by Mike Faricy
I rang the doorbell and peeked in the front picture window, the living room was empty, not so much as a dust bunny on the floor. Peeking in the bedroom window revealed the same result, complete and total emptiness.
I sat in my car and dialed the agent’s number from off the sign.
“This is Kevin,” he answered after a couple of rings.
I read Sue White’s address to him off the front of the house and told him I might be interested.
“That’s a very motivated seller and that property is priced to move. It’s a great location, school just three blocks away, stable area, not too many turnovers pop up in that neighborhood.”
“How long has it been on the market?”
“I’ve had that listing for maybe ten days, we’re just coming into the season and after the long winter I don’t expect it to be available for much longer.”
“Where did they move to?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’m actually dealing with an attorney who represents the owner. They seem pretty tight lipped. That usually suggests a death or something. But it’s been inspected. I’ve got the Truth in Housing report. Now the furnace is only four years old…”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“Okay, relax, will you? Apology accepted. The flowers are beautiful, Dev, and thanks for bringing these bottles of Prosecco. Mmm-mmm, God, I just love Thai, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Heidi, I do. Hey, can I ask you a sort of business question?”
“Sure,” she said, then kind of partially turned her head and asked, “What’s up?”
“Just a general question. I’m trying to get a handle on a guy. If you were a real estate sort of developer kind of guy and you’d taken a pounding in the crash…”
“Virtually everyone did, Dev,” she said then filled her glass.
“Yeah, okay, so if you could choose any area of the country, any city, where would be the best place to go to for a fresh start?”
“That depends,” she said, holding her glass and watching as the bubbles rose to the top.
“Depends on?”
“Well, are you talking commercial or residential?”
“I’m pretty sure commercial.”
“Okay, commercial. Then it depends sort of on when. If you started or maybe we should say, restarted in 2007 or eight you might go to the usual places. L.A., maybe Seattle, Charleston, maybe outside D.C. somewhere, although D.C. would take really deep pockets right out of the starting gate. Another place, again we’re talking commercial would be Vegas, the housing end of things was bad, but commercial hung on. But, if you didn’t go right after the crash, maybe waited till 2010 or so, actually no romance, but North Dakota could be a big possibility.”
“I don’t think North Dakota would be the place.”
“Just depends, I guess. You’re not having any?” Heidi asked and held her glass out to be refilled.
“I’m pacing myself. Hey, I got one of your favorite desserts…”
“You are such a sweetie,” she said, then flared her eyes in my direction.
I think I was more dead than alive when I woke. Over the course of the evening I had become a fan of Prosecco, at least when Heidi drank the better part of two bottles and then turned her undivided attention toward me. She lay next to me, groaning out another one of her deep Prosecco snores. We’d used her Jacuzzi, the top of her dresser and from the looks of things a number of different angles in her bed. She laid beside me, crossways across the bed, wearing a very contented look and one high heeled, black, knee high boot. It was a little after four in the morning when I heard my cell phone ring.
Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling.
I was searching for my jeans. My cell was in the pocket. I followed the ringing noise and found my jeans right where Heidi tore them off out in the hallway.
As I answered I looked back in at Heidi. She was illuminated by the light coming from the scented candles still flickering in the bathroom. Her skin glowed almost iridescent in the soft light and contrasted beautifully with the recent jet black dye job on her hair. Her sleep seemed unfazed by my phone ringing.
“Hello.”
“Mmm-mmm, this wouldn’t happen to be Haskell Investigations, would it?” Danielle’s sexy voice asked.
I paused for a moment, then said, “No, sorry, you have the wrong number,” and hung up.
The End
Thanks for taking the time to read Ting-A-Ling: (Case 7). If you enjoyed Dev’s adventure please tell 2-300 of your closest friends. Then check out the free sample of my latest top secret project, Corridor Man just after the list of all my titles available on Amazon.
Slow, Slow Quick, Quick
Baby Grand
Chow For Now
Merlot
Finders Keepers
End of The Line
The Dev Haskell Case - Private Investigator Series:
Russian Roulette
Mr. Swirlee
Bite Me
Bombshell
Tutti Frutti
Last Shot
Ting-A-Ling
Irish Dukes (Fight Card Series)
written under the pseudonym Jack Tunney
Look for Corridor Man due out in May, 2014
Visit http://www.mikefaricy.com
Email; [email protected]
Twitter; @mikefaricybooks
On Facebook; Mike Faricy Books and Dev Haskell.
Corridor Man
Prologue
They pulled up alongside Sexton’s, a neighborhood institution known since the dawn of time for cheeseburgers and homemade fries. Directly across the street a neighbor was cutting lilacs along a cyclone fence. She gave them no more than a passing glance. Later, when interviewed by the police she could only describe the vehicle as ‘large’ and would get the color wrong, insisting it was black. She was unable to describe any of the individuals or tell the police how many there had been.
