D.b. Hayes, Detective

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Okay, so maybe my father was right. Being a private investigator can be a little dangerous.

I stared up at the mountain of flesh in front of me—six feet four, three hundred seventy pounds of masculine flab, and all of it quivering in a drunken rage. Another time I might have been fascinated by that rippling effect, but at the moment I was mesmerized by the enormous knife he was waving in one meaty hand. The only thing standing between the two of us was a rusting old porch swing, and that was one wicked-looking knife.

Lyle Arrensky was his name, and he wasn’t dressed unless you count a pair of grungy boxer shorts with—so help me God—blue and green rabbits against an angry orange background. I did not want to count those shorts. Heck, I didn’t even want to think about those shorts.

“I tole that bitch once,” he slurred, his glazed piggy eyes unblinking, “I tole that bitch twice. She ain’t gonna get that bowl back unless she comes here and asks me nice. You got that?”

Oh, yeah. I got that. I couldn’t miss that. The words came accompanied by beer fumes mixed with the sour odor of unwashed flesh. And to reinforce the smell, Lake Erie sent a tepid puff of wind blowing in my direction.

It wasn’t a real breeze but enough to stir the stench of traffic fumes, stale food and a whole host of other smells best not specifically identified. I began breathing through my mouth while urging the contents of my stomach to stay with me a little longer. This was not the time for a rebellion.

Keeping the porch swing between him and me, I edged closer to the steps and freedom.

“I promise. I’ll pass on your message, Mr. Arrensky.”

My tennis shoe found the top step, and I backed down as quickly as humanly possible without taking my eyes off the hand waving the knife. It was broad daylight. Where were all the nosy neighbors? People around here called the cops over dogs pooping on their browned-out lawns.

Not that I was anxious to deal with the police right now, but I did want out of here without bloodshed—especially mine. Susan Arrensky had hired me to obtain proof that her soon-to-be-ex-husband had physical possession of a hideously large silver-plated loving cup that had once belonged to her late grandmother. I’d managed to snap several photographs of said loving cup through the open living room window before Mr. Arrensky realized I was standing on his porch. If I hadn’t gotten greedy and tried for that final photo, he’d have never noticed my hand sticking in through his window.

Someone else had put that large hole in his screen, not me. Given the way it was ripped and the knife he was holding, I’d hazard a guess that Mr. Arrensky himself had something to do with the torn screen. He seemed to like the idea of putting holes in things—or people.

“You do that,” he yelled, menacing me with the long, hairy arm clutching the knife. “You tell that worthless little bitch she can crawl back here on her hands and knees if she wants the damn thing. You tell her that.”

He swayed dangerously in my direction.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure and tell her that.”

I felt the cracked and broken sidewalk under my foot. Turning, I sprinted across the yellowed grass with more speed than I would have thought possible in this heat. The August sun was blistering more than just the city streets around Cleveland, Ohio, this afternoon.

Binky, my ancient VW Bug, started with a grinding noise I’m certain he wasn’t supposed to make. For once I wasn’t concerned about his health. My health was far more important. I left four feet of precious tire tread pealing away from the curb, but at least I made my escape without any new body piercings.

In the rearview mirror I saw Mr. Arrensky standing on the sidewalk scratching his considerably rounded belly while shouting curses in my wake. A scruffy-looking white poodle trotting down that same sidewalk prudently crossed the street to avoid him.

It was sort of sad to think that poodle was a whole lot smarter than I was.

The one good thing about returning to my office was that it was blessedly air-conditioned. Sadly Binky wasn’t, and I couldn’t afford a car that was. Sitting back carefully, I gazed around the converted closet and sighed with relief.

Okay, it wasn’t really a closet. The space had always been a tiny office, just not my office. It was actually the office that came with my aunt Lacy’s flower shop. I work for her and her partner when I’m not on a case. Unfortunately that’s a little too often for comfort.

