Twist of Fate – A Jack West Novel (Jack West Mystery Book 1)

by Deanna King

  “Hey sorry, I didn’t ask you about your case last night, Jack, how’d it go?”

  Lucky dug in the bag for the last donut then crumpled the bag, tossed it toward the trashcan and missed.

  Before he had a chance to respond, Lucky blurted out, “Crap, I missed the can.” He stood up and then did a fake-out jump and slam-dunked the wadded-up bag into the can.

  “There’s two points.”

  “Glad your team scored.” He closed his eyes and counted to five, Lucky annoyed him more often than not.

  “Sorry, Jack. What did you get last night?”

  “A bucket full of nothing, that’s about it for now.”

  “Wasted time, I hate that.”

  “Me too, but I’m inclined to think I wasn’t getting the whole story from this Jenna chick.”

  “You know eventually things come out in the wash. I’m betting something will pop up.”

  “Hey, Luck, have you ever been to the Crystal Barrel?”

  “If that’s the one over off Southwest Freeway, it’s a dive, a place where most road crews go for a brewski, and if I am not mistaken, I think some of the biker gangs hang there. But no, I’ve never been in the place. I prefer more upper-class bars, you know, like piano bars and clean sports bars.” Dawson Luck hated dive bars.

  “Me neither. My vic worked there, and at that place called the Silver, uh, the Station, it used to be the Silver Moon. What say you go with me one night and check out this place, the Crystal Barrel, you think that wife of yours will go along with that?”

  “She’ll be okay with it. She has to be, I’m a detective, it’s my job. She gets upset sometimes and she pouts, but I put her in her place,” he joked. Then he added, “You know I’m lucky to have such an understanding and beautiful wife.”

  He would not argue that, nor would he comment, as they both went back to reading files of yesteryear.

  Reading all he wanted to read, no fresh case had come up. It was almost noon and his stomach growled, time to hit the street and a fast food joint.

  “Lucky, I am going to head out, go to that place where they found my vic’s body, and I have to go get some hip waders since we’ve had all this rain. I’ll call you later, update you on my status…or if a fresh one comes in, call me and I’ll come right back to the precinct, or you can text me the address.”

  “Sure, Jack.”

  Jack walked up to the board, signed out, and took off.

  . . .

  Fisherman’s Haven was a smaller store, not like some of the other sporting goods stores he shopped in. He just needed the hip waders and nothing more. He didn’t want the whole getup because he didn’t like to fish.

  “Yah sure yah don’t want a Pflueger Trion Reel and Rod combo, got some fantastic sale prices this week. If you’re a Zebco man, have some 808 series you might like. Couple that with some nice lures. I hear the fish are really jumping in the Gulf Stream.” The old angler started ringing up the rubber hip waders.

  “No, just the waders today, but thanks.” He took out his wallet, paid, and then stuck the receipt in his wallet. He didn’t think the department would reimburse him, but hey, he would use it as a write- off for work expenses on his taxes. That was one thing he learned watching the movie, The Shawshank Redemption. If you used it for work, there was a chance you might be able to write it off as an expense. He wondered if it was even worth it.

  He waved adios to the avid angler who owned Fisherman’s Haven, took his purchase to his truck, and tossed them in the seat behind him. His mission was to head to the spot where they had found the body in August of 1986. It might be a wasted morning. He was sure there was nothing to find, but it was how he did things.

  The old no-tell-motel was still there and it wasn’t seeing mega action. A few cars sat in the less-than-standard parking lot. The vacancy sign stated that there were plenty of rooms by the night, by the week, and by the month. Jack only imagined what the rooms looked like inside. The outside needed more than a coat of paint; it needed a coat of “cover up the ugly” or better yet, a demolition team.

  As a courtesy, he stopped to check in at the front office. He parked his truck as close to the front door as manageable next to a beat-up Ford Fairlane and an old ratty Chevy pickup that had seen better days. The front office smelt stale and the floors were gritty. The ashtrays were full of cigarette butts, and the sliding glass was gone from the front counter.

