He continued to stuff pizza into his mouth while looking toward the spa. My advantage.
I got as close as I could without moving into the open—immediately across Avenue K from his location. No way I could cross over without his spotting me.
He rose, and I tensed, and then relaxed as he went inside the establishment. Still hungry, maybe.
A couple of minutes later, he came back to his table, a fresh slab of pizza on a tray. He resumed his vigil of the spa.
I studied the situation. There he was, about thirty feet from me. If I rushed him, there could be a fight in the midst of young people and bored women. Each of them would bear witness to my being the aggressor. Not good. Not a viable solution.
Then Lady Luck chose that moment to intervene. A group of teenagers came toward me. From the amount of chatter, I would have thought they were having a wonderful time with each other. But, when I looked more closely, I saw the laughter and tittering involved the cell phone each held. Modern teenage communications. For all I knew, they could be talking to one another on conference calls.
As they came alongside, I fell in behind and crossed Avenue K. My target glanced at the teens but took no notice of me. I scooted to his table and dropped into a chair while keeping my hands below table height. "Stay quiet and finish your pizza. Then we're going to take a walk." As I said it, a memory pushed its way forward. I knew this man. Somewhere in the past, we had crossed paths.
"What's your name," I said.
"C'mon, John. You know my name. Are you so old you don't remember your friends?"
"Friend? You're not—" Blam, a name jumped onto my tongue. "Zack? Is that you? Zack . . .uh...Zack Isenstadt? What are you doing here?"
"Same as you. Trying to earn my next meal and maybe the price of a beer."
"Harassing a woman by stalking her? That's pretty weak. Don't you have any morals?"
He leaned back and wiped his hand on a napkin. "Easy for you to say. I didn't have your success on the force. After we graduated from the academy, you went on to become an in-house legend, rose in rank, and retired as a Detective First Class. Yeah, I watched your career boom. Me, I couldn't break out. Promotions and glory eluded me like a pretty woman. Don't get me wrong. I don't blame anyone. It just wasn't in the cards for me. So, when I retired, I picked up a PI license. Of course, good cases continue to run from me, so I take whatever I can get."
"And this is one of them?" I waved my hand around to indicate the mall. "Stalking a woman? Why?"
"Not stalking. Just letting her know I'm in the area. I never follow her anywhere. I show up where she is, let her see me, then move on. That's all my client pays for. That's all he gets."
"Client? An interesting word. Since you used it, I assume someone is paying you to scare a defenseless lady. Who is it?"
"Defenseless? Obviously, you don't know her very well. According to what I know, she's anything but. A woman who'll do anything to get what she wants."
"You're right," I said. "We have different views of the same woman. Mine is based on her husband and my personal observation. Yours is based on?"
"Never mind," he said. "You've made up your mind already. Not good investigative procedure, but something I expect from the hotshot star of the force."
"Knock off trying to derail me. Who's your client?"
"Not a chance, John. I don't have much going for me, but if I reveal who pays me, the word will get around and I'll have minimum credibility. You're barking up an empty tree." He pushed back and began to rise.
"Sit down," I said. "Remember the .38 police specials we were issued as rookies? I bought mine when firepower was upgraded. It's pointed at your midsection."
He settled into his chair. "You're kidding. You wouldn't dare."
"I also bought a silencer for it. With the racket all these kids are making with their cell phones, I'll be miles away before anyone discovers you've been shot." I grinned and shrugged. "What'll it be?"
He chuckled and again rose. "John, c'mon. I'm no rookie. I'm well aware you can't use a suppressor on a revolver. You're running an obvious bluff—a bad one."
I returned his laugh. "You're right. No gun. But I do have a phone. And before you can cross Avenue K, I'll be talking to 9-1-1, advising them of an escaping criminal. When the police arrive, I'll give them your name, a full description, background, and details. Ms. Blinski will be with me to verify and will then swear out a complaint. I'm confident they can pull an address from your file. So much for your credibility after they run you in and park you in a jail cell. You do know what happens to ex-cops in stir, don't you? Won't matter that you weren't a superstar."
