First Commandment

by Dick Yaeger

  This book is a work of fiction

  Copyright © 2018 by Dick Yaeger

  All Rights Reserved

  November 2018

  For Bette above all

  SPECIAL THANKS

  To David LaRoche, Madeline McEwen, and Anne Visnick Sanders who have struggled with me, challenged me, and remained steadfast for so many years. To Rich Saito, Deborah Hansen, and Beatriz Franco who eagerly shared their time and stories of the San Jose Police Department. And to Christy Distler for her immaculate editing.

  Other books by Dick Yaeger

  Foulness Island

  Myths ReImagined

  Walls of Wilusa

  Nicki’s Discovery

  Niki’s Touch

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  I opened the window to placate my partner. He was a health-and-fitness guru who refused to come into my office if I was smoking. When I worked a problem, a good cigar with some smooth-sipping bourbon always relaxed me. It allowed me to think outside the box as the cliché goes. In my line of business, that’s important. If the problems people brought to me were solvable by the usual methods, no one would pay my exorbitant fees. I’m a private investigator—a good one.

  The challenge today had been how to tell a client that his legally married wife was also legally married to someone else. Yeah—a bigamist, the weaker-sex version. Worse, his wife’s other husband was a woman. My client thought his flight-attendant spouse was just banging someone in Denver for sport, and he was willing to forgive her if she repented. I felt a little sorry for the poor guy. He really loved his wife and would be devastated with my findings.

  After forty minutes with an Illusione Epernay Le Petit cigarillo and three fingers of Wild Turkey, I decided not to divulge the lesbian angle, just the bigamist part. Eventually he’d find out about the non-hetero stuff anyway, but not at the same time. The bigamist part was against the law, so I had to tell him. I also had to report it to the Denver police, but there was no hurry.

  Business was good for PIs in San Jose. The local police were understaffed and overworked, filling out forms, often pressured to pursue infractions of countless trite laws passed by California’s über-liberal legislature over the last decade. I spent seven years on the force, the last three as a detective. I thrived on the mental challenges and excitement, but more often I was burdened with minutiae. Investigating a teen for cyber harassment, arresting a half-naked happy drunk on St. Patrick’s Day, or tracking down a kid for writing graffiti on transgender bathroom walls wasn’t my idea of useful law enforcement. That’s why I left. Too many rules. Too many boundaries. I needed my freedom—needed to make my own choices.

  There was, however, another reason.

  The sound of the outer office door opening returned me to the twenty-first century. My computer displayed a potential client via a camera behind the reception desk. A TV screen on the wall below the camera showed the same image. Text at the bottom of that screen said RECORDING in blinking red letters.

  A new client’s unadorned attitude and reactions were valuable. Were they timid or bold? Slumping or standing upright? Eyes focused or wandering? Crying, bright-eyed, or smiling? Well . . . I don’t remember anyone ever smiling. Decisions about their honesty and trustworthiness were crucial if I accepted their business. I’d often insist they share some of their most intimate secrets and required the unblemished truth, not bullshit. Most clients had a fantasized version of themselves that could lead me in the wrong direction.

  Some of their first reactions were predictable. When they opened the frosted door that said Hunter Quinn & Co., Private Investigations, their eyebrows usually raised. The solid oak furniture, plush chairs, and deep white carpeting gave the appearance of an upscale lawyer’s office. Novels and movies about traditional down-on-their-luck PIs had conditioned them to expect a shabby metal desk, folding chairs, and a scuffed wooden floor. After all, what did they expect from a fourth-floor office overlooking Santana Row where stylish women strolled the street in Jimmy Choo heels with bulging Gucci bags?

  Another predictable reaction, sometimes amusing, was the curious first look at my partner behind the receptionist’s desk. Bubba Brookins is six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds of three-percent-body-fat muscle, not the blond bimbo they expected in a PI’s office. He’s Harry Belafonte handsome—even gorgeous when naked—and without uttering a word, can instantly charm you with a sparkling toothy grin or intimidate you with squinting steely gray eyes. Oh . . . did I mention he’s black? I’ve known Bubba since high school, before he went off to the Marine Corps and I went to Stanford to study the classics. A decade later, we bumped into each other at an Irish pub in downtown San Jose. I was bemoaning my boxed-in police career and he was nursing a bad back from years as a professional wrestler. When they closed the bar, we had agreed to go into business for ourselves.

  The guy who just entered our office—an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair—offered none of the aforementioned regular clues. I was intrigued.

  “I need a private investigator,” he said. “Is Mr. Quinn available?”

  Bubba never corrected them.

  “Of course,” he said, and handed the man a three-by-five index card and a pen. “Please print your name, email, and phone number, and have a seat. Hunt will be right with you.”

  The man wrote the requested information, took a business card and brochure from the holder on the desk, and sank into an overstuffed oxblood leather chair. While Bubba checked his name on Google, LinkedIn, Facebook, and a host of other social media sites, I watched the prospective client browse our brochure. It listed the services we provided, our experiences, and numerous skills. The last page displayed our rates. When he got to that, he grinned. I liked him already.

