Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

“Oh crap,” he said when he looked up. “Look what the cat dragged in. I think you look worse every time I see you.”

“Good to see you too, Ted. You know that little gold name tag on your chest is bigger than your…”

“At ease, at ease,” he said. He broke out into a big smile and reached over the reception desk to shake my hand. “You come for some of Marco’s eggs?”

“That and to see you,” I shot back as I shook his hand. “Is Marco here?”

Marco Lima worked as the night prep chef and did the breakfast line in the morning. He’d been a cook at the Orange County jail until he retired. He knew everyone at the jail, in uniform or an orange jump suit. He had more snitches than the cops did. I never did understand how a clean guy like Marco could get so much intel, but he did. He was a good guy and people talked to him. He could keep his mouth shut when it counted and he could root out reliable information, for a reasonable price.

“Got a case on someone in the can?” Ted asked.

“Naw, just a garden variety shake down on some swell. You know these country club cowboys,” I replied. I’m always careful to protect my client’s name and steer people away from their identity. “Is Marco here today?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back. Come on. We’ll get some breakfast and you can let Marco know what you want.”

Ted took me to the cook line. Marco acknowledged me with a nod, always the circumspect fixer. I asked for a western omelet and a waffle and gave him a knowing nod. Ten minutes later, I was sitting down to a full breakfast and coffee while my buddy Ted had some bacon and Danish with his coffee.

“So what are you up to, Mac?” Ted asked, as we got ready to dig in. He gave me a casual look and smiled.

“Just a job,” I replied. I hadn’t had a decent meal in a while and my night off from booze had left me starving. “Someone’s trying to put the squeeze on someone else. You know, the usual.”

“You look different. You take your razor out of retirement?”

“Very funny,” I replied. “Ah, I’m going to be interviewing some hot shots, so I thought I’d go conventional for a while.”

“No good can come of you mixing with the rich and famous,” he laughed.

I chuckled too. He was probably right.

“If you’re serious about cleaning up your act though, you should get some clean clothes and a haircut. No self-respecting businessman will talk to a rumpled, ponytailed, dirt bag like you. You look like a crack head.”

“Thanks. I love you too.” He was right. I looked like Fido’s ass. You don’t know a good barber do you?” I asked sheepishly. It had been a long time between trips to the barber pole.

Ted gave me the name of his barbershop on East Colonial. We traded barbs between idle chatter, and eating until Marco appeared from the back.

“You two have some business,” Ted said. “I need to get back to work anyway. Good to see you, Mac. Check with me before you leave, oh, and the breakfast is on me.”

I thanked my friend after an attempt to refuse his freebie, but I knew it wouldn’t work. Ted excused himself while Marco got a cup of coffee. He came back with a cup and sat down.

“So how’s it hangin’ Mac?” Marco asked.

“Good Marco. You?”

“I’m happy. Working too much, but happy. What I make here and my county pension, I’m able to help my grandson with school. He’s going to be a doctor and he’s going to graduate without being in debt.”

Having his grandson make something of himself was a source of pride for Marco. The kid being debt free was a matter of honor. Honor was important. It didn’t hurt that Marco made a bundle dealing in information.

“That’s great, Marco. Where’s he going to school?”

“He’s at the University of Miami, first year medical student. His mother and I couldn’t be more proud.”

“UM! That’s my school. I’m so glad for you. That’s great.”

“Did you come for the food or a social call?” he asked.

Both unfortunately,” I replied. “I need some…”

“You need some information on a big wig… some high roller got himself in some trouble. What’s the scam?”

“Blackmail, but how did you know?”

“It’s my business to know.”

“Yeah, but I just got the gig late yesterday. How did…”

“The busboy heard you talking to Mr. Graves about a shake down on some rich guy. You know I hear everything.”

He was smiling. He liked to show off, but never rubbed it in, at least not with me.
Note to self, shut your damn mouth,
I thought to myself.

“Right I’ll have to remember that.”

“Who’s the mark?” He asked as he took a sip of coffee.

“General Martin Hunt and his son Cary,” I replied. “You
did not
hear that from me.”

For a minute, I thought he was going to choke. He sputtered and coughed. When he caught his breath, he blew out a long low whistle and shook his head from side to side in disbelief. “You hit the big time my friend. Wow, you never hear nothing about that family. What’s the play? What do you need?”