He dropped into his chair again. "That one doesn't sound like a bluff."
"It's not."
He sighed. "Damn you, John, you're destroying me."
"No, I'm saving you. Tell me what I need to know, and you walk away. No one will know where I got the info, and you return to your fascinating cases." I paused. "However, I suggest you stay away from stalking women. Overall, it's not healthy."
He leaned back and stared at me.
I returned his stare, giving him time to make his decision. If he walked away, I'd have no choice but to follow through on my threat. While I felt some loyalty to his police service, I couldn't allow things to continue.
"Isaac Newbury," he said, "the real estate developer. And with that, you may as well know it all. Your Ms. Blinski is not the virginal snowflake you seem to think she is. She and Newbury had a hot and heavy affair that went on for about six months. And, before you ask, I verified this after he told me the story. Anyway, she broke it off before he was ready when she found another lover. Did it cross your mind why her appointments are always mid-afternoon? Her mornings are busy. And yes, I verified that, too."
"You'd better not be blowing smoke at me," I said. "If you—"
"Dammit, John. I may not be brilliant. I might not be a super-cop, but I'm not a fool. I wouldn't have accepted the case if he weren't leveling with me. He doesn't pay enough to make me support a lie."
"Okay, suppose I buy what you're saying. Where does it go? What's the final scene? I can't see that he gets anything by simply having you spook her." He told his story well, but there had to be more to it.
"You don't leave a guy anything, do you?" He squeezed the bridge of his nose.
"Nope. Let's hear it."
"He came up with a foolproof scheme—his word, not mine. I am to spook her by showing up, being seen, then disappearing. After I've done it enough times for her to begin to react in fear, he'll be there to save the day. When she's nearing panic, he'll step in, confront me, and scare me off. Thus, he becomes the hero, and she runs back into his arms." He paused. "Sounds trite in the telling, but he believed it."
I shook my head. "I think I saw it in an old Bob Hope movie. What if she called the police?"
"He swore that wouldn't happen."
It was my time to sit back and think. I had not anticipated this. However, there was one thing I knew he had right. Her appointments were mid-afternoon, and she refused an escort from home. Wouldn't a woman in fear want protection all the time? Never had added up for me. Perhaps she did have clandestine rendezvous before her afternoon appointments.
"Okay, Zack. I'll buy your story for now. But, if I discover you're lying, I'll find you, and we'll have a knuckles-to-head discussion—my knuckles, your head. Understand?"
"Do your spadework. You'll find out I'm right." He looked toward the spa. "She should be coming out any minute. Her sessions usually last about two and a half hours. Good luck. But remember, you're dealing with a piranha, not a goldfish."
I raised my hands from beneath the table. "Get out of here. Let's not cross paths again."
Chapter 5
As Zack hotfooted it toward the exit, I relaxed, wondering what to do with the information I'd gained. A mess—a real mess. Whom did I owe loyalty to—husband or wife? If Zack was correct, and I believed he was, one or both of them would be devastated.
<
br /> Then irritation attacked. She had allowed me to think a stalker was on her trail. While there was a drop of truth in that pool, it was far from the whole story. Then again, maybe she hadn't figured it out—possible, not probable. Yet, I recalled that she argued against her husband hiring me. Clearly proof that Walter Scott was right. O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!
Only one way to upend the mystery, confront her. I leaned back, looked toward the nails spa, and locked eyes with her. She stood alongside the entrance, staring in my direction. Uh-oh. How much had she seen? Only one way to find out.
I rose and walked toward her, formulating what I'd say, also wondering why she hadn't called as I requested.
"You let him go," she said as I got within speaking distance. "Why did you let him go?" The frown told me she was not pleased.
I forced a smile. "If you'd have followed instructions and called, you wouldn't know that, would you? But I forgive you. We need to chat. Suppose we find a coffee shop."
"No. I need to get home. It's five-thirty already. And I don't take orders from you."
