“I would imagine that there are traces of it in the ignition chamber as well,” I concluded.
“You can’t make a key that fast. It’s not possible. It’s not like they had a key copier handy. Recreating a metal key from putty would take way too long.” That taller cop had it in for me, but luckily, I had some experience of my own.
“I never said it was made of metal,” I countered.
Uncle Shane was still struggling to understand. “Then what would it be made of?”
I frowned as I thought about my past adventures. “Epoxy works pretty well in a pinch, and it sets really fast, but there are other options. In fact, I have seen kits sold on certain Internet sites. They boast a new key in five minutes or less. That seems workable to me.” They did not say anything more. They just stared at me as if to wonder how I knew this information. I glanced at the silver watch on my wrist as exhaustion set in. “It’s nearly 2:00. I’m going home. I need some sleep.”
The two cops did not try to stop me. My uncle only trailed behind me, still trying to connect the evidence. Finally, as I popped open the door to my car, he said, “You would have made a great cop, Lindy.”
“Yeah,” I had thought the same thing on many occasions, “if not for the stupidity and arrogance of youth, right?” I didn’t want him to feel bad for me, so I added, “It’s okay. I never played well with the other kids. Partners are not my thing.”
He was still staring at the key and the tissue. As a second thought, he said, “Stop by tomorrow. Stella swears she has a case for you. There’s not enough to make it an official police investigation for now, but who knows, maybe you’ll dig something up.”
I left him there in the driveway of that poor slaughtered couple, still staring at the tissue and the key.
Aunt Stella and her cases were about as common as Washington and its rain. Really they aren’t much more than some crazy suspicion like that her neighbor that was harvesting organs, which really turned out to be a nice old woman that composted too much garbage. Then there was the mystery of the disappearing mail. It turned out that Uncle Shane had forgotten to take the mail off of its hold when they had returned from vacation. I was sure that this one would be something of the same sort. A neighbor with a new hobby that annoyed her or something Shane had started and not talked with her about previously. Still it was always worth checking out. The one time I didn’t, I just knew it would be a real case.
I didn’t arrive at my place until nearly 2:00 a.m. My stomach grumbled, but I didn’t care. I locked the door behind me, kicked my shoes into the center of the entryway, and didn’t stop walking until I landed face first on my mattress. To anyone else my night might have been crazy. At least unusual. But for me it was just another night in the life of Lindy Johnson, Private Investigator.
Chapter 3
I slept in, and I didn’t feel guilty. I tried to avoid them both at all times: guilt and waking up early. I glanced with hazy vision at the alarm clock next to my bed. 10:30, a respectable time to greet the world. Fumbling on the nightstand, I urged life back into my phone. The only reason I had to get up was to find work. For cash, I was always willing to get out of bed.
I logged in to PI Net and waited for something to pop up. Three years ago some tech-driven hipster out of Seattle decided he wanted to have his own personal arsenal of private investigators. I was pretty sure the consensus was that he suffered from some sort of paranoia matched with major delusions of grandeur, but what did I care. It kept me in the black.
This guy, Jax McDougal, created PI Net, an app that gathered all the private investigators in the area into one virtual arena. He would post a job, the time frame for delivery, and his price. The interested parties could either accept the offer or give a counter bid that he could accept or reject. Most of his jobs ranged from a tail with a report to background checks on his new pool boy. But they could get complicated. Surveillance on a competing company or other borderline illegal activities. All of it centered on his theory that his life was in danger, and people were out to steal his ideas.
Two years ago PI Net went dark. Turned out McDougal was justified in his suspicions. He was murdered at a drive-in while he watched some revival show.
None of his private investigators were very attached to him, but out of respect, most of us attended the funeral. After the memorial we started talking. The PI Net app was not worth losing, not for our little neck of the woods. We pooled our funds and created PI Net 2.0. and opened it to the entire country. For someone like me, a totally antisocial introvert that spoke to people only out of necessity or if I stood to gain something, the one-of-a-kind app was a lifesaver. I did not have to interact, just outbid.
A couple of beeps lit up the screen on my phone. There, in red words, danced my next opportunity.
“CS, female, twenty-four hours, $80.”
CS was part of the codes we had worked up for the app. It stood for “covert surveillance.” Female was, of course, the alleged perpetrator. The time line was twenty-four hours with an $80 paycheck if I delivered. Since I had made only $50 on the one-week job that ended the night before, I was more than willing to press the blinking “accept” button, forgo the “counter” button, and completely ignore the “dismiss” button. To my pleasure, much like the gunfighters my father worshipped, I was the quickest draw, and the job was mine. The phone buzzed, and I knew the client had forwarded the important information by e-mail.
Kicking off my comforter and not bothering to check the March sky for rain because it was a given, I wandered into the kitchen and reviewed the information I had been sent as I ate a few stale donuts from a bag on the counter. My nutritional habits were not great, but my exercise regimen seemed to make up for it.
