Right as Rain: A C.T. Ferguson Crime Novel (#10), page 1
Right as Rain
A C.T. Ferguson Crime Novel (#10)
Tom Fowler
Copyright © 2021 by Tom Fowler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
Editing by Chase Nottingham
Cover Design by 100Covers
Published by Widening Gyre Media
For Lisa and Isabel.
Contents
Novella Giveaway
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
Afterword
Novella Giveaway
Want to know C.T.’s origin story? Tap the cover to download the prequel novella to the C.T. Ferguson crime novel series.
Chapter 1
I sat in my car on Fell Street a couple hundred yards from The Inn at Henderson’s Wharf. It was a boutique hotel in the historic section. Shops and salons dotted both sides of the cobblestoned streets. My quarry was due to come out any minute. Reaching him at his office would be difficult with all the security he paid for.
It took me a while to track him here, but I found him. Peter Hudson was a wealthy middle-aged executive who flouted his opulence in all the predictable ways. This included keeping a mistress on the side. He eschewed cliché in as much as his lover was someone else’s secretary, and I watched her leave for the office ten minutes ago. Hudson’s wife filed for divorce a month prior, and he dodged all her attempts to serve him with papers. She turned to me, and I soon discovered his room at the hotel charged to the company card of one of his low-level employees.
Hudson still drove to his office in Baltimore’s World Trade Center, and the building’s guards could keep me from reaching him. Here, he had no retinue protecting him. The February chill pressed in on me, and I fired up my Audi S4’s engine again to get some heat running through the cabin. A couple minutes later, Hudson strolled through the sliding double doors.
I killed the motor, climbed out of the car, and hustled down Fell Street. The apartment building I lived in upon my return to Baltimore sat across the street from the hotel. Between them, a large gated lot offered plenty of parking. Henderson’s Wharf guests received a card to open the gate. Hudson slid his into the reader. The gears spun and whirred, and the gate began its slow slide. Hudson walked through, apparently oblivious to me slipping in behind him. I took the envelope holding divorce papers from my coat pocket.
His fancy car awaited about a hundred yards ahead. I pulled even with him. “Good morning, Mister Hudson.”
He stopped and turned to me with wide eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
I held the envelope out, then pushed it into his chest when he showed no intention to take it. “Someone who enjoys serving papers to assholes.”
He snatched the envelope away and glanced at his expensive gray wool coat. It remained unmarred. “You touched me. I could have you charged with assault.”
“You could,” I said. “If you do, though, I’m going to knock you on your ass.” He frowned. “I believe in earning my charges.”
“The bitch paid you, huh?” I didn’t dignify his question with a response. “How’d you find me?”
“I’m smarter than you.”
“You think so?” he said.
“I know better than to pair a silver tie with a black shirt and black suit,” I said. “You look like you work for the Raiders.”
“This suit cost three thousand dollars.” He sneered and glared at my clothes. The coat hid my sweater, but my jeans and tennis shoes were on full display. “Why don’t you take the money my bitch of a wife is paying you and go to a real clothing store?”
This marked the second time he insulted his wife, a lady who didn’t deserve his adultery or scorn. I wouldn’t tolerate a third. “Why don’t you quit while you’re only slightly behind and get out of here? I’m sure your paramour will soon be wondering why you’re not in the office.”
Hudson drew his fist back. I flinched and raised my left arm. He stopped. “Jesus, you’re jumpy.”
“Yeah,” I said, “too much coffee waiting for you.” I felt my heart beating faster in my chest. Despite my best efforts to stare conflict in the face, it made me recoil ever since I got shot almost four months ago. “Make sure you and your fancy car show up in court. I’d hate to have to drag you and your three-thousand dollar suit in front of a judge.”
This time, Hudson took a swing at me. After the initial panic of a moment ago, however, I was ready. I grabbed his wrist, spun him into a hammerlock, and marched him to his new Maserati sedan. Once we reached the expensive car, I shoved him against the side of it. I hoped it would leave a dent. “Three reasons you’re an asshole. Your suit, paying full freight for an Italian car, and the way you refer to your wife. Do it again, and I’ll put your head through the window. We clear?”
He wriggled but couldn’t get free. “Yeah . . . yeah, sure. Let go of me!” I clamped the hold down for a couple seconds before releasing him. Hudson turned back around with anger flashing in his brown eyes. He didn’t make a move, though. I flinched only the first time, and I figured he knew he missed his chance.
“Might want to fix your suit,” I said, pointing to the wrinkles on his pants from our little tussle. “Hope you have a five-hundred-dollar iron.” While he seethed against the door of his overpriced car, I turned and left the parking lot.