I continued to smile, while my impulse was to grab her and drag her off somewhere. "We really need to chat. It's important for the report I make to Thomas. After all, he's the one who hired me."
"I said I can't now. Maybe tomorrow—or the next day. I'll text you. Don't call me."
Attitude reeked in her words, adding to my irritation.
I dropped my phony smile. "I know an interesting story about Isaac Newbury."
She flinched. "Who? I don't—"
"Don't say it, Kimmy. The eyes are the pathway to truth, and yours just verified what I suspected. You know him, and know him quite well, don't you? And I do mean in a Biblical way."
She wilted. "Can we find a place to sit down? We need to talk. I have to explain. It's not what you think."
"Wonderful idea. Can I treat you to a coffee?" On the one hand, I was relieved that I was right—apparently. On the other, I was disappointed in myself. She had duped me.
We only had to go about ten storefronts before finding a coffee shop—when did coffee get so popular? After ordering, we took a table as isolated as possible.
She opened the conversation. "What do you know about Isaac Newbury?"
I decided to go with Zack's story. "I know he was your lover. I know you broke it off when you found a new lover. And . . ." I hesitated for dramatic effect. "I know he hired your stalker. When he thought the moment was right, he'd rush in and rescue you, thereby reacquiring your devotion."
Her expression collapsed. "He's a fool, a damn fool. I hate him. Are you going to tell Thomas?"
"Excellent question. However, a better one is what are you going to do? It's obvious that Newbury is not one who gives up easily. You either go back to his bed, or he continues to pursue you. What'll it be?" I chose not to bring her current lover into it. The smell was already foul enough.
A tear trickled from her eye. "I'll never return to his bed...I mean— Before that happens, I'll— Can you give me some time? I...I need to think it over. I never...never.. ."
I read the date on my watch. "Today is Thursday. On Sunday, I'll make a written report to Thomas. It will contain everything I've learned." I hesitated, then added, "Everything. I suggest you make your decision and act on it before then."
Let her guess what else I might know.
Chapter 6
On Sunday morning, I sat with my bowl of cereal, the paper open in front of me. Julius and Caesar were practicing figure eights between my ankles. They had already cleaned their dishes and dirtied their litter pans, so now it was time to aggravate me.
The headline of the Local Section read, Real Estate Pioneer Found Dead. The gist of the story was that Isaac Newbury had been found dead, killed by multiple gunshots. The police reported they had no hard evidence. A reward was offered for information leading to the arrest of the murderer, and a phone number provided. However, the astute reporter found the usual neighbor who knew everything. She said a mysterious woman rushed from Newbury's house and drove off in a late model Mercedes.
My appetite disappeared, along with my image of a repositioning cruise. Could it be? Women of genteel upbringing like Ms. Blinski didn't commit murder, did they? No, not possible. I re-read the short article. Either the police were keeping what they knew away from the press, or they really knew little. But, though I tried to absorb everything in the piece, my eyes kept locking on mysterious woman. I knew a mysterious woman. And she drove a late model Mercedes.
A memory kicked in of my first conversation with Thomas Blinski. I remembered saying, "That all depends on the circumstances. I am legal, staunchly legal. If I see a crime, I report it." Was I less than I pretended to be? Twelve grand down the drain. I could only hope Blinski didn't sue to recover the advance eight he'd given me. Best if I left it in the bank for a while.
I put the paper down, pushed my cereal away, and took out my cell phone. After another moment of reflection, I punched in the number printed in the paper.
--The End--
Randy Rawls is the multi-published author of the Ace Edwards series, the Beth Bowman series, the Tom Jeffries series, and Down By the River, an historical. He resides in Delray Beach, FL, a piece of paradise, and is known to smile because life is fun. Visit Randy at www.RandyRawls.com.
Murder on Front Street: A Trouble in Paradise Novella
By Terry Ambrose
Editor’s Note: Wilson McKenna takes his lady love to the Hawaiian island of Maui for a Mother’s Day vacation, but they found more excitement in paradise than the former skip tracer bargained for.