  “Morning, Officer, can I help you?” The older unkempt man behind the front desk greeted Jack. He grinned at Jack with only a bare minimum of teeth he had left in his mouth. He wondered if the old man had teeth in the back and if he ate solid food at all. He was rather skinny.

  “I see you have the nose of a bloodhound, sniffed out the law pretty darned fast, huh?”

  He leaned over the counter and glanced over at the paperwork the old geezer was working on.

  He cackled, or perhaps it was a squawk as a hen or a rooster would make due to the number of years the man had smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes. He saw a crumpled empty pack sitting on the top of the counter and a new pack stuffed into the front pocket of his maroon-and-white-striped short-sleeved shirt.

  “Naw, when you been renting rooms by the hour as long as I have, you know Johnny Law with or without being badged. I just know, that’s all.”

  “Huh, you still rent rooms by the hour?”

  “Are you hunting for somebody, or just nosing around, cuz I got work to tend to and no time to waste gabbing here with you.”

  The old toothless man had turned snippy. Whom he rented his rooms to was nobody’s business. He knew hookers had frequented his place, but, hell, he was no one’s judge.

  He badged him. He explained to the old geezer why he was there and who he was.

  “Out of courtesy, mind you, don’t want someone to come out back and bring a shotgun, now do I?” He smiled giving the slovenly old man the eye.

  The old motel owner glanced at his badge then at Jack.

  “I’m Tully Cranston. I was here that day the boys found her, you know.” He became pensive thinking back about that day, remembering how he hated that such an awful thing had been discovered so close to what he called home.

  “Do you recall any of your rooms in a mess, back then I mean?” He was sure the rooms were less than sanitary now and smelled. Crap, the sheets might be the same ones on the beds from three weeks ago. Not a place he would stay overnight.

  “Nope, nothing was out of order here at my place, can’t help ya there.”

  “How far back do you keep your records?”

  The old man scratched at his gray stubble and lowered his eyes toward the top of the counter. “Hmm, let’s see, there’s a pile of boxes stored from fifteen years ago, might be longer. Who knows what I got, I ain’t much of a neat freak, and I ain’t that organized either. There’s all kinds of shit…uh, pardon my language…I boxed up to keep. I stuffed papers with papers, and there are at least, oh, I reckon about sixty or more boxes.”

  “Are they easy to get to?”

  Tully hee-hawed. “Yep, at least what the rats ain’t eht, I guess; stored ‘em in my son’s old barn, not much telling what kind of shape they’d be in.”

  Well, he wasn’t ready to rumble with rats, or dig into sixty years of misfiled, unkempt paperwork, but if at one point he needed to, he would. It was doubtful anyone even used real names when they signed in. He was looking for a snipe on a snipe hunt…when you knew there was no such thing as a snipe.

  “I’d like to talk to you when I get back. Will you be here?” His voice brought the old man out of his coma.

  Tully waggled his head. “You bet, sure, sure, I’ll be here.
I own this joint, and it’s mine free and clear. Times aren’t as good as they used to be though, you know?”

  “So it seems,” he replied, eyeing the old place. “So it seems,” he repeated before walking back out, ready to try to find the body dumped spot, from twenty-five plus years ago.

  Tully watched him walk out and wondered why now? Too many years had slipped by, who cared any longer? He scratched his head, took out his fresh pack of cigs, tapped one out and stuck it between his lips, flicked a Zippo lighter open against his thin thigh, and then lit the end of the “cancer stick,” as his grandson called them. He inhaled deeply and then let the smoke curl out of his nose and then the rest out of his puckered lips.