Aunt Lacy and Trudy Hoffsteder have owned and operated Flower World for longer than I’ve been alive, which is to say more than twenty-four years. Their shop is in a building on the corner of Detroit Avenue, down the street from the hospital.

Not exactly the high-rent district, but as Aunt Lacy is fond of pointing out, it’s a perfect location for a flower shop. It’s not a bad location for me, either. The price is certainly right.

I tried living in New York City after I got out of college and earned my investigator’s license, but working for an established firm meant I spent most of my time in front of a computer screen running background checks and fetching coffee for the senior partners. Of course, I do a lot of that here, as well, but Trudy and my aunt are much nicer, and the background checks are for my clients.

Not that I’m exactly buried in cases in this quiet Cleveland suburb, but I grew up in this area. I know people here, and word of mouth is important for a private investigator starting out. Overall I’ve been doing fine—or I was until Brandon Kirkpatrick set up shop across the bridge in Rocky River a few weeks ago.

He’s a male, so naturally he’s getting all the really good cases. Already his name has made the local papers—twice! The first time was when he unfairly got credit for breaking up a stolen-car ring. The second time was when he located the mayor’s missing sculpture. That one really ticked me off.

The car ring had been a fluke. Kirkpatrick caught the guy trying to steal his car, and because the little twerp wanted to cut a deal with the district attorney, he talked his head off, cracking the ring wide open.

As for the missing sculpture, that turned out to be nothing more than a high school prank. I could have figured that one out in half the time. Aunt Lacy and Trudy have a communications network that would make Homeland Security envious, and I mean, who else in their right mind would take such an ugly piece of glass and metal?

What really stuck in my craw was that the mayor hired Kirkpatrick when she lives three doors down from my brother and his family!

Brandon Kirkpatrick isn’t even a native Ohioan. He grew up in Pittsburgh, for crying out loud! I know it’s petty, but I couldn’t help wishing he’d stayed there. Why did he have to come and set up shop on my turf?

I finished downloading the pictures of Mr. Arrensky in his oversize recliner watching a wrestling match while tossing peanuts at the loving cup, and sent them to print. Susan Arrensky would be happy, and I was comforted knowing she was good for my fee. After all, her dad is a vice president with the local bank where my family has done business for years.

“Excuse me, Dee,” Aunt Lacy interrupted from the doorway. “Would you have time to finish the Martak arrangement for me? I have a dentist appointment in thirty minutes, and Trudy went home to check on Clem.”

Clem is the parrot Trudy inherited from her mother. I suspect her mother inherited it from her grandmother, who probably got it from her mother. No one seems willing to guess exactly how old that bird is, but from some of the phrases he knows, I suspect he once traveled with pirates. He’s mean and he knows more swearwords than a drunken sailor.

“No problem, Aunt Lacy. I can finish the arrangement right now.” Leaning forward carefully, I stood up. There were times when the swivel chair seemed to have a mind of its own. “I’m finished working until tonight.”

“Oh. You took Mr. Russo’s case then?”

Aunt Lacy could convey a lot of emotion in a few short words. She was in accord with the rest of my family when it came to my career choice.

“Really, Dee, I don’t see why a beautiful young woman like you wants to spend your nights outside some sleazy motel room taking pictures.”

“I’m not fond of divorce work either, Aunt Lacy, but it pays the bills.”

Tonight wouldn’t be the first time I’d been asked to follow someone around and take pictures of the people they met. However it was the first time I was working for a client who made me nervous.

Albert Russo is considered by many to be a successful business entrepreneur. He’s well connected down at city hall, but according to one of Trudy’s sources, if Russo doesn’t work for organized crime, he has all the right connections. Tall, thin, balding, he looks more like an accountant than someone who owns a string of nightclubs and pricey restaurants and he has the coldest, most disturbing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

I tried to shrug nonchalantly at the worry underscoring my aunt’s tone. “I can’t afford to turn down a paying client.”