SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  Chapter Five

  ADAM STONE:

  I cut myself shaving again. In fact, I had nicked myself so many times it looked like a botched suicide attempt. I had barely an hour to get organized before heading for the Gallery and that damn meeting with the Stanford sisters. What exactly had Lauren gotten me into? Her talk-show-host mentality presumed that all people were created interesting... well, at least people in the art world. Most of them were pretty well unwrapped all right... made for TV. Christ, why hadn’t I ended the little farce last night? I sensed the lovely Alison was just going through the motions and would have been relieved if I had backed off. Why hadn’t I? She had bodyguards standing around like a flock of crows waiting for a road kill. What else did she need? I massaged my forehead, forcing the blood to circulate. At least my face had stopped bleeding. I felt quite fragile as I stepped gently into a cold shower and resurrection.

  With the brain cleared, I made myself an instant coffee that tasted a bit like crude oil but it had the effect of getting my heart started. I called my best friend from the good ol’ days, my former partner Mack Mackenzie. With a name like that, what else could Mack be but an Irish cop? He had emigrated here with his widowed mother when he was fifteen. The accent was exorcised with concentrated effort whilst the lad was still in school but was occasionally reinstated for colour in general conversation or unconsciously in times of stress. He also believes he’s a chef ‘extraordinaire’. Well, the ‘extraordinaire’ bit is a matter of opinion but he’s working on it. His early sojourns into gastronomic cuisine had been nearly fatal to me and the rest of the squad but over the ensuing years, I had forgiven him. Besides, unlike the bottomless pits at the station, I had been careful to only sample his first dishes so had avoided the hospital and the stomach pump.

  Mack is five foot ten or so with a slim dancer’s build and a natural Cheshire cat smile that exposes large perfectly white teeth and two deep dimples. The handsome face never gives the wrong impression somehow, because the correct message is always in his small, steel blue eyes. It’s something that does not lend itself to paper. The disarmingly friendly look he usually wears is his working armour. Even the bottom feeders that we dealt with, the weirdos, murderers, rapists, child molesters, wife beaters and sexual deviants, never cross him twice. Mack moves like an Apache, loose and athletic. Even at rest he radiates coiled energy. He is still, as far as I know, the most successful detective on the force. The reason is simple although it took awhile to see it. Mack helped me organize and block out my one and only book and in the two years it took to write, I learned a great deal about both of us. Our skills are quite different and balanced in many ways. Mack is prone to intuitive leaps, foregoing linear thought. If he’s not completely off the map, he comes up with some interesting conclusions. I am much more methodical and systematic, following every thought and suspicion. I process, test and weigh all the known facts in any case then compare results to the evidence available. A plodder that dots the i’s and crosses the t’s, that’s me.

  Mason Greene, the fictional detective in my book, was a deliberate combination of both of our personalities and working methods; an educated, well-spoken, hard working stiff that followed his instinct and solved the case. Well, as far as the book went anyway. When it hit the bestseller list (to my complete surprise), I noticed Mack started taking on the persona of the Mason Green character. His language and his wardrobe both improved noticeably. I found it amusing.

  When he answered the phone in his office at the precinct, I filled him in on the previous night’s entertainment, the unusual request that I look into Annie Stanford’s fears of a stalker and the inside scoop on the latest media darling, Morgan whatever-it-was. I asked if he would check whether Annie had filed a complaint about her suspicion of being watched. I also wanted to know if there was any paper on either of the sisters. I didn’t, for the moment, share my suspicions that this little drama might possibly be the groundwork for a publicity stunt to launch the new business. While we caught up on the latest cop-talk, he ran it through the computer and in a few minutes confirmed that there was indeed an open file. No, nothing could be done without something solid to go on. Same old, same old, limited funds, limited staff and limited end results. It was about what I expected. It didn’t take him long to get around to the real reason he persisted in being my best friend. “By the way Adam, how’s the lovely Lauren these days? Still missing me?”

