That Way Lies Madness: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 8)

by Scott Cook

  On the balance of things, though, I think Wayne is slightly more the out-boxer and I’m more the slugger. It’s hard to say, because while he is fast on his feet, he certainly hits hard, too.

  We circled for a moment and then Wayne waded in with admirable speed, launching a quick series of jabs before darting back. We weren’t trying to do any real damage, so the big punches would be pulled… but not the jabs. I managed to brush them off and got in a decent right cross as he backed away.

  “Damn, boy,” Wayne said with a grin, “is it me or are you getting fast… for a blue eyed devil that is.”

  “I’ll let that one go… as you’re finally learning the right ethnic slurs that I prefer,” I said, slipping to my left and throwing a quick double jab at his head. He slipped it, but I was able to shuffle right and tag him with another right cross.

  There were whistles, whoops and cat calls from the crowd. Both at Wayne’s gybe and my scoring another point.

  “So what you workin’ on now?” Wayne asked casually, as if we were enjoying a friendly chat over Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches, rather than diligently hurling knuckle sandwiches at each other.

  I stepped back and blocked as he launched another flurry of left and right jabs to my head. With lightning speed, he got his left hand down and threw a solid left hook to my body. I saw it coming and spun out but not enough to miss the blow entirely. It stung a bit. So much for pulling punches.

  “I’m working for a gangster,” I said, “or… a gangster’s wife, anyway.”

  I’d said this only loud enough for him to hear. He just shook his head, “Seems like that happens a lot with you… hired by hoods, working with hoods… midnight gun battles with hoods… racing across the Everglades with hoods…”

  “Funny,” I said, wading in and driving him back against the ropes with short hard rights and lefts to the body. Wayne played rope-a-dope and blocked most of them.

  I danced back and he came at me with the same combos and we ended up in a clench. Wayne whispered, “Who?”

  “Pauli Franco’s wife,” I hissed back.

  “What the fuck?”

  I chuckled, “We’ll talk about it later. Has to do with that Bryce bombing thing.”

  “Shit…” Wayne drawled the word into two syllables.

  We broke apart and went back to dancing around each other, each taking turns throwing different variations on different combinations and blocking. After a few more minutes, we lowered our hands and climbed out of the ring to raucous applause from the crowd of nearly twenty.

  “That was pitiful,” Vic chided good-naturedly. “Not even a drop of blood.”

  “We was only playin’,” Wayne said.

  “Just brushing the dust off,” I added. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  After showering and changing, Lisa and I drove back to the house and picked up the lads for a rousing jaunt to the nearest canine-themed outdoor recreation facility. It was nearly seven-thirty by then and the sun was low, easing the heat of the day slightly.

  “So what now, boss?” Lisa asked as she threw a Frisbee that had seen better days for the boys to chase.

  “I guess we eat something and then maybe scope old Pauli and Marie,” I suggested. “See where they live and see what kind of routine they follow.”

  “Put together a profile on them,” Lisa said. “Develop a behavioral model on their activities so we can better track their movements and predict future actions.”

  “You think you’re cool,”

  “Not really a matter of opinion, sugar pouch,”

  I guffawed and wrestled the Frisbee from Rocky’s mouth and tossed it far across the park. Morgan had the legs of Rocky this time and snatched it in mid-air.

  “Any thoughts on this whole deal?” Lisa asked.

  I shrugged and we went to sit on a bench, “Not really. Let’s just say that I do have the beginning of an inkling of a hunch, though.”

  She waited.

  “This Shade person,” I offered after a moment’s reflection, “taunted the cops. I think this is going to be one of those ego-centric criminals who wants the police’s attention and who wants to pit his wits against theirs.”

  “His? You don’t think Shade could be a woman?”

  I shook my head, “It’s possible… yet in her blunt way, I think Marie is right. This isn’t something a broad would do.”

  Lisa chuckled.