  For ten minutes, Bubba typed interesting tidbits of his searches onto my computer screen. When he finished, he knocked twice on the door and opened it.

  I stood up.

  “Hunt, this is Aaron Horowitz. He needs our help.”

  Mr. Horowitz’s reaction was finally predictable—he frowned. All guys frowned. Women, on the other hand, smiled because I was also a woman.

  I relieved him of any embarrassment. “Father wanted a boy,” I said before he asked about my name. Saved time. “Please have a seat Mr. Horowitz.”

  I sat down. Bubba left and closed the door.

  “Are you a hunter?” Horowitz asked, sliding into one of the two leather chairs in front of my desk.

  “Mostly two-legged bad guys and gals. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda? Juice?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then tell me how I can be a help. Relax. Take your time.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And let me remind you that our conversation is being recorded. It’s protection for you to document any agreement we might reach. And it’s help for me because I can never read my handwritten notes.”

  He nodded with the minimum required grin for my attempt at humor. “I’m fine with that.”

  “Please go on, then.”

  “I want you to find a murderer, a terrorist.” He had a subtle accent I couldn’t identify.

  “All right. I’ll save my questions until you’ve finish your story.”

  I tipped my chair back and watched him. He conveyed the confident sex appeal that succes
sful men acquire with age. In his late sixties, he wore a perfect-fitting blue-gray suit with a red tie and a lapel pin of crossed US and Israeli flags.

  Bubba put his LinkedIn resume on my computer screen. He was rich, my favorite kind of client.

  He took a deep breath and sighed, looking at his folded hands in his lap. “My granddaughter—Jenny’s her name—she’s seven . . . was seven . . . was gunned down with six others at The First Commandment School.”

  “I’m so sorry. I remember it well. It was horrific.” I had struggled about why this particular shooting infuriated me more than others. Was it the nearby location? Did I believe I could have prevented it if I was still a cop? All were all acts of inhuman ignorance that vexed my mind for a solution as a former law enforcement officer

  Bubba, listening in the outer office, opened another window on my computer with a news report of the shooting.

  “It’s been nine months now,” Horowitz said with a wavering tone. He looked up at me with a ferocity I rarely saw. “And I want the bastard who did it caught and killed. People like him don’t deserve to live. ”

  His first desire to catch someone is what most of our clients wanted. The second craving to kill them bothered me. Was he baiting me? Did he want a detective and a killer? Was I being interviewed as a potential assassin?

  “Let me be clear,” I said. “You want this person brought to justice—tried, convicted, and sentenced to death for his hideous act?”

  He stared at me, unblinking, squinting, and didn’t answer. Then his face relaxed. “Uhhh . . . yes . . . yes, that’s what I want.”

  I probably failed his interview.

  “Are the police treating the shooting as a hate crime?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “I suspect you are Jewish, Mr. Horowitz, so you must know that hate crimes mandate harsher penalties. If convicted of the shooting and a hate crime, the death penalty is almost guaranteed.”

  He stiffened and smirked. “Right, and I’ll die of old age while my granddaughter’s killer sits in jail watching Monday Night Football, studying the law, and waiting for California’s death penalty to be rescinded.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Horowitz, I understand your frustration. Justice moves the slowest for victims.” I understood the zealous attention paid to not convicting an innocent suspect, but it always seemed disproportionate to the solace paid to victims. “Nevertheless, let’s get one thing straight before we proceed. I am not a killer for hire. If that is what you want, our discussion is finished. ”

  “I apologize, Ms. Quinn.” He sat back in the chair. His shoulders drooped. “I’m a law-abiding American citizen and a religious God-fearing man, but sometimes . . .”

  We looked at each other as I considered his comments, certain that he reflected on mine. I believed him, at least for now. I knew personally how the stress of such a loss could take control and overpower your life.

  “Call me Hunter,” I said.

  “Aaron,” he responded with an unforced smile.

  Bubba knocked once and came into the office.

  “I want my partner, Bubba Brookins, to join us,” I said. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Uhhh . . . certainly.” Horowitz stood up. “I thought you were—”

  “The receptionist, right?” Bubba said. “I’m the triage nurse who screens our clients. You’d be surprised what some people want PIs to do. One whacko claimed he had evidence that Elvis was alive and living in Tasmania, and he wanted us to find him so he could sell him a song.”

  Horowitz chuckled. “What did you say to him?”

  “I said, ‘Elvis who?’ and he stomped out.”

  “But you didn’t ask me what I wanted.”

  “Wasn’t necessary. I’m pretty good at reading people.”

  They shook hands, and Bubba pulled up the second chair. They both sat.

  “A quick question, Aaron, if you don’t mind,” Bubba said.

  “Sure.”

  “I noticed your lapel pin and guessed at your age. Can I ask where you were the first week of June, 1967?”

  Horowitz grinned. “I think you’re a good detective, Bubba. I was a tank commander on the Sinai Peninsula.”

