paid out a cool twelve million a few months ago on an accidental death case,” he said. “A guy named Robert Bayless was killed in a traffic accident downstate.”
I tried to look encouraging. “And?”
“And the damn thing nearly sent us back into bankruptcy,” he said. “It was scrambling time.” He shook his head. “That last hurricane season hurt us bad. If we hadn’t been able to save on a few claims, it would have been nightmare city around here. Thank God for loopholes.”
I thought about the nightmares those people down in the flood zones were having after finding out their insurance carrier denied their claim because they didn’t have the right insurance. “Getting back to the case you wanted me to investigate . . .”
“Yeah,” he said, taking a deep breath. “One of our agents was at a convention in Las Vegas last month.” He paused again.
“And?”
Dick exhaled through his nostrils, his mouth twisting to the side as he stared at me. “And, he saw somebody that was a dead ringer for Robert Bayless in one of the casinos there.” I could tell he was gauging my reaction, so I didn’t want to disappoint him.
“Well,” I said, “was Elvis with him?”
Alex St. James
We stood in the underground garage while Bass pranced around the red Firebird like a thirteen-year-old showing off his first copy of Playboy magazine. I wondered if he’d adjusted the car’s seat forward. The guy who’d sold it to him was a lot taller, and Bass would have a hard time reaching the pedals.
“Okay, girls.” His voice had a conspiratorial sound to it. “Tell me the truth. Do the ladies dig a guy with wheels like this, or what?”
Next to me, my assistant Jordan stifled a snort. It was all I could do to keep from laughing myself.
“Bass,” I said, “you’ll be a certified chick magnet.”
He smiled and looked at the car. “I still can’t believe it. What I paid for it, I mean.” Leaning toward me, he winked. “Got it for a song and a dance, thanks to you.”
“I just passed along the info, that’s all.”
“But still, I owe you.”
I let this one pass. Having your boss feeling like he owed you wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe now he’d toss a decent story my way, instead of the fluff pieces he’d been giving me lately.
“It was quite a steal, all right,” I said.
His lips drew together and he nodded slowly, assessing the car again.
“I wonder why the guy let it go so cheap?” he muttered.
Leave it to Bass to always find the zipper to the silver lining. Once he started thinking negatively about the car, it wouldn’t take long for him to transfer that attitude toward me. Jordan, seeming to sense my concern, spoke up.
“So what’s your lady friend say about it?” she asked.
Bass shrugged. “I haven’t shown it to her yet. I was thinking maybe I’d drive this baby over and watch the expression on her face.”
Knowing Mona, that would be a real Kodak moment. But I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip by. “So, tell me, what’s the story you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Oh, that,” he said, leaning forward and using his handkerchief to swipe away a speck of dirt from the sleek fender. “It’s that piece on the homeless.”
“What? But I thought you said you had something really special for me.”
“I do.” He straightened up and slipped the handkerchief back into his pants pocket. “The piece on the homeless.”
“Bass.”
He sighed and tried to affect an earnest look. Sincerity wasn’t one of Bass’s strong suits.
“I have no choice, Alex,” he said. “The powers that be ordered it, and Gabriela refuses.”
“I’m getting tired of playing Cinderella to Gabriela’s evil stepsister. All I ever get are her cast-offs. And the grungy ones, at that.”
I’d said it half jokingly, but there was a kernel of truth to my words. Since my recent promotion from researcher to on-air personality at Midwest Focus NewsMagazine, I’d been delighted to take it slow—to learn the ropes, as it were, by covering the second-rate stories, while our primary anchor, Gabriela Van Doren, covered the hot stuff.
But the homeless story promised to be an arduous, unpleasant, and ultimately unsuccessful venture. In the past, our station tried to explore the plight of the homeless. I’d gone out countless times to interview people who made their living by panhandling or picking garbage. But by and large, the homeless didn’t appreciate intrusion. No matter how many times we attempted to interview society’s victims of poverty, we’d been rebuffed, again and again.
