Mystery of the 19th Hole (Taylor Kelsey, Mystery 1)

Copyright
© 2011
by AJ Diaz

All rights reserved.

TaylorKelsey.com

Facebook.com/OfficialAJDiaz

In the Light Publishing

To Vickie Lynn McKinley, my first customer.

Or would it be purchaser?  Book-buyer?

Whatever the name, thank you.  Hope you enjoy.

             
Powerful winds ripped through the city of Formstaw, carrying water from bulbous dark clouds.  The rain was coming down in sheets, pelting rooftops, gurgling through gutters, and swashing down dirt-laden streets.  And falling with it was the ominous presentiment that something just wasn’t right.

             
Routine Patrol Officer Jeff Arterman was driving down Main Street in his black-and-white police cruiser, bored, watching the rain spatter the windshield and the windshield wipers push the water aside with small squeaks.

             
The slightly overweight man was bundled up in his normal police attire: a bulletproof vest, a button-up shirt with sadly bare epaulets, a windbreaker, and finally a thick jacket, complements of the wife.  In his seat, he felt a bit immobile.  Settled.  He could hear nothing but the wind and the rain, and now that the rain was coming down hard, he could barely see through the windows. 

             
The cockpit, which is what he called the inside of his vehicle, was warm and homey, but he couldn’t wait for his night shift to end.  He was a newbie officer, and that meant late shifts.

             
Pulling an outdated flip phone from his pocket, he checked the time.  12:30 A.M. 

Most police cars had a score of technical doodads on the dashboard—like, say a clock— but not him.  The local government had to make budget cuts because the county made budget cuts because the state made budget cuts and finally because the U.S. made budget cuts.  And newbies were first to feel the police department’s requisition downsize.

             
Jeff pulled over and got lost in dreams of being a detective, then his radio squawked.  It was the dispatcher.  He swooped the device off the passenger seat and put it to his ear.

             
“Arterman here.”

             
“10-94,” the dispatcher said.

             
Jeff mentally went over the
ten
codes.  He couldn’t remember what 10-94 meant.  So he said, “10-9,” which meant
repeat
.

             
The dispatcher repeated, “10-94.”

             
Jeff sighed.  “I know that.  But what does it mean?”

             
The woman dispatcher laughed.  “It means count to three so I can make sure your radio is working.”

             
“Oh.”  Then Jeff remembered to say, “10-4,” which means
okay
.  “One, two, three.”

             
“Good,” said the dispatcher.  “Thank you, that’s all.”

             
“No crimes for me to check out?” asked Jeff, patently bored.

             
“Not for you.  Several units are tending to a midnight brawl at a bar, but there’s nothing for you.  10-22.”  And then the radio fuzziness that sounded when the dispatcher was communicating cut off, leaving Jeff to himself in his cockpit.

             
He picked up a handbook off the dash and rifled through it, muttering, “10-22… 10-22…”  Finding it, he read aloud, “Take no further action.”

             
He was just about to sigh in depression when the radio squawked again.  The dispatcher sounded excited.  “I got something for you, Arterman.  The history museum on—”

             
“Flower Street,” Jeff interrupted.  “10-4.  What’s the situation there?”

             
“Possible burglary.  You have clearance to investigate; the owner of the establishment is at the front door.”

             
“10-45,” said Jeff.

             
“You’re taking a coffee break?” asked the dispatcher incredulously.

             
Jeff’s face contorted.  “Is that what that means?”

             
“Yeah.”

             
“Uh… 10-83.”

             
“Bomb threat?”

             
Jeff gave up.  “I’m on my way right now.”

             
“Good.  Keep me briefed.”  Then the handheld went silent.

             
Just as Jeff started his cruiser forward, a car roared by, its headlights off, and nearly clipped him.  “Blasted car!”  Then he tried to see through his windshield.  The rain was so heavy he couldn’t see past the hood of the vehicle.  “Blasted rain.”

             
So he decided to use a trick he hadn’t learned in the academy: he turned on the police sirens.  It didn’t help him see, but it would keep cars away.  Flicking on his floodlights, he punched the gas pedal, and the cruiser came to life with a guttural roar from the engine and the squeaking of tires trying to get traction on the asphalt.

             
It took all of five seconds for him to realize he wouldn’t be able to drive fast in the thick downpour.  He eased off the pedal and gazed intently through the intermittent draws of the windshield wipers.  The road slowly came into view as he progressed.  He could make out the centerline on his left, a blessing, and a curb on his right, another blessing.

             
The police sirens wailed overhead, and he confidently pushed the gas pedal down just a little further.  Two minutes of slow going passed, and the rain turned to a temporary mist.  Officer Jeff Arterman could now see everything out the windows: the auto-dealer on his right with the small American flags whipping in the breeze; the row of storage buildings on the left, dirty rain water dripping down the corrugated doors, and straight ahead he could see the road drop off like a road in San Francisco, giving way to domestic fronts on either side.