The man that had hired me was sure his fiancée was seeing someone else. I frowned. If I had known they were engaged, I might not have bid on the case. I did a lot of this kind of work, and 85 percent of the time, the significant other was cheating, which meant a lot of heartbreak, screaming, and tears. I figured it was fine to cast that burden on an average couple. Better they find out before it got serious. I didn’t break up marriages. Sure there were infidelities. Sure they would find out eventually. But I didn’t want to have a part of it. I wasn’t about to get involved in messy divorces, especially not if there were kids involved.
I checked the address for the woman I needed to follow. Small window of time to do it in, but it was near my Aunt Stella’s house, and maybe I could get lucky. Avery Jones, another local P.I., would call me cocky for trying to hit the twenty-four-hour target. Maybe he was right, but I didn’t care. I liked a good challenge.
I changed from my nightlife attire I had slept in into some running shorts and a tank. I strapped my combat gloves to my hands and stepped onto the back porch. The air was crisp. I could faintly smell the bay. Spring was my favorite season, which invigorated me even more. Stretching my neck side to side, I took one last deep breath and focused all my attention on the black bag of sand. The collision of my fist and my punching bag stung as always but not enough to make me stop. I knew the feeling would not last. I delivered jabs, crosses, and hooks until my arms burned, rain dripping from the roof behind me. I bounced on the balls of my feet, hoping my legs were awake enough to join in on the fun. The first two kicks were not as angled as I had liked, and I was far more satisfied when the bridge of my foot connected with the bag just above the yellow logo. I swapped legs and then started in on combinations.
For some, exercise is something they do to stay skinny. For others, it is a competition or an activity they actually look forward to, the same way I look forward to sleep. For me it is a matter of life and death, a line between mobility and life in a wheelchair.
Five years ago I woke up to numbness in my arm as if I had slept on it wrong and it had fallen asleep. I didn’t think much of it, but as the day wore on, the feeling spread like mud through my nerves. When I couldn’t shake it after a full day, I began to worry. When I woke up with major blurring in
my right eye, which was soon followed by total blindness, I saw a doctor. Two MRIs and an excruciating spinal tap later, I had my diagnosis: relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis. Or if you prefer a tidy acronym, RRMS.
The words were hollow as my neurologist spoke. “You’re one of the lucky ones. Your case is mild. The second MRI showed us that it is no longer active. The first relapse was long ago. There’s no way of knowing, but it could be years before you have another one.”
Lucky.
That word had hung over me like a guillotine for days. I was living in California at the time, early in the month of May, and I was lucky. I had a hard time seeing it. I’ll admit that easily now, but he was right. There have been so many others that I have met in my journey that are far worse off than I am.
We went over medication options early on. With an incurable, degenerative disease like MS, it becomes all about management. You do what you have to do to keep the monster behind bars. I opted for daily injections. It nearly overwhelmed me at first. Every day for the rest of my life. But I adopted a new thought process: one shot at a time, one day at a time.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was living in California with my parents. I was glad for the help as the headaches increased and my vision remained impaired. I quickly learned that the heat of the Central Valley was not conducive to someone in my condition. As the temperatures soared, so did my pain. Imaginary needles jabbed into my neck, a hundred or more at a time. At times my bones felt like they were set in a vice. I stayed on whatever over-the-counter medication I could to control the pain, but some days it was hard to remember how lucky I was.
I was in my last year of college with a double major of psychology and criminology, but my brain felt like mush. I pressed through what I could despite the increase of effort required to maintain my old normal. Eventually, sometime around Thanksgiving, I finally felt like myself again. It was the remitting gift of the disease. I graduated with fully restored vision but felt the impending summer might be too much to handle again.
That was when Stella and Shane offered to take me in. Washington summers, especially in their town only fifteen minutes from the Canadian border, were a far cry from what I had experienced the year before. I jumped at the chance.
Shane encouraged me to seek a private investigator’s license, and though I resisted it at first, I finally saw the merit. I set my own hours, chose my cases, and worked when I wanted to work. With the constantly cool weather—a heat wave meant 85 degrees—I was able to implement exercise as a secondary form of medication. My regimen consisted of kickboxing for agility, weight lifting for strength, running for my own sanity, and a little yoga for balance. I missed my family, but it didn’t take long to see that I was finally truly returning to normal.
I never threw pity parties about my disease. It was pointless. In fact, few knew about it, and I liked it that way. Uncle Shane never mentioned it or treated me like I was broken and I was grateful. If he worried, I had no idea. I loved my aunt and uncle, but I was happy that I had long since moved into my own place just outside Ferndale, Washington.
I had decided that I didn’t want to have children. While pregnancy typically erased multiple sclerosis symptoms, childbirth increased the probability of a relapse. It was like a dormant volcano suddenly bursting with life and magma, except the explosion would be in my brain. Add to that the genetic risk involved of passing the disease on to a child or a grandchild, and I knew it wasn’t worth the danger. My disease would die with me. That decision impacted other ones, especially my dating life. I never let a relationship get serious, and I avoided anyone that could get hurt in the crossfire. My love life was my work, and man, I loved it.
