by Sean Lynch
“I’ve already paid you a substantial advance. Since you found Scott so rapidly I believe I am entitled to a discount.” He gave his son a disapproving stare. “Frankly, I thought it would take longer. The last private investigation firm I employed took over three weeks to find Scott and cost substantially less.”
“You may not know this, Mister Fleischer,” I said evenly, “but there are only two kinds of men in this world; those who get the job done, and everybody else.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Fleischer demanded.
“It means,” I told him, “I don’t give a damn what you paid another private investigator, or how long it took him.”
“I’m not sure I like your tone, Mister Means,” Fleischer said, lifting his chin. “If you think I’m going to hand over another ten thousand dollars-”
“You’re paying him twenty thousand dollars?” blurted Scott.
“Be quiet,” his father said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t! You paid this asshole twenty thou-”
“Shut up,” I told Scott. This time he did.
Irving gave his son another stern look. Then he turned his ire back to me. It’s tough to look down your nose at someone when you’re six inches shorter. “Where were we?” he asked.
“You were in the middle of trying to fuck me out of the second half of my fee,” I reminded him. His eyebrows lifted. I took over the negotiations.
“Mister Fleischer, we didn’t discuss an advance. You hired me to do something that other private investigators apparently couldn’t. And you agreed to my fee. Ten thousand dollars to find your son, and ten thousand dollars to make sure he never returned to whatever shithole I found him in. You looked me in the eye and shook my hand. Do you recall that conversation?”
“Yes, but-”
“But nothing. When you hired me there was no discussion about a reduction in fee if I found your son quickly. I found Scott, and as he can confirm, I ensured he won’t be going back to where I found him.”
“Trust him, Daddy,” Scott said petulantly. “He made certain of that.”
“We had a contract,” I continued. “I delivered. Pay me what you owe me.”
“A verbal contract, Mister Means,” Fleischer said smugly. He tapped his glasses in the palm of his hand. “Nothing on paper.”
Jarrod stopped what he was doing and watched the conversation from across the shop. “My recollection of the terms and fee appears to contradict yours,” Fleischer said. “It’s your word against mine.”
I didn’t like where this was going.
“This conversation is over,” he announced. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mister Means. If you like, you can take the matter of your fee up with my attorney. Come on Scott.” Fleischer turned his back and began to walk away.
I inhaled slowly with my tongue on the roof of my mouth and let out the air evenly through my nose. It’s called chi breathing; it focuses energy. After the drive from the City with Scott Fleischer, and what I had gone through at Club Rialto, I was in no mood for horse trading with an asshat like Irving Fleischer. It must have shown on my face.
“Dad, this probably isn’t a good idea,” said Scott, giving me a sidelong glance.
“I already told you, Scotty; it isn’t your concern. Now come along.”
“Okay,” Scott shrugged. “Have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I grabbed Irving Fleischer by the back of his sweater with one hand and pulled him violently towards me. His feet left the ground and one of his shoes fell off. He dropped his glasses. I turned him around until I had my left hand in the remains of his hair, and my right clamped around his throat. I squeezed just enough to allow respiration, but not enough to allow speech, and kept him off the ground. Then I put my lips to within an inch of his ear.
“That crap might work with the chumps who buy your trinkets,” I began, “but not with me. Today I beat up a guy half your age and twice your size without breaking a sweat. Then I almost shot it out with a gun-wielding amazon. Just for kicks, I topped off the evening by threatening to torch a nightclub in downtown San Francisco.” Fleischer’s eyes were wide with terror.
“If you believe cheating me is a good idea, Fleischer, you are dangerously mistaken. I called your son stupid earlier; I see now where he gets it. You think this is a matter for attorneys? You don’t cough up the money you owe me, you pompous little fuckstain, it’ll be a matter for paramedics.” I squeezed extra hard for effect. His eyes were watering and I could feel him trembling in my hands.
“Dad,” Scott said. “For once in your life quit being a cheapskate. Pay the man. Can’t you see this guy isn’t the type to take it up in small claims court?”