“It’s a blackmail scam. I need the usual. What are they into, and are there any dealings they’re trying to keep under wraps. The son might be into some extracurricular stuff. See if you can get a name for his designated squeeze de jour. I can pay top dollar on this one. Don’t spare the horses. Put everyone you can on it, but keep it low key.”

“I know about the old man. What about the son, what’s he do, where does the he live?”

“Cary Hunt, he’s an investment banker of some kind. He and his wife live in Dover Shores and hang out at the Steeple Chase Country Club.”

Marco made a couple notes on a napkin and scratched behind his right ear. He took a deep breath. He thought for a few moments then nodded twice, “I can get some information on background in a few days. Getting the name of the mistress might take longer. What’s the wife’s name?”

“Stephanie,” I replied.

“I’ll check her out too. This is going to be expensive,” he said apologetically.

He didn’t really regret it, but it was a good business to try to look sorry. I did the same thing myself.

“It’s always expensive. Don’t soak me, but I can pay on this one. I figured you’d want something up front.”

I took a white business envelope out of my hip pocket and tossed it on the table in front of him. The general had given me an advance to grease the treads.

“That’s very considerate,” he said as he scooped up the envelope. He slipped it inside his chef’s coat. “Your credit is good with me, but I appreciate the thought. Can I reach you at the usual number?”

“Yep, same number, call me as soon as you get something.”

“Will do, Mac. I should get back to work,” he said. He looked around, but there was no one in the place. That was his excuse to scoot.

He stood, shook my hand, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

I had a second cup of coffee while I made some notes on my phone. I’d laid out a wad of the general’s green; I just had to get some results. With my irregular intel team on the job, I decided I could go ahead and try out Ted’s barber.

I stayed dry all week and even started back on my morning runs. It was torture, but I could feel the booze seep out of my soul. Each day I felt and slept a little better, but it didn’t help the case any. I worked the case hard. I had a lot to prove to my new client, and myself. A week’s worth of shoe leather had netted me a big fat zero. I had nothing, nada, not one lead on who was blackmailing General Hunt.

Marco came through with some information on Cary Hunt for me. A few months back the younger Hunt had been frequenting a timeshare off International Drive on a regular basis. He’d get an apartment for a week then stay one or two nights. The staff thought it was strange until they noticed a woman coming and going with him. She was a pretty brunette, no name or car description to go with the sightings, but it confirmed what the general suspected.

He mentioned Cary had a twin sister, a hotshot New York lawyer, who handled some of her old man’s contracts. I didn’t pay any attention.

I hung out at a downtown pub Hunt’s coworkers frequented, nursing one beer while I talked to the guy’s coworkers, some waitresses, and bartenders, even a valet or two, but got a bunch of nothing. My empty-handed time at the bar was misery, but I had a case. Everyone seemed to like Cary Hunt. A couple waitresses mentioned he was a good-looking guy, who liked to flirt and came off as a player, but he never followed through. They put it down to him being the friendly type. I did too.

The country club set didn’t give me any more information. Hunt didn’t spend much time at Steeple Chase, but Mrs. Hunt was a regular, a fixture on the tennis courts, around the pool and in the clubhouse. She spent a couple evenings a week there, drinking with friends. Stephanie was drop dead gorgeous and popular too, but not in a good way. I got the vibe she slept around, maybe a lot, but I couldn’t get any straight dope. I heard she sat on a lot of laps. A loose wife was always a ripe target for blackmail.

When I completed an observation or an interview, I jotted down a few notes. At the end of the day, I typed the information up and reported to the general by phone early the next morning. He never asked me how or where I got the information. I reported in every day. He kept me on a tight leash. On the seventh day, the general told me he’d decided to drop the whole thing even though his son was still out of town. He asked me to drive out to Live Oak House the next morning to give him a ‘briefing’. I was about to lose the goose and the golden egg.

I tossed and turned all night fretting.
Had I’d missed something?
I was sure I hadn’t. I got up early, showered, shaved, and got dressed. I wore new Dockers, a clean polo shirt and new shoes.

It took me no time to get to the general’s place. I rang the buzzer and the butler opened the gate. I parked in the entrance court.

“Nice to see you again Captain Everett,” Norris said as he opened the door before I even rang the bell. He might be overly formal, but he treated me with respect. I appreciated that.

“Hello Norris,” I said as I came through the door.

“The general is by the pool, if you will follow me please.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Ah, is he all right?”