As the rain increased on the open field behind my covered deck, I delivered a final few roundhouse kicks into the leather bag and gave in to the exhaustion. Occasionally, I pushed too hard and forgot that I had limits, but it felt good every single time. As I gripped my knees for support and crouched forward to stop the impending vertigo, I had to smile. I was in charge, and the monster was still in his cage.
I showered and dressed quickly. No need for more than a ponytail and my normal wardrobe for the day’s activities. My phone vibrated on my dresser as a text rolled in from an unidentified number. With my work it was normal to receive random messages, but as I read the words, I knew the recipient.
“Hey, Huckleberry, I had fun last night. How about lunch?”
Ryder Billings had used my phone the night before to send himself the picture. That had given him my number. I deleted the text without much more thought. Ryder was just the sort of distraction I tried to keep from my life.
Key in hand, I jogged down the front steps to my sedan. The job was not far away, and with my long-range lens and digital camera, I was hopeful.
**********
I parked a few houses down in front of a vacant driveway. There was an oak tree to block me from the sight of my mark if she happened to step out, but I pulled out a book to read just in case. Better to look like I was waiting for someone than to give away the truth. Over the top of my novel I could see a red convertible parked in the driveway. There were no other cars visible. It took three chapters, but my patience was rewarded. Little Miss Blonde Long Legs—I had not bothered to learn her name—slipped from her house and fired up the convertible. I did not know her well enough, obviously, to know if she was always so meticulously groomed before she left the house, but my instincts told me she was off to meet someone.
I waited until the car was at the end of the street before I set my book aside and pursued with caution. After a block or two, she merged onto the freeway, and after five miles, I took the same exit, managing three cars between us. She turned into a suburban area, much more upscale than her own. I saw break lights, so I quickly turned on a side street and flipped around. By the time I had my long-range camera out, she and the Blonde Body Builder were already on the move but in his car, a flashy luxury SUV. I dropped my camera and turned my ignition switch on again. The engine stalled.
“Oh, not now,” I coaxed my little car. At times I worried that my car or phone or appliances had MS as well. They just did not always work reliably. I turned the key again, but nothing happened. Like a magician without a trap door, the tail lights had already disappeared around the corner. I tried the key one last time, and life roared in my engine.
I did not even have time to praise her. The car needed to work. I followed the path I suspected, but even after twenty minutes of searching, they were gone. I returned to Mr. Body Builder’s house and paused to think about my options. I snapped a picture of the red convertible outside the house, making sure to capture the house number in the same shot. Still, I knew it would not get me paid.
In reality, if the two philanderers were off on a getaway vacation, I was out of luck completely. I checked my GPS on my phone. Stella’s house was five minutes away. Maybe a short visit there would kill a little time. I knew I probably had a little time to burn, and I opted to spend it with my favorite crazy aunt rather than waiting on their return.
Chapter 4
“Oh, Lindy!” My Aunt Stella enveloped me in her arms and crushed me in her embrace. I was not a hugger, but she always had been.
“Hey, Stella,” was my garbled response as my face was crushed into her hundreds of hard, hair-sprayed curls. The stench of aerosol made my eyes water a bit. For a thin woman, she sure had the grip of a python.
She finally released me. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”
“Uncle Shane told me to stop by. He said you might have something for me to look in on.”
Her eyes widened and she glanced over my shoulder suspiciously, then to the right and the left, as if someone might hear us. “No, no case.”
Her voice was far too loud for our proximity. It was as if she were trying to talk to someone across the street.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said in that same loud voice. I watched the muscles in her face close
ly. Tight lips, dilated pupils, tense contraction all over. She was afraid but trying to conceal it. “Well, while you are here, come in and chat with your auntie a moment or two.”
I followed her into the house not because I wanted to chat but because I wanted to know what had spooked her so badly.
It was not until the door was shut and we had traveled into the living room, clear on the other side of the house, that her nerves evened out slightly. I flopped onto the overstuffed floral couch and kicked my feet up on the wooden coffee table like Uncle Shane had taught me to do. Stella lifted my feet and slipped a coaster under them. I laughed. She was crazy. Just the way I liked her.
“Stella, what’s going on? Why are you acting so strange?”
She brushed it away and sat opposite in her recliner. “Oh honey, I’ve been slipping coasters under your Uncle Shane’s feet since he married me.”
They had been married only seven or eight years. Uncle Shane’s first wife died from a heart attack fifteen years before that. They’d had children together, bratty cousins I never wanted to talk to, but she hadn’t lived to see them grown. Shane said he wouldn’t ever marry again, but he met Stella at a church function, and he could not pass up that red hair.
“Not the coaster, and you know it,” I challenged. “That voice on the stoop, this cloak-and-dagger stuff. What’s going on? One of your neighbors become a human trafficker or something?”
She did not appreciate my teasing. “I know I have been off base before, but I am on to something this time, Lindy.”
“All right. Then tell me. What is it?”
She wouldn’t speak until she had drawn the curtains and taken her landline off the hook. She had been watching too many spy movies again.
“Old people at my church are dying.”
The air rushed from me like one of those gigantic bounce houses being deflated. My head dropped onto my chest, and my shoulders sagged under the amount of crazed drama she brought into my life.
Caskets & Conspiracies Page 3