From the boutique hotel, I drove to my home in the Federal Hill neighborhood of Baltimore. I steered into the alley and pulled onto the parking pad behind my house. I left the S4 next to a red Mercedes AMG coupe shaped and colored like a rocket. My girlfriend Gloria Reading drove the car, and it was one of the few I liked driving more than my own.
“Morning,” she said as I walked in through the rear door. Light coming in the windows danced in her chestnut hair. Even in the dark, though, my pulse always hopped a little whenever I saw her. Gloria stood from her breakfast and planted a lingering kiss on me.
She returned to the table while I remained in the kitchen. Every day we spend together—which is most of them—I wake up before Gloria. When I have coffee and breakfast humming along, she wanders downstairs to join me. This morning, I was out the door early to catch Hudson at the hotel, so I left a few bagels on the counter.
Having already enjoyed a toasted whole wheat model, I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge, poured another mug of java, and joined Gloria at my small table. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Fine. Guys like Hudson fold pretty easily without their security details to make them feel big and powerful.”
Gloria eyed me over her mug. “He didn’t give you any trouble?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I said.
“So he didn’t get physical with you?”
I fortified myself with a sip of coffee before answering. “He did.”
When I didn’t elaborate, Gloria had to follow up. “And?”
“I handled it,” I said.
“You didn’t shrink back?”
It took me a few seconds—and some more caffeine—to muster a response. “I did at first.” I shrugged. “It turned out all right.”
“This time,” she said. “It’s not the first instance, though.”
“I know you’re worried about me. I appreciate it . . . but I’m fine. I’ll figure it out.”
Gloria’s neutral expression showed me she remained unconvinced. I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t even manage to persuade myself. Ever since I took two bullets, this remained the most challenging part of my recuperation. My stamina was mostly back, and my physical recovery went well. Mentally, however, I was still sorting some things out. Gloria, who slept beside me most nights, knew better than most. “I think you rushed yourself back to work,” she said.
“Maybe.” She probably had a point, but I needed to re-establish my PI business once my parents severed the financial backing of their foundation. “I’m pulling jobs, though. They keep me occupied. I’ll get it all sorted out.”
“I sure hope so,” Gloria said. She paused the inquisition long enough to enjoy a few dainty nibbles of her bagel. What I could devour in a dozen bites, Gloria needed three times as many. When we ate together, I always finished first. “Have you talked to your parents recently?”
“For my father’s birthday a couple weeks ago. We Skyped.”
Gloria grinned. “I remember because I was on the call, too. Not since then?” I shook my head. “Why not?”
“Nothing to talk about,” I said.
“Maybe you could explain what’s been happening. They might reconsider the split.”
“They won’t.” And I wouldn’t beg them to. They’d made their decision, and so had I.
“You’re all stubborn,” Gloria said.
“Just part of my charm.” I added a wink.
Gloria’s lips turned up slightly. “You’re lucky I love you.”
I was, and I knew it.
After breakfast, I took my other car to the new office. The vehicle would win no awards for its looks. It was a late-‘eighties Chevy Caprice in a couple different shades of blue. I snagged it from a chop shop owner who put in a newer engine and added fortifications against common handgun fire. Most importantly, it looked like the kind of car an honest hard-working private investigator would drive.
I still needed to make up some ground on both of those fronts.
Before I got shot, I rented an office in the CareFirst Building, a blandly-named tower in Canton Square. They’d been itching to get rid of me and move a doctor in, and when they did, I found a new space. I occupied the floor above an auto body shop in Fells Point. It was far from ideal, but it worked, and I needed to be able to pay for it myself.
I parked in the lot, leaving the Caprice among its battered automotive cousins, and walked in the front entrance. A door ahead led into the shop. I took the stairs to the right, unlocked my office, and went inside. Manny, the owner, told me it had been a two-room apartment before he decided to rent it commercially. The smaller portion served as a waiting area. To date, very few people used it for its intended purpose.
Shortly after I arrived, a man in a cheap suit came in. It was the kind of suit which looks fine from across a room, but the illusion cracks up close. I never understood why people didn’t just wait for sales on the good stuff. Then, I remembered I might need to rummage around in the bargain bin more than I used to.
The joys of being fully self-employed.
He sat in a guest chair on the other side of my desk and set his briefcase beside him. Whatever passed for decorating was still a work in progress. I had my trusty computer, three monitors, the same number of chairs, a coffee maker, fridge, and a movie poster for The Maltese Falcon. In case anyone missed my occupation on the door, the large placard would clue them in. This fellow looked around, frowning in silent disapproval, before fixing his gaze on me. He was slender and wore glasses too big for his face. Whoever let him buy the suit must’ve also accompanied him to the optometrist. “I’m Elliot Allen.”
