Flawed Players (An Action Mystery (Mackenzie August series) Book 3), page 1
Flawed Players
Alan Lee
Flawed Players
written by Alan Lee
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Alan Janney
First Edition
Printed in USA
Cover by Inspired Cover Designs
ebook ISBN: 978-0-9996073-1-2
Paperback ISBN: 978-1986760829
Created with Vellum
Contents
Dedication
Title
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
From the Author
For Sarah
my femme fatale
Flawed
Players
1
P rivate detectives—an unsavory group, most times. Gumshoes are usually ex-cop or ex-military, and the ex- is for a reason. Like for being an ass.
I collaborated with local gumshoes on occasion. Fat, lazy, unshaven, unscrupulous, and broke. Teeth weren’t great either. Bottom-feeders giving the rest a bad name, often extorting their clients once an investigation yielded dirt.
It was this reputation that prompted me to set out potpourri, a masculine scent purchased online. Only us noble-hearted stalwarts, stuffed with scruples, would set out potpourri. Made me think of sawdust, gun oil, and…Glenlivet 21, maybe. I was contemplating the exact recipe when the wooden stairs outside my office popped and creaked.
In walked a man. Handsome guy. Takes one to recognize one. Blonde hair, trim, great cheekbones. Looked like he rowed crew at Harvard. His jeans were professionally distressed and his white button-up was cuffed at the sleeves. I knew Allen Edmonds when I saw them.
I sucked in my gut .
Then I noticed his socks didn’t match. So I probably didn’t need to show off.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Robert Redford’s stunt double?”
He pursed his lips. “You haven’t seen me in the newspaper.”
“Be serious. No one reads the newspaper.”
“Thank god. I’m relieved you haven’t.” He dropped into my client chair as though just finishing a marathon. “Paranoia, I suppose.”
I regarded him silently, projecting what I hoped was investigatorial competence. Surely by now he’d noticed the potpourri.
He said, “Feels like I’ve been stamped with a scarlet letter, walking here. I can’t believe I’m in a private detective’s office.”
“It’s good, right?”
“It’s not black and white. In the movies, they’re always…”
“Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe,” I offered. “Mike Hammer.”
“Right. My father, he enjoyed those.”
“Would it help if I drank scotch? I’m willing.”
“I’ve been charged with something I didn’t do.”
“Ah,” I said.
“And the police show a disinclination to pursue any other suspect. I retain absolutely no faith in the justice system, after this debacle.”
“Understandable. The only justice in this world is the justice you take.”
His eyes, a handsome brown, narrowed. “Who are you quoting?”
“Don’t remember. Someone brilliant, I’m sure.”
“Can you help? ”
I said, “I can. But the more germane question is, do I want to?”
“Why would you not? Is this not your livelihood? You’re an investigator for hire, yes?”
“But a mercenary with discriminating tastes. Perhaps you noticed the elite odor of my office.”
“Well, good for you, I suppose,” he said. “I didn’t realize your profession afforded such luxuries. It appears you’ve been hit recently.”
“You’re on thin ice, sir.”
He pointed to my eye. “Contusion along your orbicularis oculi. Can’t imagine someone attacking you and getting away with it. You’re big.”
“My fitness regime is sometimes full contact,” I said.
“So you were hit.”
“I let him. For the sake of my tough guy image. What is that which the police purports you did?”
The air seemed to go out of him. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, dropped his head. “I live on Tradd Street. Do you know it?”
“I do.”
“What do you know?”
I crossed my ankles and laced my fingers over my stomach. My flat stomach, despite what Kix said. “Tradd Street is home to Roanoke denizens believing themselves to be cream of the crop. Royalty. Lots of money. Near Cornwallis.”
“Well said. They stylize themselves as upper crust. We, I guess. We pay a mint for the nomenclature. The name Tradd has value built in. It’s funny, isn’t it, how value develops organically from social hierarchies.”
“Or perhaps not so organically.”
He asked, “What do you mean?”
“There’s nothing natural about, say, botox. ”
"Or surgical enhancements. Of course, you’re correct. It’s not organic at all.”
“I’m not judging. I could be classified as a fan of certain enhancements,” I said.
“Perhaps I should have worded it—it’s sick how we manufacture value by building our own pedestals, and then pretending the pedestals appeared organically.”
“Tradd by any other name…. Has it worked?
“Has what?”
