by L. J. Martin
Target Shy & Sexy
by
L. J. Martin
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2015 L. J. Martin
Wolfpack Publishing
48 Rock Creek Road
Clinton, Montana 59825
ISBN: 9781629183060
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
Table of Contents:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
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Prologue
No one could have been more surprised, after returning from a very tough job in Montana which ended in a week's fly fishing with my buddy—which wasn't so tough—to find a call waiting from a former employer.
Tammy Houston, rapidly becoming a very famous, very successful, country and western singer.
The hell of it is, the last time I did a gig for Tammy she fired me and it cost me fourteen grand to pay for the medical bills of a couple of young eco-terrorists who tried to defend a smartass kid who threw paint on what the destructive little bitch thought was a fur coat. One lousy broken arm, only a slightly broken jaw, and the assholes deserved it. So I was out lots of dough and a month doing community service in a Seattle soup kitchen.
I'd snatched the wrist of the hippy girl who'd just thrown paint on Tammy's fur coat. The hell of it was the coat was faux fur and not that expensive. That didn't keep me from turning the young lady—if you can call a rude young hippie girl a lady—over my knee, right outside the Gaucho restaurant on 2nd Street in downtown Seattle, and tanning her butt until she bawled like a baby.
Of course I spent the night in the hoosegow…not for the spanking, but for breaking the jaw of one long-hair and the arm of another who decided to come to the property-destroying hippie girl's rescue. I take umbrage when someone is stupid enough to pull a two-inch blade penknife on me and broke that one's arm to cure him of said stupidity, and the jaw of the other as he called me a son of a bitch and a cocksucker and tried to kick me in the gonads. “Son of a bitch” I don't mind so much as I'm sure he was not really casting dispersions on my mom. My nads? Now that's another matter altogether. And a cocksucker? Now I take real umbrage at that. It was clearly a case of self-defense, however Judge Polkinghorn, who I'd like to poke in the eye, didn't agree.
It doesn't pay to beat up on rich-kid-liberals in Seattle, particularly when one's daddy is on the city council.
No good deed goes unpunished.
I also paid a five thousand dollar fine and did four weeks community service in a Seattle soup kitchen serving goulash to guys who drove up in BMW's. Truthfully not all of them drove up in anything, as many actually needed a hot meal. Having never begged, I'm not positive, but suspect it's much easier to work for a living. All that said, I know some guys who came back from Iraq, as I did, who were too screwed up to hold a job. I gave the vets an extra portion.
I even made a few new friends while on the job, including a priest, Father Sean O'Donnel, who runs the joint. I traded some carpentry work—hanging doors—for a basement room while I paid my penance. I could have afforded a nearby hotel room, but one adds to life's experiences as one can…and I did.
As it turned out the judge did me a favor with the community service as I recognized a guy for whom I was dishing up some slop; a guy who'd skipped a hundred grand bail in Las Vegas. Carrying a bail enforcement badge—thirty five bucks will get you one—I called the bondsman, got a contract, put the guy face down on the sidewalk after his next bummed bowl of soup and collected a twenty grand recovery fee for hauling him into the same lockup I'd recently left.
God works in mysterious ways.
Tammy still owes me for that week's work. I was not holding my breath waiting to collect, however it seems I'm now in demand. And she's a little more interested in my specialties, as someone knocked a great big chunk out of her fireplace in the multi-million dollar condo she now occupies. Cops said a 50 cal mag did the dirty deed from a thousand yards away.
The long-hairs’ medical bills cost me fourteen thousand, so, after my three grand premium to a local bondsman, the fine, a few expenses, and the medical bills, I came out about three grand in the hole.
Living in the basement of a homeless shelter was not such a bad gig, as my primary residence, my second home, and my third and fourth are ministorage rooms…or at least had been until I invested in a 250 Ford truck and a camper. I also own a van, which is a necessity for the occasional bail enforcement—bounty hunting—I do. One occasionally needs tie downs and room to hook up a perp or two.
Of course I have an iPhone, and a half dozen throw away phones, so I really didn't need to drop by my buddy Pax Weatherwax's office. But he does have the best coffee in town, and the price is right.
Pax owns an Internet Service Provider company with offices in six cities, and keeps me out of trouble and loaded with information on clients and bad guys. Information that is probably just short of what the NSA could procure. He's really, really, really good at what he does.
And he's also my best friend, as we rambled through Desert Storm together, kept each other alive, and would have thrown ourselves on a grenade to save the other, if need be. As it is, he has one leg an inch and a half shorter than the other thanks to dragging me out of a street singing with AK47 rounds and taking one through the thigh.
He still is the best man with a .308 I know—Marine sniper trained—and damn good with any other weapon. I don't want him after me, short leg or no.
I take the stairs up the back way to his two-car garage sized office, his back looking at the Vegas strip a few blocks distant, and catch him with his nose in some software manual.
"Hey!" I shout, and he jumps a foot.