“All right?”

“You know, upset or anything.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Norris led me out to the pool were the old man was indeed doing laps. The guy exercised like an old Olympic athlete looking to make a comeback.

“Would you like something to drink Captain? The general will want iced tea when he’s through,” Norris said.

“Thanks Norris. I’ll take some iced tea too,” I replied.

I sat down under a red umbrella shading a glass top patio table and waited. The morning was young, but the sun was blazing.
Ah, Florida in the summer,
I thought.

Norris appeared moments later with two glasses of iced tea. A splash drew my attention back to the pool in time to see General Hunt finish his last lap. He swam to the side of the pool, and then he pressed himself out of the water in front of Norris who was there to hand him a thick beach towel.

I stood as he approached.

“Good morning Captain,” he said.

The man wasn’t exactly smiling.

“I see Norris has taken good care of you,” he said as he extended his hand in welcome. “Let’s get this business wrapped up.”

“Yes sir. I realize …”

He held up one of his hands to cut me off as Norris walked away. Then he said, “If you’re going to say you should continue, I disagree. The notes have stopped. I’ve spoken to my son on the phone and he thinks there’s nothing to it. He said he’d look into it when he gets home. I want to get on with my life.”

“As you like General, but there is negative information out there. Your daughter-in-law…”

“Innuendo only hurts politicians and I’ll never run for office,” he said firmly.

What I’d reported was more than innuendo.

“What about your son? Someone knows something, or thinks they do about you or your son. It could be the affair or it could be something else people are trying to squeeze you over. If I can find out about it, other people can too. You should…”

He cut me off again saying, “It’s been a week and I’ve heard nothing more. You’ve done a good job. I’m impressed, but I’ll work things out with my son when he returns. I have nothing to worry about.”

He’d made up his mind so there was no point in insisting. His attitude surprised me, but he was the boss. If he wanted to drop it, I’d drop it. The problem was something didn’t feel right. I could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t telling me the truth.

“I think this should take care of your time and expenses,” he said taking an envelope from a folder on the table. I opened it and my jaw dropped. It was a check for $35,000, four times my usual fee.

“Sir, I’ll hate myself later for saying this, but this is too much. I….”

“I’ll not hear it. You did exactly what you said you would and kept this crap quiet. You’ve done me a great service. Take the check and shut up, son.”

It was obvious he’d made up his mind again so I thanked him profusely and took my leave. A fat check didn’t feel right when I hadn’t actually learned anything and there was whatever he wasn’t telling me.

That was three weeks ago, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. I cashed the check and my balance was higher than ever before, but it did nothing but feed a nagging feeling in my gut. I’d missed something. He’d paid me too much. Nobody was as perfect as Cary Hunt appeared, and what was the story on his wife? What had changed the general’s mind about finding out what was going on?

The door buzzer jolted me out of my self-pity. I answered by pushing the button on my desk phone and said, “Yeah?”

A voice soft as butter and as sweet as peppermint said, “I’m looking for MacDonald Everett. Is this the right building?”

Damn kids must have stolen my sign again
.

“You found him, come on up,” I said. “I’m on the second floor.” I pushed the button to unlock the street level door, sprang from my chair, and raced to the door. Looking around, I was pleased with myself for finally straightening up the joint. I posted myself at the head of the stairs while trying to pat down my hair. The silhouette, backlit by the open door, grabbed me by the throat and I blew out a low whistle. I watched her sway her way up the stairs like a dream. As she came into view, my eyes popped. It was the bikini babe from General Hunt’s pool.

I like women in all shapes and sizes, but if I had to build the perfect model, she was making her way up my stairs. She was long and lean, with tanned gams covered to mid thigh by a short navy skirt. She more than filled out her loose white sweater and her rack moved suggestively as she mounted the stairs. Her face was narrow with a tiny nose and apple cheeks. A pair of piercing pale green eyes framed by gently arching brows and a cascade of untamed blond hair completed the picture. When she reached the landing, her scent, flowery and subtle, made me breathe in deep. It was a clean, yet sophisticated.

“I’m Mac Everett,” I said.

She looked me up and down. "Mr. Everett, the detective?" she asked, offering her hand. Her perfectly manicured fingers were slender and cool. Everything about her was so effortlessly breathtaking.

“That’s me,” I replied. “Come in and tell me how I can help you.”