I nodded but didn’t answer. My name was on the door. Introductions seemed superfluous.
“I’m with the local branch of Countrywide Insurance,” he continued. I bobbed my head again—after all, I knew this from the appointment he created via my online calendar. “Our client in this case is Good Samaritan Hospital.” No nod this time. Gotta keep them guessing. Allen’s brows knitted. “Have you worked many insurance cases, Mister Ferguson?”
“A couple,” I said, which constituted two more than the actual number. “I focused on individual clients until the end of last year.”
“Do you have an issue working for a company?”
“It would depend on the company.”
Allen picked up his briefcase and popped the locks. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and sniffed. “Why don’t I tell you what this is about?”
“Why don’t you?” I said. What the hell else were we doing here? I wondered how many times Allen got stuffed into a locker in high school. If I had one handy, I might’ve tried it, too.
He dropped a manila folder on the desktop. Someone wrote the name Stanton, Charles on its tab with a black marker. “This man is a nurse at Good Sam. He’s worked there over fifteen years. A couple months ago, he claims he hurt his back lifting an especially heavy patient. He filed for workman’s comp, of course.”
I put my hand on the file but didn’t open it. “Seems pretty standard so far.”
“If it ended there,” Allen said, “it would be. Mister Stanton hasn’t returned to work yet. He claims he’s still injured.”
“Your client is a hospital,” I said. “They should be able to verify an injury.”
“It’s more difficult with the back. Mister Stanton could have an older injury which doesn’t affect his ability to work or quality of life.” I noted the order in which Allen listed those. “It could still appear on an MRI.”
“You want me to see if he’s faking it.”
“Precisely. Observe him for a couple days, see what he does, and send me a report.”
I leaned back in my chair. “You know I’m not a medical professional, right?”
“Of course,” he said, spreading his hands. “Why?”
“If I see this guy do something, it doesn’t mean it’s out of bounds with his injury.”
“Just write it up and send it in. We’ll figure it out.”
I didn’t care for this potential investigation already, but I also couldn’t be as choosy now as I’d been in the past. Without my parents’ foundation as a benefactor, I needed to work more than a case a week. “All right. When do you need the report?”
“End of the week would be fine,” Allen said. “I presume you want half your fee up front.”
“Yes,” I said as if I’d determined this payment structure before right now. He cut me a check. I still didn’t like the case.
The joys of being fully self-employed.
Chapter 2
Another appointment appeared on my calendar later in the day. I would need to go online and block off some time as unavailable, especially if people kept availing themselves of the Internet bookings. Working more than my usual one case at a time was something I’d reluctantly do, but I didn’t need a line of people queueing up at the door. Maybe I could work out a discount on oil changes for my clients with Manny.
I put on a jacket and walked into Fells Point proper for lunch. Even with reduced dining capacity, many choices awaited me. I’m a simple man, and I opted for a simple lunch: a pepperoni and mushroom pie from Brick Oven Pizzeria. After carrying it back to my office, it lost a bunch of its heat but none of its taste. Eating pizza at my desk seemed like a very PI thing to do. I only needed a bottle of whiskey in my desk to be welcomed into the club.
When I’d finished half the slices, I realized I didn’t have any way to contain the others. Lacking a better method, I folded the box in half and crammed it into the fridge. Aluminum foil vaulted to the top of my shopping list. A short while later, quiet footfalls came up the stairs. My door opened, and a slim woman walked through. She peeked into my office, and I gestured toward my guest chairs. “Thanks for seeing me,” she said.
“Sure.” My latest potential client looked to be in her late twenties, making her a few years younger than me. Her blonde hair was impossibly straight and hung past her shoulders. Red, puffy eyes told me she’d been crying. If we met under happier circumstances, I would have called her pretty. She lapsed into silence as she glanced around at my very much in-progress setup. “I still have some work to do on the place,” I said, hoping to encourage her out of her shell.
“It’s fine.” Her smile was more polite than anything, but I counted it as a win. “Wow.” She took a deep breath to collect herself. “I never thought I’d be talking to a private investigator.” She frowned. “Sorry . . . that probably sounded rude.”
“I’ve heard a lot worse.” No reaction. Whoever this woman was, she came here because she needed my help, but she’d clammed up since sitting down. “Want some coffee?”
“OK,” she said after a few seconds of silence. I repurposed my old Keurig into the office java station, and I used it to brew two cups.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Just milk. Thanks.” I prepared it as she wanted and set the mug in front of her. It earned me another tight smile. I woke my computer from its slumber and checked the calendar. Amy Sloan sat on the other side of my desk.