McKenna
If I hadn’t been so good at my job, my life would have been wholly different. You see, I was once a skip tracer—a man who found people for a living. Not the people like you and me. Not those with steady jobs, those who drove the kids to school or paid their bills. No, “my people,” if you were to call them such, did none of those things. My skip-tracing days were long gone—and sometimes I wished they’d never happened.
I started at Benni Kapono’s touch. Her fingers, soft and warm, were a promise of things to come—things I’d missed during those years of chasing deadbeats.
“Hey, you okay? You looked like you were in another world.”
Benni’s almond-shaped brown eyes melted my heart each time I gazed into them. Her dark hair framed her face in a way I found casually sexy and—who was I kidding? To me, she was perfect. I smiled. “I’m doing great. Lahaina’s been wonderful. I wish we could stay longer.”
Around us, brightly colored red tables lit up the open-air restaurant, overhead TVs each featured a different sports channel, and the tantalizing aroma of burgers on the grill filled the air. It all made the Rusty Pelican one of Lahaina’s hot spots.
Carmen, Benni’s cousin, was having dinner with us. She must have felt the kumbaya urge and placed her hand on top of mine and Benni’s. “I wish you guys could stay longer, too.”
Aw. We could have smiled for the camera, sung a couple of campfire songs, and sold the photo to the postcard moguls. We had a beautiful Maui sunset with gold, mauve, and pink on the horizon. Palms and banyan trees were across the street. Happy people all around us. It was a perfect photo op. Why was I on edge? In a word, Carmen.
Call me unnaturally suspicious, but something wasn’t right with Benni’s cousin. Why had she chosen to come to dinner at the restaurant where she worked? Granted, up here on the second level, the Rusty Pelican’s view of Banyan Court was spectacular. Ditto for the sunsets. Lahaina had plenty of restaurants with incredible views. So why here?
Our little hand-holding session broke off when Benni pulled back to sip her wine. She winked at me over the rim of her glass. Oh man, was I in over my head with her.
“We have a late flight on Mother’s Day,” Benni said. “I have a client coming the next day.”
Carmen let her hand linger in the middle of the table for a moment. She exaggerated a pouty lip and pu
lled away. “Darn. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
It wasn’t her words. Those were fine. It was more the way she said them. Like—there was an expectation—or a plan. Maybe she just wanted a favor. So, why not just come out and ask?
What bothered me most was being here for dinner. Great atmosphere—check. Food—check. Staff—red flag. The receptionist and busboy had been cool to Carmen, but our waitress had spent most of the night shooting daggers at her.
Part of what made me a good skip tracer back in my LA days was the ability to read people. It had taken years of training to acquire the skill, but right now my “trouble-coming” radar was pinging up a storm. Every move Carmen made was calculated. From the way she turned all touchy-feely at opportune moments to the timing of her pout. Everything about her screamed "master manipulator."
The sounds of laughter, boisterous voices, and clanking utensils on dinnerware filled the air. This was a party night—as were they all in Lahaina. With a constant influx of new tourists each day, the party never really ended. But, this one was special, at least for me.
Mother’s Day was coming, two days hence. It was my first with Benni. Hopefully, not our last. Of course, if I didn’t come up with a card—and soon—I might be nixing our future holidays. Tomorrow, a card would be at the top of my to-do list.
Five women and a man at the next table regaled each other with snorkeling and hiking stories. On the other side of that table, a young couple gazed goo-goo eyed at each other, oblivious to the chaos around them, the throngs of tourists on the street below, or even the golden puffy clouds on the horizon.
Benni sipped her pinot noir, leaned back, and scanned the restaurant quickly before turning to Carmen. “Is something wrong between you and James? I mean, this is the second time he’s stood us up.”
Could the favor involve James Pennant? He was Carmen’s fiancé and the missing fourth for our double date. From what I knew of Benni's family, no-show was a big no-no once plans were made.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 85