  “Statistically speaking, women are far less likely to be serial killers, murderers or sex offenders. Show off crimes like Bryce’s bombing are not generally the work of women, either. Women tend to commit more fraud and robbery, and when they do kill, it’s generally a very personal thing.”

  “Getting your car blown up seems personal,” Lisa stated.

  “Maybe… but this guy, or lady but I doubt it, left a cryptic note indicating that this would not be his / her last deed,” I postulated. “This is a Jack the Ripper type. I won’t rule out a woman, but my gut says dude.”

  She pondered that for a long moment, “Guess that’s why you’ve got a degree in criminology.”

  “Exactly,” I stated, “just for this exact situation. Pretty good foresight on my part, eh?”

  She giggled and leaned against me, “So how does my MBA go along with my new private investigator’s license?”

  I shrugged, “Well… I’ve got some beans at home. Feel free to count them.”

  “Ass.”

  “What about my ass?”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “I’m not following.”

  She laughed and we kissed. The world, at least for the most part, felt right again.

  In order to better facilitate our investigating success, I decided that we’d go back to my house and take our separate cars in order to do some tailing and snooping of both Pauli and Marie. We forewent supper, instead opting to swing into a choke and puke of our individual choosing and eat on the road.

  I was driving a nearly new Jeep Rubicon that I’d procured the past October after my Ford Explorer had been damaged in a highway snatch and grab. Lisa had also exchanged out of her Hyundai Sonata. The car had been one of the items that had been stolen by an ex-boyfriend. The incident had initiated her contact with a local P.I. over eighteen months earlier. Since moving to and then back from Missouri however, the young lady had traded in her aging Korean dragster for an elegant Mercedes GLC Coupe SUV. The fancy new SUV had all the electronic bells and whistles as well as all-wheel drive and a racy transmission which she can control. I’m pretty sure it ran her about as much as her first year’s salary was supposed to be.

  Show off.

  She even had the audacity to suggest that since she owned a Mercedes and I owned a car made by Chrysler, that it should be she who gets to park in the garage and that I should let my pretty new Rubicon sit exposed to the elements.

  The nerve.

  Give a girl a sweet spirit, keen intellect and great sense of humor… not to mention a world-class rack and an ass you could double-bounce a silver Sacajawea off of… and there’s just no limit to the demands.

  At any rate, my faithful companion, Morgan the Wonder Hound and I were battling our way across Orlando’s post-rush hour traffic toward the seedier section of Orange Blossom Trail. This expanse of the road between Michigan and Central Florida Parkway has become somewhat infamous in our little burg. Infamous for its colorful variety of adult-centric entertainments, that is to say.

  There are adult stores where a dizzying assortment of manual, battery and gas powered marital aids can be procured to further concrete one’s matrimonial bliss. If that’s not racy enough for you, you can find several fine examples of gentlemen’s burlesque parlors… strip joints. Or, if your tastes range to more of a hands-on bent, then you can prowl this two or three mile stretch and select one of any number of fine female companions who will be happy to entertain you in your auto, or accompany you to the handful of motor lodges whose rates are measured on an hourly basis. Don’t get me wrong, this section of
OBT isn’t all red lights and micro-skirts. There are dollar stores and even a Wal-Mart or two to give you a true sense of gentrification.

  But I digress…

  Morgan and I did not choose any of these options. We did pull into one of the most popular strip clubs, however. It was called Venus, and was owned by Pauli Franco. Beneath the glitzy neon sign of the name and the female symbol was an advertisement that stated in no uncertain terms that you could enjoy the coldest drinks at the hottest happy hour in Orlando.

  I’d been in the place once and while the beers might indeed be cold… I didn’t test this out… the music was abominably loud and the fog of cigarette smoke would force even Joe Camel to have to excuse himself for a clean gasp of the rarified. Rather than go inside and brace Pauli, who had not long ago offered something of an olive branch, I sat in the parking lot a few spots down from his black Cadillac Escalade and waited.