“Has the street satisfied the great gaping hole in your heart? As Thoreau said, do you no longer lead a life of quiet desperation?” I asked. Only top tier detectives quote Thoreau. I should get that on my door. Sam Spade never quoted the greats. Spenser, on the other hand…
He said, “No, but…there’s a certain gratification in reaching the pinnacle. Yet it’s a hollow victory. We’re the dogs who caught the car and it turns out the car isn’t as advertised.”
“The dogs who caught the car. I enjoy that analogy. I’m going to use it in the future without giving you credit. But we’ve waded into deep waters. Pray, continue with your story.”
He nodded.
“As I was saying. I live on Tradd. We suffered a recent rash of burglaries. The burglars defeated the alarm systems and flummoxed police investigators. The street is indignant and atwitter.”
“What has been stolen?” I asked with keen perspicuity into how theft worked.
“Art. Collectors items. Smallish treasures which could be sold easily, valued in the tens of thousands.”
“Smallish treasure worth ten thousand. Was it a baseball signed by Babe Ruth? ”
He didn’t seem to hear. “It was for this crime that I was charged last week.”
“Heavens. Did you do it?”
“No. God no.”
“Charged on what evidence?”
“All of the stolen valuables were found in my home office.”
“Ah hah!” I said. “A clue. Who turned you in?”
“What do you mean?”
“How were you caught?"
“It was my wife who discovered them, and it was my wife who alerted the authorities.”
“Ah, frailty.”
He sucked in enough air to inflate his neck and right his head. “I get the impression you’re mocking me, Mr. August, or making light of my situation. But this is my life, we’re discussing. I’m not so jocose.”
“Have you retained counsel?”
“No. Why would I? I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.
Yikes.
He had a significant misunderstanding of how law worked. And his socks didn’t match. And he didn’t get my jokes.
“When is your preliminary hearing?” I asked.
“I forget. Middle of September.”
“What is your profession?”
He said, “I am an anesthesiologist for Carilion.”
“And your wife?”
“She fund-raises for various charities. No income. More of a professional socialite,” he said without disdain.
“So she’s hot.”
“Quite attractive, yes.”
“Any children? ”
“One daughter, at the University of Virginia.”
"I assume this has placed a strain on matrimonial bliss.”
“I moved into the basement,” he said and I detected he needed a moment’s reprieve. I ceased the questioning and googled him on my phone—anesthesiologist, Roanoke, felony. I found him quick. Everett Owens. The local media was all over him.
After a long pause, I asked, “And your relationship with the neighbors?”
“They disowned me, essentially. Should you be taking notes on this?”
“Do you review your notes before inserting a lumbar epidural injection into the iliac crest?”
“Often, yes.”
“Well, I’m blessed with a more powerful brain than you.”
He sniffed. Probably because I’m hilarious. “Your knowledge of an epidural procedure is surprising.”
“Read it in a Robin Cook novel. What about your relationship with the neighbors before the scandalous incident?”
“I’ve never been a favorite. I don’t enjoy the social games. But I was more or less accepted.”
“Is your wife accepted?” I asked.
“She’s the reason I was. She’s one of the queens.”
“Describe your relationship with her before last week.”
“Rocky but polite. There was a lack of warmth, to be sure, but it was mutually beneficial.”
“Was there love?”
He slumped again. “Perhaps once. But it was sacrificed, long ago.”
“On which altar?”
“I don’t know. Convenience? Lust? Insouciance. Pride,” he said, sinking lower .
“Why do the police not suspect her as well?”
“My penchant for walking to and from work and the grocery store leaves me without alibis. She has them in spades. However, she’s terrified I’ll name her as an accomplice, in revenge.”
“Will you?”
“Of course not. First of all, I’m innocent. Second, she’d rather die than break into someone’s home and steal something. Or help me do it. Being caught would destroy her image. And the act of doing it would destroy her self-image, which might be even more important.”
“A worthy insight, Dr. Owens.”
“Will you help me?” he asked.
“You should know, this investigation will dig up any skeletons you have in the closet. I’ve a feeling many skeletons are buried under Tradd.”
“I understand.”
“And even if I prove you innocent, the process will probably ruin any symbiosis with the neighbors.”
He scoffed, a sound made through his nose. “I’ve come to realize they are piranhas and I don’t give a damn, pardon my language. I want my name cleared and my career stabilized.”
“Has your employment been terminated?”
“I’m on leave until this is resolved. The hospital tried firing me, but my attorney threatened to slit their throats.”
“Heavens,” I said again. “Who is your attorney?”
“Daniel Sarrell. One of those assassin lawyers, you know? Poleaxed my superiors. If proven innocent, I’ll retain my position. Then most likely I’ll move out, forcing my wife to sell the house. Or screw her way into a rapid marriage to bolster her finances. ”
“Speaking of finances, how soon would you like me to begin?” I asked.