  Mack had met my sister twice while the book was in progress. Both times were disasters. They brought out the worst in each other; nitro and glycerine. After he recovered from his initial 'lust at first sight' reaction, it was like standing around a rumbling volcano. The definitive Irish aggressive male and the pushy, in-your-face feminist. Of course Mack just thought she was a challenge and Lauren eventually avoided him like she would a dog that did something nasty on the rug, usually calling before dropping by, in case he was present.

  “Hate to burst your balloon Mackenzie, but she’s been seeing Roger Smythe, the top gun at her network... and it looks serious.”

  “The Roger Slime?” he gasped. “That guy who’s toupee looks like a dead spaniel? I can’t believe it. He likes to say Smythe with an 'e'. Like people give a shit. He’s the kind of jerk who doesn’t cross his legs in case he wrinkles his trousers. I’ve seen him on T.V. He keeps caressing his hair like it was his dick... That’s the guy, right?”

  He practically spit through the phone.

  “Yah, that’s him,” I agreed, resisting a chuckle. “He does love the camera,” I conceded, “but the few times we’ve talked, he seemed O.K. Wouldn’t take a bullet for him or anything but he passed the first impression. However, I’ll forward your opinion on to Lauren. I’m sure she'll appreciate any words of wisdom from you,” I said it as sincerely as I could without laughing. “I’m going to see the Stanford sisters this afternoon. Do you want to meet at The Half Moon afterward?”

  “Sure. I’ll needa few to get over the shock of losing her. What a God damn shame.”

  He was obviously devastated. “Later.” I laughed and hung up.

  On schedule, I tooled over to the Stanford Building in my lovingly restored, low slung Austin Healy roadster, avoiding all the cabbies who thought they were either back in Bombay or on the Autobahn.

  Early summer held the city firmly in the aromatic vice-grip of a heat wave compounded by a garbage strike. I looked through the shimmering heat distortions coming off molten asphalt, and sucked in the carbon monoxide that enriched the air near the ground at my eye level, while I contemplated the wisdom of driving an open limey sports car instead of air-conditioned American iron. Savannah had loved this car. It came to me that I had actually gone a few hours without her image in my brain, but the book idea just wasn’t happening with any speed, so maybe some work would dull the passage of time and slow the memories. I had to admit that Lauren was right. I should sink my teeth into something serious.

  Chapter Six

  MACK MACKENZIE:

  Mack Mackenzie was pleased to hear from his ex-partner Adam after all these months and even more pleased that Adam finally sounded more like his old self. Maybe he was getting back on his feet at last. Losing the stunning Savannah so suddenly had sure pulled the rug right out from under the poor bastard. Adam was one of the few guys that really deserved a break. Mack and Adam worked well as partners for six years so it came as a shock when Adam said he wanted to leave the force, to write a novel of all things. Mack didn’t understand at the time. How could Adam want to change a gun and a badge for a computer and desk and miss the excitement of dealing with crime on the streets? Still, things worked out well when the novel was published and released. It was like riding a wave that kept getting bigger and bigger. Everyone was thrilled for him. And the press seemed to think that the story was about Mack and his various exploits, culminating in the capture of the Stalking killer who had terrorized the city several years ago. Then the bubble burst and Savannah died. Adam pulled away from everyone. Nearly two yea
rs ago now. Maybe he was ready to get on with things…. finally.

  Too bad about Lauren and that Smythe creep. God what a bloody snake. He recalled the few times he’d seen Smythe on TV and tried to focus on the reason for his uneasiness. There was something about ‘The Silver Fox’ as the media had nicknamed him, that made his skin crawl. He entered Roger Smythe’s name into his computer and waited for the screen to produce the filed information. At least he could check to see if the prick had any past record that had been glossed over since he had started playing with the big boys. As the data appeared Mack leaned back in his chair and sipped his horrible vending machine coffee, which tasted like the by-product of some industrial accident.

  Christ, Mack thought, is there some kind of rule that all office coffee has to taste like shit? He grimaced in disgust. A decent pot of coffee isn’t fucking brain surgery. They got the fucking donuts right...