“Listen to your son, Irving,” I said. “He’s talking sense. You can pay me what you owe me now, or pay a hefty hospital bill later. It’s your choice.” His face was turning blue, his eyes were bulging, and he was seconds from passing out. Irving finally nodded. I let go. He slumped to his knees.
“You must have had some childhood,” I remarked to Scott. I wiped my hands on the front of my coat.
“He’s the nurturing parent,” he replied. “If you’d met my mom, you’d have strangled her for sure.”
Irving Fleischer struggled to his feet, rubbing his throat and gasping for breath. For a moment I thought he was going to vomit.
“You want me to call the police, Uncle Fleischer?” Jarrod asked from across the shop.
“I told you he was slow,” Scott reminded me.
“No,” Irving answered Jarrod when he could talk. “Finish up and go.” He bent down and picked up his glasses, then located his shoe.
I followed Fleischer to the back room. He opened a large safe with shaking hands and withdrew a substantial stack of notes. He began counting out Franklins. I shook my head. “Make it twenties,” I commanded. He mumbled something under his breath and went deeper into the safe. He came out with small stacks of twenty dollar bills neatly separated by little rubber bands.
While Fleischer was counting, Jarrod stepped back into the office. “It’s all locked up, Uncle Fleisch,” he said. “You only gotta set the alarm when you leave.”
“Goodbye Jarrod,” Fleisher said, distracted by his counting.
“Hey Scotty,” Jarrod said. “I’m off tomorrow. You wanna come over and play video games?”
“I don’t think so,” Scott said, looking at his father count my money. “Maybe some other time.”
“Okay. Goodnight.” Jarrod left for the door.
Irving stood up. “Here it is,” he said, thrusting the stack of notes at me. “You want to count it?” he asked indignantly.
I answered with a question of my own. “Are you stupid enough to try and screw me twice in the same day?”
“It’s all there,” Fleischer spat.
“I thought so,” I smiled. “I’ll count it just the same.” I did.
“Satisfied?” he asked in a raspy voice when I looked up.
“Not yet,” I said, pocketing the bills. “Delete the security images.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. I was cop, remember? Don’t think I didn’t see all the cameras in the showroom. Delete the security video. Starting with before I entered the store.”
“I don’t know how,” he lied. “That’s technical stuff.”
“Suit yourself.” I walked over to an elaborate array of electronic consoles behind the safe. I gripped a bunch of the wires in my fist, and was beginning to pull my arm back, when Irving spoke up.
“Wait! Don’t do that! That stuff costs a fortune!”
“Delete it or I destroy it. Your call.”
“I can delete the file,” Scott announced. “Don’t tear it up.” I stepped aside and Scott went to the terminal and began punching buttons. A minute later he looked up.
“The whole day has been deleted,” he told me. “Honest.”
“If my picture isn’t deleted,” I said, looking directly at Irv
ing Fleischer, “I’ll be back to delete your ability to eat solid food.” He wilted.
“I deleted them,” Scott assured me. “I swear.”
“Thank you,” I said. Irving sat down at a desk and put his head in his hands.
“Good night, Mister Fleischer. If I don’t hear from you, you won’t hear from me.”
“Please leave,” his voice echoed through his fingers. I went for the door.
“Hey Scott,” I said, pausing on the way out. Jarrod gave me a wide berth and held the door open for me. “A word of advice.” He stood forlorn in the entrance to his father’s office and looked up when I spoke. “Just because you don’t want to be here, doesn’t mean you have to be someplace like Club Rialto. There’s an in-between, you know. You’ve only got to find it.”
“That’s pretty comical advice,” Scott answered in his dour voice, “coming from a guy who fucks people up for a living.”
He had a point.
Chapter 3
I woke up early after a sleepless night. Evidently shaking down pimps and slapping middle aged shopkeepers around isn’t conducive to peaceful slumber. I donned my jogging suit over a long-sleeved T-shirt, laced up my training shoes, and grabbed a wool cap and my Airweight Smith & Wesson on the way out the door. Ten minutes later I was at Lake Chabot running out the kinks.