  Bubba was a good detective identifying him as a veteran of the Six Day War. I’d missed it.

  “I’ll anticipate your next question,” Horowitz continued. “I immigrated to the US in 1971 and became a citizen in 1975.”

  Bubba’s presence calmed the atmosphere. He was good at that, often tempering my hot head before it boiled over. It’s one thing that makes us effective partners.

  “Returning to the problem at hand,” I said. “I gather you’re dissatisfied with the progress the police are making.”

  “Correct. They have no idea of the shooter’s identity. One minute the psycho is spraying bullets into innocent children, and the next he’s vanished. Disappeared. Like a ghost. No clue whatsoever I’m told.”

  “The FBI is surely helping with the search.”

  “Yes, but they don’t talk.”

  “Who’s leading the investigation?”

  “Detective Braklin. Do you know him?”

  Did I know him? I knew Detective Richard “Dick” Braklin carnally. He and I played house for nine months while I was on the force. It was the greatest run of sex I’d had since I discovered it in the backseat of a ’52 Dodge in high school.

  “Yes, Dick Braklin and I are acquaintances.”

  Bubba held back a snicker.

  “Let’s do this, Aaron,” I suggested. “I have to go to the police station for another client tomorrow. I’ll stop by, talk with Detective Braklin, and see if I can get an update for you. We won’t charge for that.”

  “I’m willing to pay.”

  “I’m sure you are, but I must be honest with you. The police, and especially the FBI, are better prepared to handle a terrorist case like this than Bubba and me. In addition, they’re unlikely to share more information with us than what’s been told to you or reported in the news.”

  “There’s one thing the news accounts didn’t disclose.”

  “That’s interesting. What?”

  He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket, flipped through a plethora of photos, and handed the phone to me.

  “This was left in my son’s mailbox three days after the shooting.”

  The picture was the front page of the San Jose Mercury News. The headline story listed the victims. Jenny Horowitz’s name was circled with a black Sharpie. Scrawled in block letters across the paper were the words WE DID NOT KNOW.

  I lay in bed wide awake as an overcast eastern sky escorted in a new November day. With the covers pulled tight around my neck, I watched as the dark bedroom slowly took shape. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Braklin in a year and was apprehensive about visiting him today. Had I been too busy to contact him, or was I ignoring him for some hidden reason I wouldn’t acknowledge? Probably both. He had married since then, but I knew no details. Miranda would have all the gossip, so I made a mental note to check with her before leaving the station.

  I rolled over and breathed in the cool air from the open window. The misting light breeze reminded me of that January weekend at Sea Ranch with Braklin long ago. It rained the entire time, cold and hard. We spent hours sitting by a roaring fire, sipping wine and playing board games, laughing continuously, neither willing to accept defeat. With enough food for an army, we trashed the rental’s kitchen preparing exotic dishes for dinner. We lounged naked in the hot tub, drank hot chocolate, and watched the Pacific crash onto the rugged coastline. And we made love—often and never the same.

  The clock’s alarm brought me back. Bubba would pick me up in forty minutes. I closed the window and sat on the edge of the bed, uncharacteristically thinking about what to wear. What would look professional and perhaps a little tempting? Did I really want to encourage Braklin? My recent undernourished sexual appetite screamed yes, but my old-school standards lobbied against being obvious and maybe comprom
ising him.

  A middle ground seemed best. I put my hair up, selected a conservative length black skirt with a matching jacket, and then added some dangling dolphin earrings and a splash of perfume he’d given me for Valentine ’s Day two years ago. He wouldn’t remember, but he’d chosen well and I liked it. Shoes were the big decision, but the devil on my shoulder convinced me stiletto boots could be justified with the possibility of rain.

  Bubba was waiting in the driveway, his truck windows steamed from the two cups of coffee he always brought.

  “Morning,” I said after opening the passenger door of his Ford F-150.

  A cloud of humid Starbucks air hit me in the face.

  “Supposed to rain,” he said without looking up from his newspaper. He sniffed, turned toward me and grinned. “New perfume. Something special happening this morning?”

  “Come on. I’ve used this fragrance before.”

  He started the car while surveying me up and down. “Hope you don’t have to chase anyone in those heels.”

  “You said it’s gonna rain.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I took a drink of coffee and turned up the car heat. Bubba backed it off a little.

  “What do you make of the newspaper message?” I asked as he pulled out of my driveway.

  “It suggests Jenny’s death was an accident.”

  “And also the shooter hadn’t met her—didn’t recognize her during the shooting.”

  “I’m focused on the ‘we’. This was not an impulsive or random act by a loner, but a planned act of terrorism by a group.”

  “Yup.”

  He glanced at me. “And also implies that Jenny’s father—Jacob—might have some clues who we might be.”

  “We should talk with him.”

  “Sounds like you want to take Horowitz on as a client.”

  “The newspaper thing intrigues me.” This was going to be a big puzzle if we took the case. Difficult, but I liked that.