  Tully did think it was a bit odd, it had been twenty-five years, and no one had ever come back to ask him any more questions. Hell, it either had happened right behind his place or had ended up right behind his place, and no one had questioned him about a goddamn thing, why not? Kiss my foot, if they hadn’t been interested back then why were they interested now? He crushed the nub of his cig out. The police were either not interested or always twenty years too late, and it made no difference to him as long as they didn’t get in his face about what he rented rooms for; he rented rooms and that was not illegal, now was it.

  . . .

  The area wasn’t as bad as he figured it would be, although it was bad enough. It had rained nonstop for a few days, the marshy areas were marshier, and any area that was a gully or low-lying was pure mud and sludge. There were no roads, no paths, just land, weeds, and muck. Any path there might have been was gone. He slipped off his boots to put the waders on over his feet. He hadn’t factored in that his boots wouldn’t fit into the feet of the waders, so he wore just his socks. He needed a pair of crappy tennis shoes in the back of his truck for days like this.

  His rubber waders on, the suspender straps over his dress shirt, he grabbed several pairs of rubber gloves, some plastic evidence bags, and stuffed them in the front bib pocket of the waders. He took out copies of the pictures of the crime scene, folded them, and stuffed them and his cell phone into his pants pocket inside the waders. Grabbing his keys, he locked the truck, dropped the keys in his other pocket, and took off to find the spot the boys had found the body.

  From the pictures, he knew the general spot. If he ended up at the concrete drain and the fence, he had gone too far. Jack prayed that the overgrowth and recent rains were not hiding any critters he didn’t want to meet up with today, mainly snakes of any kind, or any sticks that resembled large or small snakes. He had no fear facing the most hardened criminal and staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. A snake, though, that was the one thing that would make him sweat profusely and would have him screaming like a five-year-old girl in pigtails, hightailing it for the mountains. He had his gun and he’d shoot to kill; asking questions later.

  He spotted the tiny fragments of faded yellow crime scene tape stuck in a crack in a tree. He took out the pictures. It was the same area, with more weeds. The small creek was ankle-deep. He waded in walking to the area that the killer had ditched the car. He found a long thick limb thanking God it was not a snake. Using the limb, he spread the tall grass and sifted through for no real reason. The elements had already destroyed evidence, buried under twenty-five years of sludge and mud. Hell, what did they even miss, and just how did they miss it? They had the car and its contents. He did not even know why he was out there, except to get a feel for the place and what might have happened back then. This spot—had it been convenient for the body dump? Her murder did not happen in the car, so where had the murder scene been, and why dump her body out here, and in her own vehicle?

  He passed the long limb through weeds again not expecting to find diddly; there wasn’t any trash this far back. The sun hit something and it reflected a nanosecond. Bending over, he took the limb swishing it over the mucky area. It was a faded Budweiser can. He took the limb he was using and decided what the hell, why not, he wasn’t a bad golfer nor was he a good golfer, besides, he hadn’t been to the golf range in more than a year. This would be his practice shot and best of all no prying eyes. Picking the beer can up, he set it on a soft pile of wet grass. Holding the long limb like a seven iron, he did the golf butt wiggle. Bringing the limb in a backswing, he smacked the devil out of the empty can. It soared into the air and across the short gully.

  God, that felt great. He needed the tension release. He needed to go to the driving range to let off steam. Shooting his gun was another way to let off steam. Undoubtedly, he needed an activity that was more physical. He needed an outlet to work off steam and to get back into shape.

  He surveyed the area again and wondered if the dead girl had ever stayed at the no-tell-motel or if her killer had stayed there. Was this a convenient area for the perp? Shaking his head, there were too many unanswered questions.

  Tully sat at the front desk watching as Jack drove up. He figured he didn’t find squat. He took his coffee-stained mug, poured his eighth cup of coffee, emptied the full ashtray, and waited for him to come into the front office.

  He walked back into the small, filthy, smoke-smelling lobby.

  “You have any luck out there in the mud and weeds?”