She breezed past me, went through the reception area without slowing and into my office. I followed and closed the door behind me. “Have a seat,” I said, offering her the only decent chair in the room.

She ignored me and began looking around the joint, perusing everything from floor to ceiling. The Carrier was pumping out its usual 72 degrees, but I was breaking a sweat.

With an appraising eye, she scanned the room then said, “Nice place. Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” I said, walking to the desk. I grabbed pack of Camels, shook one free, and lit up as I took my seat.

Tall, beautiful, silent, she just stood there, taking it all in while I did the same thing.

“Do you have to do that?” she asked.

“What, this?” I said holding up the nail. “I don’t have to. Would you rather I didn’t?”

“Please.”

I stubbed the butt out in the overflowing ashtray.
Something else I would have to change
, I thought.

“What was this place before it was your office?” she said at last, looking at me over her shoulder.

“A magazine used the whole floor, all six offices. I have two of them, these two rooms are the office, and four more through there,” pointing to a door on my right, “are my apartment.”

“You live here too? Over a bar?” referring to the Drunk Monk on the ground floor.

“It’s part of the PI mystic.” She didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. “I work 80 hours a week to be this poor. This place is in the middle of everything,” I said. “I’m out working most nights, so the noise doesn’t bother me and…you didn’t come here to discuss my taste in accommodations or did you. What do you want from me?”

She ignored me again and turned to my vanity wall with its University of Miami diploma and my Army lieutenant and captain’s commissions. She looked at these things, then at me and turned back to plaques and frames. She moved on to my black and white still from the ‘The Maltese Falcon’ autographed by Bogart and two framed covers from
True Detective
and
Mystery Magazine
.

“You like the classics, Mr. Everett?” she said, looking over her shoulder at me. Her world-class ass and aloof air fascinated me, but business was business unless it was monkey business and I wasn’t getting that vibe. She acted like a door-to-door interior decorator.

“There’s a certain truth…Miss, ah, is there something I can do for you or are you overdue for your medication?” I said, tiring of the game she was playing.

“Call me Ashton,” she said. Her voice was smooth and soft, without that nasal sorority girl crap.

“Call me Mac. What do you want?”

“Mac” she seemed to think about the name for a moment, then smiled and lit up the room, “I need your help Mac. Can I count on you?”

“How did you hear about me?” I asked. If she was a referral, I’d listen to her, but if she was a loony off the street, I planned to kick her to the curb no matter how good she looked.

“I read about you in the newspaper. The woman killed by the skateboarder a few months ago…”

Mrs. McGuffin was an eighty-six year old lady killed by a kid on a skateboard. The punk grabbed her purse as he whizzed by her. The old bat had held on for dear life and that’s what it cost her. The dirt bag drug her forty feet pumping the skateboard with a strong right leg holding on to the purse with both hands. The cops were none too swift and Mrs. McGuffin’s two grown kids wouldn’t wait for them to get off their asses.

That’s where I came in. Killing an old woman for no reason, well, it burned me up. It was just all wrong, a scumbag on the skateboard, two lazy flatfoots and that poor dead old lady. She hadn’t done anything but go to the dry cleaners that afternoon. A kid could kill an old lady like that and no one was doing anything about it? I took the case. It was special, a sort of personal crusade, and it worked out OK.

My buddy Roscoe and I staked out the shops those kids frequent and the city’s skateboard parks. The cops assigned to the case, Logan and Deeds, could have done the same thing, but they couldn’t be bothered. It took Roscoe and me ten days, but the kid finally showed up at one of the parks. When I saw the other dirt bags backslapping him and giving him high fives I suspected it was him. When Roscoe went after him and he tried to run, I knew we had the right punk. I jumped in my car, peeled out of the parking lot, drove down two blocks, and cut over one east. I only had to wait a moment. I heard that damn skateboard coming. I pulled out from an alley and he vaulted over the hood of my Honda. He landed flat on his back on the far side of my car and didn’t move. The kid wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. Logan and Deeds didn’t even say thanks.

“Yeah, that one worked out all right,” I said. “But what’s that got to do with you?”

“You were out for justice, Mr. Everett, ah Mac, and you didn’t let the inaction of the police get in your way,” she responded. Her face flushed as she spoke. Something was on her mind. I just couldn’t tell what, yet. As she began to pace in front of me the polite façade and sweet smile fell away, replaced by worry and despair.