The driver remained behind the wheel, shielding his face with his left hand pretending to talk on a cell phone. His two passengers quickly entered by the side door and casually approached the bar. The taller of the two ordered a couple of beers, buying time to get the lay of the place while they waited. He was ginger haired and neatly dressed in a casual sort of way.
Kevin O’Brien, their intended target, sat on his usual stool at the far end of the bar with his back to the door. He was involved in a phone conversation and scanned the newspaper as he talked.
There was the bartender, which was to be expected, and unfortunately, a table with two, thirty-something sisters lingering over a late lunch. They couldn’t see any wait staff as they glanced around and they completely missed Kate Clarken, passed out in the corner booth next to the front door.
The bartender placed their beers on two round coasters then slid the frosted pints across the bar. “You interested in some lunch menus?”
They glanced at one another for a long moment as if weighing their options then nodded in unison and pulled out the Glocks. They looked overly large, the Glocks. Of course the four inch silencers screwed onto the end of the barrels would do that.
The one with dark hair calmly raised his weapon from a distance of no more than two feet and placed a round into the bartender’s forehead. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the bar’s selection of thirty-six different whiskeys.
At the far end of the bar O’Brien remained involved in his phone conversation, oblivious. He began to turn on his stool as the ginger-haired assailant approached. The Glock spit a round through the cell phone and out the far side of his head.
Before they could get their screams out the dark haired shooter had turned from the bartender and shot both women. The bleached blonde was dead before she hit the floor. Her
sister sort of jumped backward in her chair as the slug slammed into her chest. The shooter fired a second round into her chin just to be sure.
They quickly walked to the rear of the place, calmly checked the kitchen area and both restrooms, but didn’t see a soul. They exited the same way they’d entered a few minutes earlier, climbed into the burgundy Cadillac Escalade and calmly drove off.
The woman across the street was just bringing her lilacs in through the back door lost in the lovely fragrance.
It would be close to twenty minutes before the police were called, and another four or five minutes before they actually arrived. Kate Clarken was still passed out in the front booth when they entered the gruesome scene.
Chapter One
It was moving day and I was all packed, waiting and looking out the front window for my baby brother to pull up. All my worldly possessions were stuffed in a worn black suitcase and three brown paper grocery bags with handles. I had everything lined up out in the hall near the front door of the halfway house.
I’d filled out and submitted my paperwork almost a month ago. At seven-thirty this morning I’d said my goodbyes while standing in the kitchen sipping coffee. Now it was just a matter of my brother and his get-away vehicle to deliver me from this hell-hole. He was an hour-and-a-half late and counting.
I know, everyone is supposed to learn patience in prison. I learned a number of things. Don’t react. Don’t take offense. Be nice to the correction officers. But as for patience, well three out of four ain’t bad.
I counted the days, one-thousand-four-hundred-and-ninety-eight of them, just a little over four years, every day about twenty-eight hours long. One hell of a price to pay for my minor dalliance with a trust fund. Add to that my divorce, estrangement from just about everyone who ever knew me and last, but not least, my disbarment. I didn’t expect the Minnesota Bar to be in a rush to readmit me anytime soon.
“Everything okay, Nigel?”
I focused on the empty street outside and hadn’t heard Baker creep up behind me. He was one of the counselors, not that he was ever much help to anyone, worthless might be a more accurate description. He slurped from the coffee mug surgically attached to his right hand. At least half-a-dozen Oreo cookies were crammed in his left hand, another two or three stuffed in his mouth. He wore his usual sandals, shorts and the black t-shirt emblazoned with the moniker ‘Got Change?’ that served as the staff uniform.
“Think maybe he forgot?” Baker actually sounded serious.
“No,” I said turning back to the window. “It’s my brother. He’s got kids, little guys, twins actually so he’s always running a bit late.” Andrew didn’t have twins. As a matter of fact he didn’t have any children. You’d have to have sex with your wife before you could bring children into the relationship. I didn’t think Fern was interested in sex, it might mess her hair.
“Alright. Course you know our policy,” Baker droned then slurped more coffee. “We really can’t release unless a vetted, qualified individual integrates…”
I tuned him out. Baker quoting chapter and verse policy in-between tossing more Oreos into his big mouth was not what I needed just now. Andrew was now an-hour-and-fifty-minutes late.
“Think we should make a phone call or maybe reschedule?”
“No, I’m sure he’ll show up in a couple of minutes.”
“Got your key to the new place?”
“Yeah, I got the key.” I’d been clenching the damn thing for the past three hours.
“Any problems you know we’re always available.”
“I don’t plan on any problems.”
“If you say so,” he shrugged not sounding at all convinced. He tossed the last of the Oreo’s into his mouth, absently wiped his hand across his beer belly then trundled off to the kitchen. No doubt ravenous after the counseling session he’d just provided.
