Poison Touch, page 1
Praise for Richard B. Schwartz
Proof of Purchase
It’s like this guy is just channeling Raymond Chandler on every page. . . . The ending . . . would make Mike Hammer proud.
— Jochem Steen, Sons of Spade
In this engaging hard-boiled mystery, one of three in Schwartz’s Jack Grant series (Frozen Stare; The Last Voice You Hear), the seasoned California PI looks into the disappearance of an ex-girlfriend at the request of the woman’s husband. When her mutilated body turns up in the woods, Grant makes it his mission to track down her murderer. With the assistance of Lt. Diana Craig, an attractive fast-riser in the San Bernardino police department, Grant follows leads that point to his client, as well as to a consortium of underworld bosses who are branching out into a mega-real estate project. The pair find time, between car chases and gun battles, to begin a relationship. . . . Fans of Robert Parker will enjoy encountering Grant . . . .
— Publishers Weekly
The Last Voice You Hear
It’s not often that an author’s second book is as good as the first, and even less frequent are the instances when an author . . . top[s] it with an extraordinary second . . . deliver[ing] a walloping good tale as well. Richard B. Schwartz has done just that. In The Last Voice You Hear, Mr. Schwartz places himself on par with our finest contemporary murder-mystery writers. This is a book you won’t want to miss. . . .
— Alan Paul Curtis in Who Dunnit
The author . . . writes vividly, putting the reader right into the scene. Schwartz explores the meaning of right and wrong, crime and justice.
— Mary Helen Becker in Mystery News
The story rockets along . . . a fast-moving, well-told story with a surprising conclusion that blurs the line between crime and justice.
— Joseph Scarpato, Jr. in Mystery Scene
Jack Grant, the Vietnam vet and Pasadena-based PI who debuted in Frozen Stare (1989), returns in this engrossing sequel by Schwartz, author of several scholarly studies of Samuel Johnson. Schwartz knows his London, but surprisingly he evokes California with equal ease, mainly with vividly etched strokes. An apparently maniacal killer is on the loose in London, someone strong and very practiced at impalement. So far, so nasty. But when a victim is dispatched in similar fashion in Disneyland, of all places, Jack Grant is called in. He discovers the killer’s identity, but there’s a problem: there’s a method to the killer’s madness. Moreover, Grant has an ethical problem of his own: he’s plagued by his conscience, since he understands and even sympathizes with the murderer’s cause. The cinematic climax takes place high above the floor of the California desert, and Schwartz squeezes every last drop of suspense from his setting. . . . The result is a high-tension thriller awash in sanguinary detail. Paper towels, anyone?
— Publishers Weekly
Frozen Stare
I welcome Richard Schwartz to the club. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen two more engaging characters entering the series scene.
— Sandra Scoppettone
Grant and White play nicely off each other and the switch-on-a-switch works well.
— Kirkus Reviews
This tale, in the California private eye tradition, has a rousing finish and is an enjoyable read.
— Publishers Weekly
A new author devoted to the hard-boiled tradition. . . . Schwartz has the hard-boiled formula down pat. . . . Schwartz does not break any rules in Frozen Stare. . . . He writes crisply. The narrative moves at a slam-bang pace as bodies pile up. . . . As a dedicated student of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction [Schwartz] has learned his lessons well.
— The Washington Post Book World
Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘cold-blooded murder’. . . . This is a quick read with plenty of action. Schwartz’s first novel is a winner!
— Sarasota, FL Herald Tribune
This is a delightful tale, full of amusing touches, and the relationship between Grant and his good cop friend, black Frank White, is a joy. I hope that Schwartz can keep this standard up for a long time to come.
— The Armchair Detective
Nice and Noir: Contemporary American Crime Fiction
Opinionated but always fascinating, shrewd and smart, but always readable. . . .
— The Thrilling Detective
Books by Richard B. Schwartz
Fiction
The Jack Grant Novels
Frozen Stare
The Last Voice You Hear
Proof of Purchase
The Tom Deaton Novels
Into the Dark
The Survivor’s Song
Nightmare Man
Death Whispers
Poison Touch
Criticism
Samuel Johnson and the New Science
Samuel Johnson and the Problem of Evil
Boswell’s Johnson: A Preface to the Life
Daily Life in Johnson’s London
After the Death of Literature
Nice and Noir: Contemporary American Crime Fiction
The Wounds that Heal: Heroism and Human Development
(with Judith A. Schwartz)
ed. The Plays of Arthur Murphy, 4 vols.
ed. Theory and Tradition in Eighteenth-Century Studies
Memoirs
The Biggest City in America: A Fifties Boyhood in Ohio
Accidental Soldier: A Reserve Officer at West Point in the Vietnam Era
Postwar Higher Education in America: Just Yesterday
Ebook
Is a College Education Still Worth the Price? A Dean’s Sobering Perspective
POISON TOUCH
Published by Dark Harbor Books
First Edition 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Richard B. Schwartz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Jana Rade
ISBN: 979-8-9855721-2-4 Paperback Edition
979-8-9855721-3-1 Hardcover Edition
979-8-9855721-4-8 Digital Edition
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904071
Author services by Pedernales Publishing, LLC
www.pedernalespublishing.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
xx-v8
For Vincent James, his mother, grandmother and great-grandmother.