"You son of a bitch," he stammers.
"Watch your mouth, fat boy," I say with a laugh.
"Fuck you. I can take you in anything but a foot race."
"I need to use a phone and want to put my butt in an easy chair to do so."
"Good, I'm busy here."
So I plop down in a far corner, grab the phone, and dial the area code 310 number Tammy left.
"Miss Houston's residence," the male voice answers.
"Funny, that's who I called." I'm feeling a little sassy as she's had to phone me, and I know it grates at her.
"May I say who's calling?"
"Mr. Michael Reardon, you may say."
"Is she expecting you?" he asks, his voice slightly more gruff.
"She might be expecting twins for all I know. I'm returning her call."
"You're a little flippant." His voice is even more gruff.
"You've got one minute to get her on the phone, or I'm hanging up. One more time, Sherlock, I'm returning her call."
"Right, hold on." I know he's put a hand over the receiver, but can hear him nonetheless. "Some
smartass says he's returning your call. Michael Reardon."
It's far less than five seconds when she picks up the phone, and she's slightly out of breath like she's run to grab it.
"Hi, Mike."
"Hi, Miss Houston," I say, slightly tongue in cheek.
"You know it’s Tammy to you."
"Okay, Tammy. So long as I'm not working for you, it's Tammy. What's up?"
"I need your help."
I have to chuckle a little. "As I recall, you don't like my help."
"That was when I was young and naive. I've learned some things."
"Two years ago you were naive and now you’re mature?"
"I've learned a lot."
"Okay," I sigh. "What do you need?"
"Protection. I'll explain it when you get here."
"Hell, there are a thousand guys out there—"
"I want you."
"You owe me for a week's work. You dropped me in the grease and cost me twenty grand."
"So, I was paying you five grand a week and cost you twenty grand, so a twenty-five thousand retainer will get you back to work."
"Hardly. That's what you owe me. I now get ten grand a week for my services and require a two week retainer."
"Ten grand…who do you think you are? Merle Haggard?"
"Nope, I've never done time in the big house."
She's quiet for a moment, then, "So, twenty thousand will get you here?"
"Plus the twenty-five grand you owe me."
"You drive a tough bargain."
"And I'm very tough on people who mean to do my clients harm. And if Forbes knows, you're knocking down five mil a month and that alone will attract some scumbags."
"Yeah, but I have a lot of expenses." She's silent for a moment. "Will you be at this number? I've got it on my phone here."
"I'll be here until I take a buddy to supper. Maybe an hour or so."
"I'll call you back."
"Whatever," I say. I saw that in some hot shot young Hollywood movie, so I guess it's the thing to say to twenty-five-year-olds, almost twenty years my junior.
"I'll call. I've got to clear it with Emory."
"Whatever….or maybe I should say, whomever." There, I've said it twice. Am I hip, or what?
So I hang up. It's good to have money in the bank and be independent.
She calls back in fifteen minutes, with an affirmative.
Chapter One
I'd returned Tammy's call on a Friday and she asked me to be front and center at her condo in Beverly Hills at 9:00 AM on Monday morning to meet with her manager, Emory, and get up to speed on the job. He was to have a check for me in the amount of forty-five grand, the twenty-five she'd cost me and the twenty grand retainer.
Not as bad as Sunday night, still even Monday morning is a terrible time to drive from Vegas to L.A., as you're taking your life in your hands with the last of the weekend traffic. Those folks may have knocked down the free booze at the tables right up until they climbed in their SUVs and headed for the City of the Angels. So I climb in my classic red and white Vette at three AM. The drunks are still on the highway, but fewer of them and you have a little room to duck and dodge. As I'm not applying for a job at IBM I wear a soft brown pullover, black Wranglers, and black Reeboks. When Tammy was young, two years ago, she required her security to be in coat and tie. So we looked like security—ties, ear buds, and serious demeanors. Easy to spot from a hundred yards. I hope she's outgrown that affectation.
The condo is in a high rise—at least twenty stories—on Wilshire actually in Westwood. I guess Tammy thinks Beverly Hills sounds more prestigious as she said the latter, and, after all, it's only a stone’s throw. I guess the condo building at twenty stories, as Tammy's address is No. 2001. With, of course, a three-hundred-pound guard—with simian brows and a low growl to match—at the entrance to the parking garage. He informs me that he does not have me on the visitor list, so "…please back it up and let me see your tail as you disappear." He's a real card for a knuckle dragger. I find a parking place on the street three blocks away, and call the number Tammy left for me earlier.
No answer.
I'm not anal about much, but being on time…in fact doing what I say I'm going to do…is on top the list.
The entry to the building is lined with video cameras, and like the garage there's an attendant, a doorman behind a counter in the foyer. He’s a little classier than the parking lot gorilla, with a pinned collar and perfect crease in the tie. The foyer is marble—floor and walls—and the ceiling is brass with tiny inset LED lighting. There's a ten by ten foot brass relief of a number of old stars—Bing Crosby, Elvis, Sinatra, Al Jolson, and others—on one wall and a smaller one on the face of the counter, the counter itself is brass. There's one bench, uncomfortable cold marble, for those asked to wait.