  Pauli Franco has been a staple of the little-known but vastly understated Orlando underworld for as long as I’d been in Florida. He was a few years older than me and had always been involved in petty crimes and things that couldn’t quite be proved. He was more or less a free agent up until the previous spring.

  He had been made. Meaning that the “organization” had opened its books and given Pauli an official title and position. His connection just so happened to be to that of my friend Gregorio Santino’s family in New York. A fact that had probably led to our making the peace, or so it seemed.

  During my first real meeting with Paul back in the spring of last year, I reacted to information from Vic Matzano that indicated that Paul knew about a case I was working on and I thought he might also have information relating to Lisa’s being abducted at the time. I had approached him very politely and with equal solemnity and respect, inquired as to what Mr. Franco might know. He gave me the hard boy routine… so I pulled my gun on him, slammed him up against his office wall and threatened to beat him into a fine burgundy paste. I then proceeded to take down one of his bodyguards.

  Evidently Mr. Franco had taken exception to my negotiating style. Because the next day, this bodyguard and another of Paul’s men came to either work me over or shoot me… or both. Both men had ended up dead and I ended up in Florida Hospital with a through and through in my left hamstring.

  This is, of course, as a story that’s been told. Please refer to Play the Hand You’re Dealt for the more scintillating version of the tale.

  It was somewhat difficult, therefore, for me to believe that all was forgiven and Paul wanted, if not to be giggly Facebook chums, at least civil. On top of that, Marie thought Paul would take offense to being mother henned by the very man with whom he’d had this mild kerfuffle.

  So Morgan and I sat and observed. We ate our Chick-Fil-A and we listened to an audio book. It was an interesting tale about an Orlando-based private investigator who sailed his boat to Key West and got wrapped up in a crazy mob war. Good narration, too. Lots of character voices and the guy really seemed to get the tone.

  The incoming call chime warbled and I activated the Bluetooth, and in a smooth and smarmy female voice said: “Thank you for calling in… you’re on the line with Delilah. What sappy tear-jerking love ditty can I play for you?”

  Lisa’s snort of laughter made Morgan cock his head toward the speakers, “What!? For the love, man! Where do you come up with this crazy shit?”

  “I’ve got a lot of time to think up silliness,” I replied. “I’m on a stake out, after all. What’s up, pretty lady? Got some interesting news already?”

  “I’m not sure… I drove by the Francos’ place to spy on Marie.”

  “And then what happened?”

  Lisa huffed and I chuckled.

  “Her car was there, so I assumed she was home. Maybe five or six minutes ago, a car pulled onto the street and parked facing the cul-de-sac.”

  “And then what—“

  “I’m gonna kick your ass!” Lisa snapped playfully. “You think I dropped everything in Missouri to come back to this foolishness?”

  “Well… kind of…” I simpered.

  She sighed. It was the sound of contentment. I knew it well as of the past weekend, “You’re right. I missed your craziness as much as anything else.”

  “Oh yeah?” I queried enthusiastically. “Like what else?”

  “We’ll talk about it later… now can I finish my report? We’re like working on a case here, wise ass.”

  “Boring.”

  She huffed again, “This vehicle, a black sedan of some kind… can’t quite tell from here… parked facing the end of the street, as I mentioned. Nobody has gotten out.”

  “So you think they’re casing the Francos’ place as you are?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you take a guess as to what kind of car?”

  She seemed to ponder that for a moment, “Hold on… I’m getting the monocular out and setup… wow… this thing is impressive. I feel like I’ve got superhero vision… and you can zoom in, too! Cool…”

  I laughed, “Okay, Doc, I know they’re fun… I just got that one and the one with me recently. Lost my original two in Central America. Anyway, can you I.D. the vehicle?”

  “Still can’t tell exactly,” She replied, “but I’d say a luxury job. Maybe a Caddy, Lexus or Infinity. New looking and black. Goes with the hood.”

