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In the upstairs hallway, the mistress of the house paused in front of the thermostat. Sixty-eight ought to do it with a blanket. She switched the thermostat to heat and set the temperature.
On the way to her room, she pulled an old woolen blanket from the linen closet in the hall.
Downstairs, one of the sisters switched off the TV with the remote. “Too bad Dad and Mom got a divorce.”
“Yeah, but at least we’re still his daughters and when he dies he’ll leave us some money and we can fix up the house.”
“Are we gonna be spinster sisters and live here together ‘til we’re in our nineties?”
“I’m gonna live to be a hundred and five.”
“Okay, you win. You can have the house.” The older sister rose from the couch, leaned over, and softly kissed the top of her sister’s head. “Good night, Sis. I love you. I’m off to bed.”
“I’m right behind you. Love you too.”
###
The last lights went out on the second floor. Finally. He peered from the azaleas, studying the dark windows through his binoculars. He got excited thinking about the brilliance of the preparations he had made—the inferno he was about to experience. When the inside of the mansion cooled enough, the thermostat would send a current down the wire to the basement where the furnace had hibernated since spring. The current would activate a solenoid in the firebox, and the heating oil would catch flame. The air in the firebox would warm to the right temperature. It could be happening right now. Right this very instant. A second thermostat in the firebox would send a current to the air handler. The air handler was supposed to force warm air through the ductwork to heat all three stories above. But it would fail. Instead, when the current tried to find its way to the air handler, it would arc and cause a spark. The spark would hit the nest of flammable material he had left near the breaker box—a small flame would start.
The shivering trespasser saw a light flicker through the small basement windows. He imagined the women sleeping soundly, oblivious to the hungry monster that would soon devour the basement ceiling joists, gaining strength and appetite as it grew. The trespasser stared as windows on the first floor began to glow. It’s happening. It’s finally happening. Then a flicker in a window on the second floor. By the time those bitches wake up, the smoke will burn their eyes. They’ll panic. They’ll try to scream, but the smoke will clog their lungs. He imagined them throwing their bedroom doors open, only to be faced with a wall of flame. Yes! Yes! Now that’s what I call a fire! Ohhhhh, yeah, baby!
In a few minutes, sirens howled in the distance. It was risky to stay and watch the orange beast digest the house, but he couldn’t just leave now that his goal was in sight. That would be like leaving the job half done. He turned back to the house and watched, enthralled, as the fire engines arrived and the firefighters struggled in vain to get ahead of the monster consuming the house.
He hunkered down lower in the azaleas so no one would see him in the flickering orange light from the inferno. Finally, the roof collapsed and fell into the space inside the stone walls.
In a couple of hours all was dark. He turned away from the husk of the house, feeling as depleted as the house looked. But he always felt like this afterwards. He eased his way silently down the slope. At the bottom, he was once again invisible.
Chapter 1
“Chuck, I may have a client for you.” The caller was Victoria Ramirez, an A-list partner with a boutique law firm here in Port City. Sounded like the clients she’d sent me over the last eight months had been happy with my services.
“Great. Who is it?”
“Ike Simonetti.”
I leaned forward and grabbed a notepad and pen from my desk. “Any kin to…?”
“His son.”
I whistled and wrote it down. Ike Simonetti’s father, Sam Simonetti, had been one of the richest men in Florida. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Vicky. Why does he need a private investigator?”
“Ike’s got a big, expensive problem.”
That was good. Big, expensive problems usually require big, expensive solutions.
“This could be a winning lottery ticket for you, handsome. Don’t screw it up.”
“No way I’d let that happen.”
“I can list a dozen ways, including your so-called sense of humor. But mainly because Simonetti doesn’t think he has a problem.”
“Then why does he want me?”
“Lorraine Wallace, his wife, is the one who wants a PI. Ike doesn’t want to pursue the issue.”
“What issue?”
She told me. I could see why this was an expensive problem. I took more notes. “What did you tell Simonetti about me?”
“That my firm had worked with you many times. And that you were honest, persistent, and tough.”
“But not funny?”
“He’s not going to hire you for your jokes. You’re an acquired taste, big guy.”
“Vicky, seriously, I owe you big time. How can I repay the favor?”
“I’ll think of something—maybe a foot massage.”
Foot massage? Where did that come from?
“He’ll be at your office in less than an hour.”
“How did he know I’d be here?”
“He didn’t. My secretary called your receptionist and she said you were in. Ike said, and I quote: ‘Might as well get this over with.’ So they’re on their way.”
“They… meaning?”
“Ike and spouse, right now your best ally in corralling his business.”
“I’ll get back to you on the foot massage.” No, I won’t, I thought.
Chapter 2
I researched Ike Simonetti online and realized a thorough job would take hours, so instead I skimmed the newspaper and magazine articles from the last twelve months about him and his famous father. I decided to skip the tabloid stories, amusing as I knew they would be.
Glancing at my clock, I saw that I probably had a few minutes before they arrived. I’d eaten a lot of rice and beans and ramen noodles while I built my PI business. That was about to change. I could upgrade to hamburger meat and day-old buns. I pulled out the bottom left drawer of my second-hand desk, leaned back with my ankles crossed upon it, and gazed out the office window while I waited for my ship to come in.