             
The museum was just down that steep road and two right turns later.  He punched the gas pedal, the car fishtailing, and started for the steep road.  The police cruiser grabbed some air as it went into the decline, landing on its front tires, skidding, squeaking, finding traction, and continuing down the slope.

             
Jeff wanted to get to the museum before the torrential rain started back up.  Now at the bottom of the road, he skidded to the right and came onto a level street.  This one had stores on the right side and an ocean on the left.  Before the ocean was a planked walkway for sightseers.  The waves were splashing over the walkway’s railing and washing over the deck.

             
Switching off his floodlights, for the rain was still a mist; Jeff floored the pedal once again.  Sirens blaring.  Suddenly, a semi-truck scaled into view, going maximum speed and directly toward him!  Jeff, thinking quickly, pulled the wheel to his right toward the curb in front of the stores.  His car lights flashed in that direction, which is when he noticed the only two people walking about in this weather, a Chinese couple under umbrellas.  If he didn’t change course, he’d run them over!

             
In light of the Chinese couple, Jeff Arterman flung the wheel left and pushed the gas pedal as hard as he could.  The patrol car lurched toward the ocean and barely missed the speeding semi.  But Jeff didn’t have time to slow and his cruiser was already on the deck, headed for the ocean!

             
Without a second thought he flew open his door, struggled to get his seatbelt off, and dove out headfirst.  His car crashed through the railing and, after a three-count, splashed into the sea, creating a mammoth wave.  Carried by force, Jeff slid over the slippery planks but skillfully stopped himself with his feet at the railing.  He listened to the car’s sirens fade away as it drowned in the depths.

             
Standing up he examined the extent of the damage.  His jacket had a few tears from sliding over the deck, but other than that he was fine.  His car was totaled.  Gone.  He remembered the Chinese couple he’d almost crashed into and turned toward the storefronts.  He could barely make them out in the pitch darkness until a red security light started flashing over one of the store facades.  The couple was standing in the same place, umbrellas drooped at their sides, jaws wide open.

             
Jeff ran across the street.  “Do you guys have a car I can use?”

             
They babbled in Chinese until the man grabbed Jeff’s arm and led him onto the street.  He pointed to a black sedan about two-hundred paces away and handed Jeff the keys.  Jeff nodded, saying, “The city of Formstaw will reimburse you,” though he didn’t think they could understand him.

             
Pulling a large flashlight from his belt, he started running, the flashlight illuminating slivers of rain and patches of ground.  His boots clomp-clomp-clomped over the wet streets.  He tried to avoid potholes, but had to splash through some considerable puddles along the way, drenching the bottom half of his pants.  Approaching the black sedan, he clicked the automatic unlock button on the keychain and climbed into the driver’s seat.

             
Sure, his cruiser had just went over a deck into the ocean, but he still needed to get to the museum and help the owner if he was in any danger.  That and he’d also lost his handheld and cell phone with his car and had no means of communication.  And the Chinese couple wouldn’t be much help in that area.

             
The rain was picking up again and he sped down the street, hung another right, and stopped before the museum.  When he turned the car off and the headlights ceased, everything went pitch black.  The rain was falling like cats and dogs again, and it pelted the silent sedan, filling the cabin with an ominous noise.  Jeff clutched his flashlight and stepped out of the car.  Playing the beam over the museum, he discovered a man at the top of the entrance steps, standing under the shelter of an overhang.  The owner.

             
Jeff ran up the stairs, pulling aside his jacket to reveal his badge.  “What’s the problem, sir?” 

             
“I got a call from my security company,” explained the owner/curator.  “It said someone broke into the museum.” 

             
“How long have you been here?”

             
“Ten minutes.”

             
“Has anything happened since then?”

             
The owner nodded voraciously.  “A semi-truck”—he jabbed his finger toward the side of the building—“sped out of that alley and went down the street.  I couldn’t see into the windows because it’s so dark out here.”

             
That startled Jeff.  “What color was the semi?”

             
“Just plain white, I think.”

             
Jeff sighed and would have cursed if he weren’t a Christian.

             
“What is it?” asked the owner.

             
“Oh, nothing, just a long story.  Let’s check this building.”

             
The owner jangled some keys, unlocked the large double doors, and swung them open.  Jeff immediately swept his flashlight beam throughout the building’s interior.  The foyer, with models of several of the exhibits, came into view.  “Where’s the lights?”  Jeff asked the owner.

             
“Right here,” the man replied, stepping inside and hitting a switch.

             
Light filled the room and made Jeff’s eyes weird out after being in the dark for so long.  He flicked off his flashlight and attached it to his Sam Browne police belt.  Then took out his gun.  How he wished he had concussion grenades like Swat teams.  They make for a much safer entry.