It was almost a mile before my stride smoothed out and my breathing settled in. I attributed it to the cold. The temperature couldn’t have been more than forty degrees, and I could see my breath as I chugged along the lake. Before I moved to California, like most Midwesterners, I thought the entire state was an episode of Baywatch. I soon learned the Pacific Northwest, particularly the San Francisco Bay Area, got fairly cold in the winter. Not Chicago-in-January cold, but damned cold nonetheless.
An hour later I was in my car on the way home. I had completed about a third of the lake’s fifteen-mile circumference and my head had begun to clear.
By the time I arrived I was beginning to cool down. Instead of going inside, I opted for the gym I have set up in the garage. I quit working out in commercial gyms several years ago on account of the all the spandex girls and locker room meat-gazers. I removed my cap, .38, and my pullover and started in on my Palgues and Taeguks. Thankfully my joints were still lubricated from the run. I finished up with alternating sets of pull-ups and push-ups until my arms gave out.
I was renting a three-bedroom ranch house off Crow Canyon Road in unincorporated Alameda County, a few miles East of Castro Valley and west of San Ramon. Tucked away in the rolling hills among ranches and stables, it’s hard to believe Castro Valley is only fifteen minutes from downtown Oakland.
In the house, I stashed my revolver and was mixing a protein shake when I noticed the red light on the phone blinking. The call must have come in when I was out. I looked at my watch; it was only a little after 9:00 AM. I don’t get many calls early in the morning. In fact, I don’t get many calls at all. I pushed the message button.
“Hello Chance,” said a voice I recognized as Greg Vole’s. Chance is the nickname I was given as a kid; it was easier to say than Chauncey. “This is Greg. Give me a call when you get this, will you? I’ve got some work if you’re available. I’m at the office. Bye.”
I chuckled at the “if you’re available” part.
Greg Vole is perhaps the best trial attorney in the State, certainly in Northern California, and specializes in the defense of police officers in use-of-force cases. He and his law firm handled several of my officer-involved shootings, and over the years we had forged a strong friendship. Now that I was no longer a cop he sometimes employed me as an investigator on some of his more controversial cases. Greg was smart, fair, and honest as a Texas sundown, and as a result gave most California lawyers a bad name.
Greg’s secretary picked up the call on the second ring and connected me.
“Good morning, Greg. Sorry I missed your call. I was out for a run.”
“Hello, Chance. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“You mentioned work,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” Greg began, “it’s kind of a personal matter. I’m not really sure how much you can do, but I’m obligated to make the effort. Are you working on anything right now?”
“If I was, it would get put aside. What’s up?”
“It’s our housekeeper, Mrs. Sandoval,” Greg said. “She’s going through a rather horrific family tragedy right now, and Amanda asked if I could have you look into it. Mrs. Sandoval has been with us nearly twenty years. She’s like one of the family.”
Amanda was Greg’s wife. She was also a skilled lawyer herself, and employed by the State Attorney General’s Office. I’ve known Greg since his three daughters were in elementary school. Two of his girls were now undergraduate students, and the third in law school. With two successful full-time attorneys for parents, I presumed Greg’s girls spent a lot of time growing up in Mrs. Sandoval’s care.
“What kind of tragedy?”
“The worst kind. Her granddaughter was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“That’s right,” said Greg’s voice. “Last week. In Oakland.”
“How did it go down?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met the girl myself, but Amanda has. If I’m not mistaken, Mrs. Sandoval was raising her. Something about the girl’s mother, Mrs. Sandoval’s daughter, being unfit and relinquishing custody. As far as the killing, I only have sketchy information, but it appears she was shot on the street somewhere. I don’t believe the police have much to go on.”
“Oakland’s a lousy town to get killed in,” I said, as if there was a nice place to get slain. “Oak-Town averages well over a hundred murders a year, and typically clears only a quarter of them. Statewide average for homicide clearance is around sixty-five percent. Lot of smaller towns and cities clear eighty percent or more.”