Instead of my ship coming in, a silver Ferrari slewed into the parking lot and glided gracefully to the far side, away from the other cars. It came to rest diagonally across two slots so no one could squeeze in beside it and ding the doors. He parked the same way I did, although my 1963 Avanti sitting a few slots over was worth a great deal less than his Ferrari.
The driver unfolded himself from the low-slung car. I recognized him from the Internet pictures and gave myself a mental high-five. Ike Simonetti was forty-three, and he looked every day of it. Slightly gray temples, conservative pin-striped suit, regimental tie. His light blue shirt had a white collar and French cuffs. A business fashion columnist would approve of the look.
He looked a little too perfect as the wealthy entrepreneur. Was it a front? Even without the Ferrari, he’d impress you as richer than God. Was it just a little over the top?
Simonetti got out of the car. Then he leaned back inside, said something to the passenger, and slammed the driver’s side door. He stalked around to the other side of the Ferrari and jerked the door open.
A woman levered herself out of the low-slung sports car—not easy in a pencil skirt and spike heels. Lorraine Wallace, age forty-one. She was as thin as a runway model, but wore a pin-striped blue jacket matching her skirt and shoes. A multi-colored scarf took the place of a man’s tie. Businesswoman of the year.
Again, almost too perfect. Hmm. Stop being a cynic.
The two of them walked toward my building without a word or a look. But I did notice a sly smile on her face. Or was it a smirk?
I did a quick survey of my office. Not tidy enough to impress Ferrari people. Better use the conference room.
My phone rang. “Dr. Lorraine Wallace and Mr. Isaac Simonetti are here, Mr. McCrary.”
“Tell them I’ll be out in two minutes.” I didn’t want to appear too eager. Besides, my receptionist would need time to get their coffee.
To kill time, I ogled two young women through my office window as they power-walked down Bayfront Boulevard. As a former cop, I wanted to see if they were engaging in nefarious, felonious, or suspicious activities. As a trained observer, I concluded that walking did their derrieres and my attitude a world of good. Too soon, they passed from sight with no sign of nefarious, felonious, or suspicious intentions.
Let’s go meet the Goose of the Golden Eggs.
I set my laptop on the conference room table as I walked to the reception area.
###
As I passed Nancy’s desk, she handed me two business cards. I gave her a smile and stuck the cards in my pocket.
The couple looked up as I approached. “Dr. Wallace? Mr. Simonetti? I’m Chuck McCrary.”
The man stood and we shook hands. “Please, just ‘Ike’ is fine. And since you’re not my wife’s patient, ‘Lorraine’ will be fine with her too.”
Wallace looked older than her “official” age. Faint wrinkles marked her forehead and the corners of her eyes. Her makeup was the tiniest bit too perfect, in keeping with her model-thin physique. She was the poster child for the motto You can never be too thin or too rich.
I thought of a line from Shakespeare. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
“Lorraine, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.
She painted a smile on her lips as she shook my hand. “How do you do?”
“I’m doing well, thanks. May I take your cup?” My offer merited a slightly friendlier smile. I carried her coffee to my conference room. Ever the considerate host, that’s me.
I centered the doctor’s cup on a coaster and stood across the table from her and her husband, waiting for Wallace to sit.
Ike Simonetti glanced absently around the room. “Where’s your desk?”
“In my office, next door. Most people prefer talking around a table rather than across a desk.”
Wallace sat and so did I, but Simonetti remained standing. His eyes fixed on the ego wall to my right. A photo of my Special Forces unit in Afghanistan. He was reading the citation for my Bronze Star Medal. For an instant I was transported back to Ghar Mesar in the mountains of Afghanistan. An old scar on my left bicep throbbed when I remembered one team member in particular who hadn’t come back.
Simonetti studied my PI license, my criminology diploma, and my honorable discharge. Then his gaze turned to the large Atlantic County map on the other wall and he acted as though he intended to memorize it too.
Mercifully, Wallace broke his trance by clearing her throat. “Dear, perhaps you should tell Chuck why we’ve come.”
He frowned but sat down. “Did Vicky Ramirez tell you about my situation, Chuck?”
“A little, but, please, assume I know nothing and start from the beginning.”
“Okay, I will. I guess you know my father was Sam Simonetti.”
“Vicky told me.” Every sentient human in the state knew of Sam Simonetti. “I read about your father’s funeral. As I remember, the governor, both U.S. senators, and three congressional representatives attended. And, of course, the mayor. Sam was well-loved in Port City.” It wasn’t hard to remember what I’d read just a few minutes earlier.
“The politicos didn’t come to his funeral out of love, unless it was their love of his money. I’m cynical enough to think those jackals came to get their faces on the news and their hands in my family’s pockets.”
Imagine that: a politician wanting to get on the news. “What brings you to see me, Ike?”
He drew a deep breath. “Lorraine insists that Ramona—my father’s widow—is trying to steal two hundred million from me.”
“Two hundred million, as in ‘dollars’?”