  “Nope, lots of the same mud and weeds minus the car and the body, although there was some faded yellow crime scene tape stuck in a crack of a tree.”

  “Coffee, Detective, before you start asking me questions, which you are gonna do, ain’tcha?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Cranston, of course I have a few questions. Be some of the same questions the detectives asked you some twenty-five years ago I imagine.”

  “Yep, I’m okay with answering your questions, I ain’t got nuttin to hide. The other ones, the dicks, er, s’cuze me—detectives—they never came back. I saw them twice. When they came out to talk to the boys who found the body, then again when they came to ask me questions about my place and the people here. Then I never saw ‘em again.”

  This surprised him, and he wondered why they hadn’t attempted to come back for a follow-up. He took out his notebook, pen in hand, and was about to begin when his cell phone chirped. He took it out of his pocket noting it was the precinct.

  “Jack West.”

  “Hey, Jack, it’s Luck, a fresh case was just called in. Where are you?”

  “I’m over off Southwest Freeway, place called All Occasions Motel. Where are you?

  “I’m at the station. You wanna meet me or come get me? CSU is headed that way now.”

  “I’ll head to the station, pick you up in about twenty or thirty minutes, depending on traffic.”

  “See you in a few.” Lucky clicked off.

  “Gotcha a new case, do ya?” Tully stubbed out his burned-to-the-nub Lucky Strike.

  “Yep, we do. Are you here most days? Jack flipped his notebook shut, stuck it and the pen back into his inside coat pocket.

  “Yep, I live in the side room over yonder.” He jabbed his thumb toward the back of the office. “Here day and night; you can come back anytime, that is, if you do come back.”

  “We have to work the new cases first. This case is only on the back burner for now, my back burner.” His eyes bore into the man. “I’m like a pit bull with a bone, meat or no meat, I don’t let go that easily.”

  Tully faintly bobbed his head, the Lucky Strike hanging off his lip. “Good, glad someone’s working it, wasn’t worked hard enough before leastwise, that’s my opinion.”

  “I’ll be seeing ya again then, if there’s a reason, that is.”

  He thanked the old man then headed back to the station to pick up Lucky and see what new atrocity he would have to try to solve.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lucky gave him the address, and Jack whis
tled. “Wowzers, what a high dollar area, Luck.”

  Lucky ignored him as he buckled his seat belt. “You eat lunch yet?”

  “Naw, I was going to but didn’t take the time, I’m starved.” As if on cue his stomach rumbled.

  Dawson Luck chuckled. “So I hear. Stop over at Jersey Mike’s on Yale Street, and I’ll spring for the sandwiches and chips cuz I hafta eat before we get there.”

  He agreed, although he was craving a Chili Cheese Coney from James’ Coney Island, it was closer but too messy and not driving food, so Jersey Mike’s it was.

  Food eaten on the run, wrappers stuffed in a bag, Jack drove into the higher caliber residences searching for the telltale signs of mayhem, coroner’s car, black-and-whites, and a mob of people all standing on or near the crime scene rubbernecking to see what was going on.

  Glen Cove was a residential area for the rich, new or old money, what atrocity happened here? At the end of the street, Jack turned into the large gated drive that guarded a massive house. With a beautifully manicured lawn, the house reeked of money. Jack had seen these homes when he looked for his own. It was “dream-looking.” Large, luscious homes with four and five bedrooms, four baths with a pool and hot tub, a game room, even a media room. Kitchens that would delight the most experienced chef to the mommy homemaker baking chocolate chip cookies for her kids. How could bad things happen to rich people? He reminded himself that his life had been wonderful, not rich in monetary ways, but rich in spirit and love. Then one fateful night someone had taken his brother from him, and his idyllically middle-class life had shattered. It happened to all lifestyles, poor, rich, middle-class, successful or not, smart and even stupid…murder and mayhem didn’t discriminate.

  A uniformed officer had the area taped off and a few other officers were backing off the onlookers.