Welcome to a world of strong women.
Alas, the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing.
Byron
I: Saddleback
ONE
Checking his watch, thinking to himself as he approached the emergency room lane, looking for the yellow line that guides you to the battered double doors … this is definitely not going anywhere good. Everything calm for a minute; then suddenly I pull up; they’re all over me like health inspectors on a new restaurant and the rest of my day is shot. Three of them visible from here. Probably orderlies … shooting the breeze, looking up at the sky, looking toward the highway, waiting for the next ambulance or the next family van with the husband with the hastily-wrapped hand and the wife screaming about all the blood … none in sight yet; all they’ve got coming in is me …
Now two nurses taking a break, waiting for some action, standing around smoking; how can they do that? They see that thick, black goop in the lungs, hear those people hacking and gasping, maybe even smoking through one of those throat rings after they’ve had a tracheotomy or whatever it’s called. It’s those colored shirts that they wear now … too informal, too laid-back; when they had the starched uniforms and those little folded cap things pinned in their hair, the rubber-soled shoes and the white hose … they couldn’t be holding a cigarette, not dressed like that. Oh well, shouldn’t judge I guess, maybe they need it … after the stuff that they see--the broken glass in peoples’ eyes, the kitchen knife wounds, the addicted babies, the untreated skin cancers … but still …
Anyway, I have to do something. I can’t leave him in the truck and I can’t stick around for a sitdown with the admitting woman with the old computer with the pictures of her grandkids taped to the sides or the ‘patients’ advocate’ with the clipboard and the endless list of prescribed questions. I’ll pull up and three seconds later they’ll all be on me, wanting to call the highway patrol or the local cops, making reports, asking more questions, making more reports, calling somebody from the local press corps …
Maybe I shouldn’t worry. It’s not like I’ve committed any crime. I’m trying to play the good Samaritan here, the one who stopped to help, to do the right thing … but the company pays me to drive over the road, not to make stops and pick up the halt, the blind and the wounded. My quota is already short and I can’t make up the time tomorrow. I’ve got to unload him and head back to Phoenix. The dispatcher doesn’t hand out any attaboys for good citiz
It doesn’t look as if I can get in there with this rig anyway. I’ll pull over to the edge of the lot, position myself so they can’t see the plate numbers easily, and get them to focus on him rather than on me. Diversionary maneuver. Tell them that they should take care of him first. Then I’ll be right back. Gotta call my dispatcher, tell him where I am and what’s happened; then I’ll be right with them … answer all their questions, fill out all their forms … do whatever they need me to do.
Wait a second … the orderly on the left is signaling to me. Have to signal back. Give him a thumb’s up, then the index finger: ‘I see you … it’s cool … just gimme a minute … I’ll be right with you.’ Can’t drive away fast … better give him the index finger again, along with a smile. OK, he’s coming over with his buddy …
“Yes, he’s in my truck, over there on the edge of the lot … he’s in the bed behind the driver’s seat where I sleep. I strapped him down so he’d be comfortable and not roll around. I’ll show you how to get to him, even help get him out if you’d like me to.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” the orderly said. A tall, black man, his nametag read Calvin Tompkins. “We’ll get a gurney and meet you there. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t touch him.”
“I understand. Not a problem.”
It took three orderlies to lower him onto the gurney. One of the nurses had felt around for neck injuries before they moved him. “Where did you find him, sir?” she asked.
“On the east edge of the 5, a few miles down the coast; I saw him just as the sun was coming up.”
“Did you try to administer any aid, sir?”
“No, I just verified that he had a pulse, then checked my Garmin, found your hospital and drove straight here. He was breathing evenly and I didn’t see any obvious wounds … I covered him with the blanket that you saw there …”
“He doesn’t appear to have any neck injuries.”
“He was just off the burn, lying facedown, his shoulder leaning against some brush. I was concerned about moving him, but I figured it was important to get him to a hospital.”
“And you lifted him by yourself?”
“Another truck stopped. The driver helped me.”
“We’ll need you to help us complete a report …”
“I understand. Let me call my dispatcher, tell him I’ve lost an hour or so and that I’ll be a few minutes late with my delivery.”
“Where are you headed?”