Everett Owens got out his checkbook. I remained calm. “Immediately please,” he said.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Who referred you, by the way?”
His fountain pen made furious scratching noises on the check. “I asked around, someone who works with Brad Thompson recommended you. You’ve got a good reputation.”
“So not Sheriff Stackhouse?”
The pen stopped. “No. You know her?”
“I do.”
“That might complicate things.”
“In what way?”
“Depends on how far down you plumb.”
I looked out the window, and said, “Heavens,” for the third time.
2
F riday evening.
I had a sitter. I had cologne. I had a date, and charisma oozing out my ears.
Kristin Payne lived in Salem, not far from Roanoke College where she taught psychology and coached field hockey. She was a lot of fun, intelligent, leaned towards the crazy, and wore the hell out of both activewear and professional garb.
We weren’t forever but we were right now. We had warmth but no foundation. We were dinner on a Friday, which was enough except when it wasn’t.
She lived in the top floor of a house from the forties— cracking white lead paint, nestled in the heart of that amorphous part of Salem designated for students and professors. The academicians didn’t own their lodging and the landlords cared not for appearance long as the rent checks keep coming. Ergo, the place looked shabby. Her lawn was four days overdue for a mow and the neighbor’s chainlink fence showed rust.
It was mid-August, too hot for a sports jacket even at seven. But I wore one anyway. The devil may care but not Mackenzie August. He sweats profusely when he wants.
I took the exterior wooden stairs two at a time and knocked.
Kristin had once opened the door wearing nothing but a necklace. A strategy she’d discovered had an enervating affect on my belief that unchecked sex was pernicious. Would she again? Or would we keep our reservation at Blue Apron? I didn’t hate either option. I was adaptable.
I waited and knocked again.
Checked my phone.
Waited more.
From her apartment came the absolute stillness of vacancy.
The humidity thickened, carrying the stale smell of garbage cans. And maybe something else.
Not sure what it was. A scent. A hunch. Whatever. I picked up her thin fibrous welcome mat, placed the corner against one of the door’s small inset windowpanes, and punched it. The glass split into three pieces. I removed the wedges, reached in, and toggled the lock.
I smelled her before the door fully opened. The dizzying stench of blood. Lots of it. Always reminded me of an old iron pipe I played with as a kid.
The lights were off.
Stay calm, Mackenzie.
The door opened into her kitchen, her living room visible beyond. On the far side of the protruding counter Kristin Payne lay dead. She was stretched on the fake hardwood near the glass coffee table. Her hands were frozen near her throat. Her shoulders and head were haloed with a corona of blood, a foot in diameter.
A metallic taste jabbed at the space between my ears .
I took off my jacket.
Punched numbers into my phone.
Deep breaths. Eyes closed. Fingers unsteady.
The cavalry took several minutes, long enough for me to inspect. The place hadn’t been tossed, so it wasn’t a home invasion or robbery. I ran my fingers along the doors and windows, enough to know they hadn’t been forced.
I went outside and looked along the lines of her car. No signs of being jimmied. The sparse flowers weren’t trampled recently. I walked all four sides of the house, going through the chain gate. No weird footprints. No big flashing signs pointing at clues.
I wanted to get back inside but squad cars began arriving.
I stood on the driveway, hands held wide, and waited as the men in khaki poured out.
They went in with cameras and gadgets and powder and questions.
Arms crossed, I leaned against Kristin’s kitchen counter and watched. They wanted me to leave but I wouldn’t. It looked like the entirety of Salem was here, homicide being rare.
Kristin had been shot in the throat.
The shooter waited less than a minute, based on blood, and then put another bullet in her head, halting her heart.
Stackhouse walked in, so unlike her peers that it took me a moment to place her. She was the sheriff of Roanoke City, a woman who could have won the election based on her appearance alone in absentia of qualifications, though she had those too. She was fifteen years my senior but I would buy anything she sold. Activity in the room stopped a moment. I didn’t blame them. She looked like an actress playing a sheriff on a sordid soap opera.
She and Salem’s sheriff talked quietly in the corner. He nodded. She nodded. The council broke. She took me by the hand, squeezed, and led me outside, down the stairs.
It was 8:30pm. Mercifully cooler, almost dark. The cruisers had drawn a scrum of college kids, all of them white, girls in tank tops, guys in jeans. They watched me. When I returned the stare, they shifted and looked at one another instead. Everyone was embarrassed at a crime scene.