Andrew’s red Subaru pulled to the curb just as Baker pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen.
“He’s here.” I shouted like a nine-year-old waiting for Santa Claus. I pulled the front door open, gathered my possessions and raced out the door.
Andrew sat behind the wheel looking more grim faced than usual. He gave the slightest of nods and pushed a button on the dash. I heard an audible click as the back hatch unlocked. He gave another nod with his head indicating the rear of the car. I placed everything in the far back then climbed in the rear seat directly behind Andrew and as far away as possible from my sister-in -law, Fern.
Her hair looked perfect, her face betrayed no emotion. She wore diamond post earrings and some sort of designer top. A fragile chain hung around her shapely neck, no doubt some diamond pendant dangled on her chest. If I had to guess, I’d say she’d been clenching her jaw since she learned they were going to serve as my designated driver. Her door was locked and she stared straight ahead, not that you could really tell behind her designer sunglasses.
“Need to sign out or anything? Maybe turn in a key?” Andrew asked. He eyed me cautiously in his rearview mirror.
“No. I’m good to go.”
“You’re sure? We really don’t need you doing something stupid, again. Creating some sort of incident this morning,” Fern said. She continued to stare straight ahead.
“Thanks for coming to get me. I really appreciate it.”
“We really didn’t have much choice now did we, Nigel?” Fern replied.
Andrew exhaled audibly, then put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. I buckled up for safety.
No one spoke on the way over to my new, efficiency apartment. Fern stared silently out the window oozing toxic displeasure. I felt like telling her I’d been locked up with rapists and murderers for the last four years and if she didn’t put a smile on her surgically enhanced face I was going to get a couple of them after her. I’m not sure she would have been intimidated. Besides I didn’t really know any. I’d been in the minimum security facility out in Otisville, New York. The worst I’d be able to conjure up would be an irate financial adviser with a penchant for spanking.
We sped across town in almost complete silence, the exception being Fern’s occasional sigh. Fourteen very long minutes later Andrew rounded a corner and screeched to a stop. We were a good half-dozen car lengths from the front door of the apartment building. Fern glanced over at him. I felt the heat from her glare all the way in the back seat.
Andrew pressed a button and unlocked the rear hatch.
I climbed out into the fresh air. Placed my suitcase on the sidewalk, gathered up my paper bags and closed the hatch. Fern leaned toward Andrew slightly, I could see her lips curl and move, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. Andrew motioned me over with his finger then lowered his window.
“Thanks for signing for me, guys. I appreciate…”
“Nigel, I think it would be best if we didn’t hear from you.”
“Ever,” Fern added leaning forward.
Then he raised his window and they drove off.
Chapter Two
It was probably a good thing they didn’t come up to my third floor efficiency. I’m not sure there would have been room for the three of us. Fortunately I didn’t own any furniture so there was a little space to move around.
I had a nice view of the dumpster and the recycling containers out my window. The kitchen counter was a sort of dingy-white Formica with a gray spot worn through on either side of the metal kitchen sink. A protective coating of crumbs was scattered across the counter, either very old bread or chocolate cake. I wasn’t planning on doing a taste-test to find out.
The faucet had an audible drip pattern that dinged as it hit the aluminum sink. The former tenants were kind enough to leave half a tomato and some milk for me in the refrigerator. At least I think it was a tomato, the light didn’t work in the fridge so I wasn’t sure.
&
nbsp; Whoever the last person in the bathroom was, they’d forgotten to flush, maybe because the door didn’t close and they were just embarrassed. They’d left me a tube of eyeliner and some lip gloss, neither one in my color palate.
The linoleum on the bathroom floor was in a paving brick pattern. It almost looked real except where it had curled up and away from the tub. The shower head dripped in time to the kitchen sink and had left a rust stain on the tub that directed your eye to the drain. Home sweet home.
Still, it was bound to be better than three-times-a-day counseling sessions. I wasn’t going to miss lights out at ten and rooming with a dozen other men with a recidivism rate hovering right around ninety-percent.
It took me just a moment to unpack. I placed the three paper bags side-by-side then unzipped my suitcase, pushed it against the wall next to the bags and I was finished. All settled in.
I learned later that night that the large front burner on the gas stove didn’t work. I was grilling my dinner over one of the smaller burners. I’d snapped a branch off a bush back by the dumpster and used it to impale two hot dogs. I slid the gourmet treats onto the buns sitting on the counter, squirted a line of nuclear yellow mustard along the length of the dogs and voila! Dinner was served.
I sat quietly on the floor opposite my luggage. My back was against the wall as I slowly ate the hot dogs and enjoyed the steady drip coming from the kitchen sink. I didn’t have to listen to fantasies about women, talk about basketball, hear complaints about the system or the man. There was no reminder of a group session starting in ten minutes. It was heaven.