Wallace nodded.
“How does Sam’s widow plan to steal your money?”
“It’s not my money; it’s Ike’s. Pop’s wife was pregnant when he died. Now she has a three-month-old daughter, Gloria. Ramona claims her child should inherit half of Pop’s estate. But I don’t think Pop was the biological father.”
I opened my laptop. “Why not?”
“From the baby’s birth date, we know Ramona got pregnant while Pop was in the hospital.”
I knew a patient could have sex in a hospital bed. I had happily participated in two such events while recuperating from battle wounds in Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Of course I was twenty years old then, not seventy-five like Sam.
Simonetti looked embarrassed.
“If Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, you inherit the entire estate?”
He nodded. “But if Ramona’s daughter gets a share, I get just half.”
“I read that his estate was worth over a billion dollars.”
“Dad left a lot of money to charity. After taxes, and the widow’s share of thirty million, the remaining estate is only four hundred million dollars.”
I’d never heard anyone refer to four hundred million dollars as only. “The widow’s share?”
Simonetti rose abruptly and paced around the room. “Their prenuptial agreement said if Ramona survived him, Dad would leave her thirty million, with the remainder to be divided among his children.”
“How many children did your father have?”
“When he married Ramona, Dad had three—me and two daughters from his previous marriage to Allison Montrose. Dad made his will right after he married Ramona.”
“So, Allison’s daughters are your half-sisters?”
“Were. Allison and both daughters died in a house fire six weeks before Dad passed, so he thought I was his only remaining child. He never knew Ramona was pregnant. At least, he never mentioned it.”
“So if Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, you inherit the four hundred million?”
“That’s right.”
It didn’t take a math genius to do the arithmetic. “Hence your ‘theft’ being pegged at two hundred million.”
Simonetti looked toward his wife. “That’s why we’re here.”
To order Six Murders Too Many, click here Amazon.com.
Double Fake, Double Murder
The second Carlos McCrary novel, Double Fake, Double Murder is available in both electronic and print editions on Amazon.com. Free to Kindle Unlimited members. Print edition is also available on barnesandnoble.com.
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Mob boss Garrison Franco is gunned down in the street, and the police think they know who did it—Jorge Castellano, one of their own homicide detectives whose wife had been threatened by Franco. Castellano claims he’s been framed and pleads with private investigator Chuck McCrary to find the real killer.
Chuck discovers a mysterious teenager who ran away from an abusive foster home who may have witnessed the murder. But the boy doesn’t trust anyone and won’t tell Chuck what he saw. Chuck must gain the boy’s trust before he can solve the crime.
Chuck’s prime suspect is Ted Smoot, a disgraced, former police detective and convicted blackmailer, now out of jail and plying his trade again. With shameful secrets and millions of dollars at stake, three of Smoot’s super rich victims try to hire Chuck to kill Smoot. He refuses, but days later Smoot is found shot to death with Chuck’s gun. Chuck is arrested for murder.
Now Chuck must not only find out who killed Franco and framed his friend Castellano for the murder, but must solve the new murder or face a lifetime in prison himself. His efforts to untangle the web of fabricated evidence in both murders take him from the crime-filled streets of a South Florida ghetto to the waterfront mansions and high-rise condos of the mega wealthy in pursuit of the mysterious and elusive killers.
Chuck must deal with millionaires and billionaires on the one hand and hoodlums and drug dealers on the other.
A preview of
Double Fake, Double Murder
Chapter 1
The gunman pulled a Glock 17 from its holster, took a breath, and gripped the pistol tighter. He’d better show up soon. From the shadowed entrance of the warehouse, he stared across the empty parking lot and held his breath.
A car crawled down the deserted street and rolled to a stop in the dark gap between two streetlights. The driver’s door opened. Garrison Franco stepped out of the car onto the pavement.
That’s got to be him.
The keys in the ignition set off the car’s warning bell, ding, ding, ding. Franco pushed the door closed, silencing the alarm.
In the distance, a siren shrieked, the sound echoing off the concrete block walls of the neighborhood.
The gun Franco held close to his leg was barely visible in the night. He twisted slowly in a circle.
The gunman clenched the pistol grip. He’s suspicious.
Franco stood in the middle of the pavement, his gaze passing like a searchlight across the buildings that lined the street.
He’ll never see me in the dark, especially with this ski mask. He’d tested the line of sight earlier, before he called Franco’s cell phone. The parking lot added forty yards to the distance from the warehouse to the street. The extra distance hid the gunman better, but it made the pistol shot chancy.
The man shifted his weight back and forth. Come on! Come on! You’re turning the wrong way.
Franco continued to turn, surveying the empty buildings. His gaze reached the near side of the street, the circle almost complete.
He raised his pistol in a two-hand grip. Almost there… keep turning. Bracing against the wall, he held his breath, sighted with one eye, and squeezed off four rounds.
Franco’s jacket jumped as three of the four bullets ripped through his body and shattered the car windows behind him. A scream of pain filled the night as his body bounced off the car door. His gun clanged to the pavement. He cursed as he collapsed and sprawled on the asphalt.
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 26