Bass shook his head, ignoring me as he made his way around the car for the dozenth time, his gaze locked on the vehicle. “I can’t get over it.” He ran his hand over the curve of the shiny red fender—not quite touching it. “When I drive her, she purrs,” he said quietly, as though talking to himself, “just like a satisfied woman.”
Jordan, her coffee-colored face darkening with mirth, gripped my arm. I pulled my lips tight to keep from laughing. I wondered what Mona would say if she could hear him now. But, knowing the cheery little lady, she would probably just give his arm a playful slap and remind him not to tell stories out of school.
Still, I’d had enough car-adoration to hold me over for the rest of the year. “I need to get some work done, Bass. When you can drag your tongue up from off the floor, I’ll be in my office.”
Jordan fell into step with me as I headed toward the tiny elevator that would take us upstairs. “Remember, you’ve got a lunch date in forty-five minutes.”
Was it that late? My stomach did a little flip-flop when I realized how soon I’d be face-to-face with a very important man from my past.
I threw a glance over my shoulder as the elevator dinged its arrival. “Bass will never even know I’m gone.”
Ron Shade
Dick had been prepared for my visit. He gave me a copy of the entire case file, which included a copy of Robert Bayless’s death certificate, a traffic accident report, a couple of follow-up police reports, a coroner’s report from Furman County, and a detailed report indicating that Robert Bayless had been positively identified through dental records. The body had been badly burned in the crash.
“This seems pretty complete,” I said.
“You’re damn right it is.” His voice had that familiar condescending little lilt to it. “And like I said, watch those expenses. I’ll be going over everything with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I guess you can do that now that you have a lot more hair to comb.”
He snorted. “Always the smart-ass, ain’t ya?”
“Where’s the guy who supposedly saw him?”
“Herb Winthrope. He’s off today. Be back tomorrow.”
“I’ll need to talk to him.”
He nodded absently, as if his mind was a million miles away. Or maybe a couple thousand. “Nine o’clock?”
I nodded as I continued to page through the thick file. “This a record of the payments?”
Dick grunted and winced. “Yeah. Like I said, two mil to his family, and ten to the corporation he worked for. There was a double indemnity clause.”
“For which one?”
He snorted. “Both. Why do you think we paid out the ass on this one?”
I rearranged the papers neatly in the manila file and stood up. “Well, I guess there’s nothing much I can do until tomorrow then.”
“Hey, wait just a goddamn minute.” Dick’s tone was hot. “I thought I explained to you just how important this case is to the company.”
I was always leery of someone who expressed such absolute loyalty to something as abstract as “the company.” Like some essent
ial part of their humanity was missing. After all, when I’d been in the army I’d put it all on the line for my country, my flag, the guys in my unit . . . But, for the company?
“You did an admirable job of explaining,” I said. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll leave until I can talk to your witness tomorrow.”
He started to say something, but then the bluster seemed to leak out of him, like some big balloon deflating. Even his rotund face looked deflated. His eyes went down to the top of his desk, and when he looked up I saw something in them that wasn’t usually there. A hint of desperation. He swallowed hard and said, “Ron.” His voice was hesitant and I waited for him to continue. “This case is really a big one for us. Really important. MWO might not be able to weather it if we have another bad disaster season.”
I resisted the temptation to ask if more people had made sure they had flood insurance.
He licked his lips. “So I’m going to need you to do a good job. A real good job, okay?”
I smiled before I answered. “Dick, I always do a real good job.” Then mentally added: even for assholes like you and Midwestern Olympia.
I contemplated Big Dick’s plaintive request as I drove home fighting the always-heavy traffic on the Tri-State Tollway. I’d start in earnest on the investigation tomorrow, with talking to Herb being first on the agenda. But this afternoon, I figured I owed myself a good workout. So I got off at 95th Street and headed toward the Beverly Gym. My manager and trainer, Chappie Oliver owned it, and thanks to the big money he’d won betting on our last fight, he’d been able to buy out the beauty shop next door and substantially expand the gym. The sign in the front window now proudly advertised that Ron Shade, World Heavyweight Kickboxing Champion, trained there.
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