I'm not surprised to find the large glass entry door locked and a video camera and press-to-talk box on the wall nearby. When I try the door the well-dressed guard points at the brass box so I comply.
"Here to see Tammy Houston's people, have an appointment. I'm Mike Reardon."
Without looking at a calendar, he replies. "I have you on the calendar." And buzzes me in.
As I head for the elevator, he adds. "I don't think there's anyone up there. You a cop?"
Where'd he get that? I glance down at the way I'm dressed, brown shirt and all, and say with all seriousness, "Undercover with UPS."
He nods. I guess there's no IQ test for even well-dressed doormen.
It's a fast elevator to the penthouse floor, where I observe as I step out, there are only two penthouse apartments. Tammy's wasting no time blowing her five mil a month. I guess she's never studied the phrase “fame is fleeting.”
Maybe already flown.
But I’m stopped short. The door with 2001 in brass letters has yellow crime tape crisscrossed across the opening.
Neither the parking garage attendant nor the doorman mentioned the fact the place was sealed up…but that explains the doorman asking if I was a cop.
Nonetheless, I ring the bell and can hear the notes to Tammy's first big hit, Houston Hottie in lieu of the standard two tone.
No one answers. Which does not surprise me as cops don't normally seal someone inside a crime scene.
Not to be easily dissuaded I return to the brass-accented foyer and as I leave wave my phone at the guard. "I'm ten minutes early. The detective said he'd be a little late. I'll be right back."
My well-worn lock pick set and rubber gloves are in the Vette. These days fingerprints are less important as there are probably a half dozen video cameras trained on me between my parking spot and the building, and some real good close-ups taken from front door and foyer cameras, and as I felt no need I've not employed any facial disguise. Still, I don't want the absolute proof of prints left at the scene.
No, I don't think my check will be waiting on a kitchen counter, but I do want to see what the hell's up. This time the door guard buzzes me in as I top the entry stairs.
I'm operating on the premise that the "do not enter" on the crime scene tape is advice, not an order. And, after all, I've been invited by the owner occupant.
It takes me all of thirty seconds to pop the entry lock, and another full minute on the dead bolt. It takes longer to work my way through the crisscross crime scene tape without ripping it off the jamb.
The condo is at least six thousand square feet with living room, kitchen, expansive dining room, powder room, two guest rooms with baths, and a patio larger than the average city apartment on the entry floor and a winding stairway to a second floor. I do find the chunk out of the fireplace, which was the reason I was called in the first instance. If it came through the sliding glass door leading out to the patio, it's been repaired. After seeing nothing else out of order on that floor, I ascend the stairway to an interior balcony with four doors, one of which is a double door and I presume the master.
And I'm right as I enter to see a bed about the size of a soccer fiel
d.
Opposite the headboard is a floor-to-ceiling window wall, and I quickly spot the reason for the crime scene tape.
The bad news: a perfect bullet hole, head high in the glass, with cracks spider-webbing out at least a foot all around. Someone was serious, as it again appears to be a fifty caliber.
Am I too late to protect Miss Houston? I have to consciously relax my jaw as my teeth are beginning to ache. No matter how young and ignorant Tammy had been during our first mutual experience, I liked her and would hate to think of her shot by some Neanderthal stalker…or anyone else for that matter.
The good news: no bloodstains anywhere in the bedroom.
The ceiling is at least ten feet high, and the first thing I look for is a bullet hole in the opposite wall, and it's not hard to locate as it's near the ceiling next to the bed, with an orange felt-tip pen circle around where a bullet's been dug out of the wall by some CSI dude.
So the shot came at an upward angle, as is not surprising firing at a twenty story condo. Even though there are a half-dozen other buildings within a half mile of the condo, it's fairly simple to determine the likelihood of where the shot came from and I note the location of a twelve to fifteen story building a few hundred yards to the west, also fronting on Wilshire Boulevard. Its rooftop is a couple of stories lower than Tammy's building, thus the up angle.
There's no question in my mind that LAPD or whoever is the "power that be" in Westwood has worked the building from which the shot obviously came, so I don't bother creeping that location.
It's more important to discover what happened to Tammy.
And to have breakfast. I contemplate better over a plate of flapjacks.
Every once in a while I splurge with calories, and I know a spot close by. Mon Amour Café is only a couple of blocks and has crepes that will break even an old country boy who loves flapjacks into a cold sweat. I grab an L.A. Times on the way in and am only two bites into their “original crepe” that comes with bananas and strawberries, slathered with whipped cream, when I find an article in the local section. "Country Star Houston Flees Attempted Murder." The article goes on to say after a gunshot was fired into her condo, she disappeared into the night with her entourage. The cops have no clue who tried to drop our diva.