“Spoken like a true homicide detective,” Greg remarked.
“Former homicide detective,” I corrected him.
“Either way, that’s why I called you,” he said.
“What’s the victim’s name?” I asked, grabbing a pen.
“Marisol. Marisol Hernandez.”
I wrote it down. “I can make some inquiries,” I told him. “Talk to one of the OPD homicide guys I used to know.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have more information,” Greg apologized. “And truthfully, I don’t expect you to produce much. I’m not sure, but I think Amanda told me once that Marisol was a troubled girl. Or maybe it was her sister? Hell, Chance, I can’t remember.”
“I’ll find out what I can,” I assured him, “and let you know.”
“I really appreciate it. You can’t imagine how much turmoil this is creating for me. Mrs. Sandoval is a wreck, and my girls are pretty distraught as well.”
“How about you?” I asked. “I’m guessing if your family is upset, your home life can’t be a picnic right now.”
“Are you kidding?” Greg said. “I haven’t had a hot meal or an ironed shirt in a week.”
“The joys of marital bliss,” I teased him.
“You know I’m only kidding,” Greg backpedaled. “Amanda would murder me if she heard me say that.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I laughed.
“Easy for you to say,” Greg challenged. “You’re not a married man.”
“Not even close,” I pointed out.
“I should re-emphasize I don’t expect much,” Greg said, back on-topic. “I want to be able to show Amanda I made an effort on Mrs. Sandoval’s behalf.”
“I get it. I’ll do what I can.”
“I’ll be compensating you for your time, of course,” Greg declared.
“I’m not worried about fees. Give my best to Amanda and the kids.”
“Thanks, Chance.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 4
Matt agreed to meet me at Le Cheval on Clay Street. I remembered it was his favorite
lunch spot. Le Cheval featured outstanding Vietnamese cuisine and was a short five blocks from the Oakland Police Administration Building.
Matt Nguyen was a sergeant with the Oakland Police Department’s Major Crimes Section 1. That’s what the political correctness wonks renamed the Homicide Unit during the departmental reorganization after Oakland’s public safety budget collapsed. It’ll probably get renamed again. Since then, a couple of hundred OPD cops had quit, taken early retirement, or transferred to other cities. That left Matt as one of only nine homicide detectives working several hundred active cases. I’d worked a few cases with Matt on the Alameda County Homicide Task Force, and remembered him as an affable guy whose innocuous demeanor belied solid investigative skills.
I’d arrived early and watched Matt enter. He looked like any other short, pudgy, balding Asian businessman, except when he took off his coat he was sporting a .40 caliber Glock and seven-point Oakland PD star. A lot of plainclothes cops flashed their badges in restaurants to obtain discounted dining; Sergeant Matt Nguyen was no exception. I never did for two reasons; I don’t take gratuities, and being recognized as a cop in a restaurant can result in loogie soup if somebody on the kitchen staff has a criminal record and a grudge.
“Hi’ya Chance,” Matt grinned as I stood to shake his soft hand. “Been a while. How’s tricks?”
“No complaints,” I said. “Another day in paradise.”
Matt laughed when he recognized the phrase. He’d been in the army, too.
“Another day in paradise,” he echoed.
“Where every meal is a banquet…” I began,
“…every paycheck is a fortune…” he chirped,
“…and every marching step the path to glory,” we finished together. A lot of the graduates of the Fort Benning School for Boys were familiar with that old chestnut. We sat down.
“You’re taking care of yourself,” Matt stated. “You look fit as hell.”
“Been staying busy,” I admitted. Matt ignored the menu; he wouldn’t need it. Most decent Asian restaurants had two menus; one printed in English for the round-eyes, and an unwritten menu for customers who could speak the language and had a taste for the real stuff. Contrary to popular belief, there’s no such thing as sweet and sour chicken in authentic Asian cuisine.