“L.A., then over to Vegas.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Jim Jeffers.”
TWO
Still feel a little guilty about the ‘Jim Jeffers’ lie, but I couldn’t give them my real name. Another hour there and I’d never get caught up again. Plenty of people want these jobs these days and if you’ve got one and need it you’ve got to hold onto it. I couldn’t just leave him lying there in the dirt, but I couldn’t devote the rest of my life to his recovery either. It wasn’t really that big of a lie, more like a fib. I use that name all the time. If I’m talking to a realtor or any of those people that keep calling you back until either you or they die … I’m Jim Jeffers. It sounds American enough. A little unique, not like Bill Brown or John Smith. And it’s always Jim, not James. Easier when they’re trying to bond with you. Makes them feel more comfortable. Never met anybody actually named Jeffers. There was a Jeffords back in Ashtabula. Ralph Jeffords. Mailman. Nice man. Don’t know where the Jeffers came from. It always seems to work though.
Well, here we are in beautiful downtown City of Industry. Sky looks about the same as it did the last time, a soft light brown with pale yellow accents. I’ll drop off the auto parts, pick up some valves and head back to Phoenix.
“My God, that’s Dr. Barnes,” the nurse said, her voice rising as she spoke his name. Her name tag read Carol Draper, R.N., MSN. She wore the starched white uniform that the trucker remembered fondly.
“Yes, Carol,” the ER nurse answered. “We didn’t notice at first, because of the dirty hair and the beard growth. We were focused on cleaning him up and determining what was wrong with him. I mean … we would never have expected to see him like this. He’s always so meticulous about his appearance.”
“Who brought him in?”
“A truck driver. He found him by the side of the road, down on the 5.”
“Where’s the contact information?”
“I don’t think they got any. The driver dropped him off and got back in his truck and drove away.”
“You didn’t even get a name?”
“Oh yes, we did get a name. I believe it was Jeffers.”
“Has anyone called the police?”
“I believe that Dotty did.”
Dotty Blaine was the admitting officer. She called Carol Draper ‘Nurse Draper’, who in turn called her ‘Dorothy’.
“I’m told that the man who brought in Dr. Barnes left without leaving any contact information.”
“That’s true, Nurse Draper. He told Nurse Kinley that he needed to call his company dispatcher. He wanted to tell him that he’d be late with his delivery. The nurse and the orderlies brought Dr. Barnes to the ER. When the driver didn’t return promptly, one of them checked on him. I believe it was Mr. Tompkins. He went outside and said that the truck had pulled away.”
“And did anyone get a license number?”
“I’m afraid not, Nurse Draper. They were all focused on bringing Dr. Barnes into the ER and giving him immediate attention.”
“And you’ve called the police?”
“Yes, ma’am. I spoke to the desk sergeant and then spoke directly to Chief Dietrich. I gave him the driver’s name—Jim Jeffers—and told him that Mr. Jeffers said that he would be making a delivery in Los Angeles and then driving to Las Vegas.”
“And is he sending someone?”
“Yes, ma’am, he said that he would send one of his lieutenants, I suppose because Dr. Barnes serves as the Medical Examiner for Laguna Beach. They work with him all the time.”
“Yes. Thank you, Dorothy. Let me know immediately of any further developments. I’ll be waiting for the results of the ER team’s evaluation.”
Lieutenant Tom Deaton arrived seven minutes later. He was greeted just inside the door to the ER by Nurse Sarah Ritter. They still dated occasionally, but each had moved on psychologically. More than friends but not quite boyfriend/girlfriend, there was still some perceptible warmth.
“We don’t know anything yet, Tom. They’re doing some bloodwork.”
“Is he awake?”
“No, he’s comatose.”
“Comatose?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“They said he was found by the side of the road.”
“Yes, beside the 5. That’s what the truck driver said at least. Did they tell you he was naked?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“He was dirty and unshaven. He looked like an abandoned, homeless person.”
“Who’s in charge of the ER, Sarah?”
“Dr. Rawson. Emily Rawson.”
“Is she with him now?”
“I think she’s waiting for the results of the bloodwork.”
“Thanks.”
He found her, badged her and introduced himself. She was drinking coffee from a cardboard cup and offered him some. “Thanks,” he said and sat across from her at a desk in the corner of the ER.
“He was nude, Lieutenant. I can’t remember the last time I saw Len Barnes without pressed slacks, starched shirt and a tie. He was unkempt. He looked like a derelict.”
“Any wounds or marks on the body?”
“No significant bruising or puncture wounds. His body was dirty but there were no signs of trauma except for …”
“Except for?”
“Some marks around the … anus. No tears or significant abrasions.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but no sign of sexual assault. There was nothing unexpected on the swab. There are any number of possible explanations …”