  Paul and Marie Franco lived in Hunter’s Creek, a fairly new and upwardly mobile residential zone nestled between OBT and Turkey Lake Road on the east and west and spreading from about Central Florida Parkway on its northern boundary nearly to Kissimmee and 535 on its southern. An area that comprised several subdivisions ranging from middle income to upper-middle income.

  The Francos lived in a small gated community called Archer’s Green. It was one of the more expensive housing developments featuring a large lake at its center complete with decorative fountain.

  “Hmmm…” I pondered. “I wonder if the game might be afoot?”

  Lisa was silent for a time, “I can’t say yet, it’s only been a few minutes. Hell, they could just be waiting for somebody to come… hang on, my target is exiting the residence and proceeding out of the auto storage facility and onto the vehicular transport corridor.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said with mock sadness. “Clearly I’ve had a profoundly negative impact on you.”

  Lisa laughed, “Not at all, my love. She’s driving a black Cadillac Escalade. I believe I shall pursue her.”

  “Okay,” I said, “sounds like a dandy idea. Maybe hold back a minute and see what your buddy in the other car does. Even if you lose her, just call and ask where she’s going. It’s not like we have to stay incognito where Marie is concerned.”

  “Roger that,” Lisa said officiously. “Red two will track secondary friendly.”

  I laughed, “Red two, Red one… concur. Designate strange sedan as Master one. Get me a firing solution… load tubes one through eight with mark 48 adCaps… Do you need any help?”

  “I don’t think so. At least not yet… oh, I say, Holmes… Master one is following Marie.”

  “Curioser and curioser…” I muttered. “Wish my night was going as well. Pupson and I are just sitting in the parking lot of the strip joint with our thumbs firmly wedged.”

  “Moergan has thumbs?”

  “A figure of speech,” I explained tolerantly. “Even if he did, neither he nor I would actually park them up our own log snappers.”

  “So you say.”

  “The point is that it’s fairly dull.”

  “Sucks to be you.”

  “It’s good to be loved.”

  “And you are, handsome… you are.”

  As I cast a diagnostic glance around the half-empty lot, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was an indistinct shadowy movement near the rear of the building. It could have been anything, but my suspicious and nosey nature had been triggered. It was time to do a quick walk around.

  “Something might be happenin
g,” I said. “I thought I saw… something. Gonna go check it out.”

  “Be careful, baby,” Lisa implored.

  I scoffed, “What could happen? It’s just a strange noise coming from the basement after the power has gone off and the now dead radio warned about a psychotic killer running around in the area… and I mean, hey… I’ve got a small flickering candle to keep me safe! What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Jesus…” She muttered.

  Chapter 4

  Venus was not what you might call an architectural masterpiece. It was, in fact, a two story concrete square whose only signature feature was the red awning over the front door, the signage out front and a small cluster of bougainvillea bushes clustered around said signage. Otherwise, the building was surrounded on three sides by parking.

  There was a rusting dumpster in one corner of the parking lot and this sat along an eight foot high wall that separated the “gentleman’s” club from what I suspected was a lower-income residential community. The occupants of which were no doubt thrilled beyond repair to be in such close proximity to such a fine establishment.

  I quickly trotted down the long aisle of cars toward the rear of the building. I’d been parked near the front, so that I could see who came in and out of the entrance. Why that should be of any significance, considering I had no idea what this Shade character looked like, I don’t know, but it seemed the thing to do. As I moved, I racked the slide on my Beretta Tomcat Inox .32. I’d chosen this weapon over the big Colt because it’d be easier to hide on my person should I need to take it into the club.

  What I’d seen only a moment before… or in truth, what I thought I’d seen… was a figure moving stealthily toward the rear corner of the building and possibly to a fire door I knew to be there. In all likelihood, it was just the bartender taking out the trash or something. It is true that once the human mind is presented with an agreeable suggestion, it does tend to find patterns to match. By agreeable I mean a good or bad suggestion that appeals to the brain in question.