  Two desks away he noticed a tall, good looking woman sheathed in black jersey with a matching jacket, stiletto heels and a mop of wild red hair. She was standing with one uniformed officer beside her and another seated, taking down information. It was probably the usual ‘drunk and disorderly’ but she looked familiar. The make up was perfect; dress too short for her age but not her profession; blood red nails like god dam talons and big tits. He could see the red bra strap and there was no doubt that the garment was made for altitude.

  Just then the computer screen brought up the requested material and recaptured his attention. Mack read the information and was disappointed that Smythe just had a couple of ‘drunk and disorderly’ back in his younger days, along with half a million parking and speeding tickets. Not a fucking murder or drug deal on the list. Maybe he had some sealed juvenile files haunting him. Mack entered the appropriate codes into his computer and waited. What was the beautiful Lauren thinking? She could do much better than this guy.

  To kill some time while the computer processed the info, Mack asked the standing officer, a new rookie standing with the hooker, the name of his ‘date’. The rookie replied with a laugh that her name was Samantha Peel, if one could believe that. Ms. Peel whose eyes did not match her practised nonchalance gave Mack an ‘eat shit’ look and a raised finger. Fuck, Mack thought, if I ain’t makin’ enemies, I ain’t workin’. He laughed.

  Another file appeared on the screen. Mack frowned as the information showed nothing suppressed in Smythe’s past to soil his spotless image. Fucking shame Mack thought. He has the aura of a criminal for sure. Smythe’s handsome face stared at Mack from the screen in front of him. The prick has seen Lauren Stone naked. He felt hollowness deep inside, undigested gloom in the pit of his stomach.

  Mack absently picked up swatches of dialogue from the redhead and the two uniforms, to do with past records. It sounded like they couldn’t find any info on their redheaded snapper, catch of the day. He watched as the whore tried to distract the officers with body movements as she gave a running dialogue on her innocent life, running her hands through her hair, sliding her palm down over her high tits, ostensibly to adjust her neckline, a slight wiggle to lead their eyes to her thighs. Then she did something that gave her away but the two cops didn’t pick up on it. She looked at her nails and it suddenly came to Mack.

  Bingo, Mack laughed to himself. “Hey Russell,” he called from his desk as the seated officer turned to him. “Your lady is a ‘dick whacker’ named Richard Krakower.” The whore looked back at him with naked hatred. “Look it up.” Mack laughed. “He’s had some work done. Spent a buck too. Only the best for our Ricky. Silicone, peroxide and steroids darlin’. That’s all you are.” Mack gave her a wink. “Still dealin’ to the pack of boys you push on Jarvis?” The silence that followed was more threatening than any words she could say. “A pimp with tits me boyos, that’s what you got there. Check with the drug cops... Course she could be charged with fraud too, don’tcha think?” He laughed.

  The young rookie officer standing beside the woman/man looked like he had just swallowed a cigarette butt with his coffee. Mack supposed that up until that moment he’d fancied her and now hoped that no one had noticed. In the split second that it took to digest the information Mack heard the ‘snik’ of a gravity knife as it opened in the whore’s right hand. In a flash Mack leaped across his desk and launched himself through the air landing on her and knocking both of them to the floor. He could feel the strong male body writhe beneath him as he tried to position the weapon away from the knife. The bastard had twenty pounds of hard muscle on him and was an expert with the blade. The frizzy red hair covered Mack’s eyes and he breathed strands into his mouth as he gasped for air. She/he twisted hard and slashed upwards finding the side of Mack’s ribs just as Mack grabbed her wrist and broke it backwards with a horrible snap. The ‘bitch’ screamed in pain and tried to bite his neck as they rolled between the desks. Mack knew how to debilitate fast with control by pressing a finger against the throat, just below the larynx and above the clavicle. The whore finally tensed and stopped moving. The two cops grabbed him/her from behind as he continued hissing and spitting curses like a faulty pressure valve and strained to get at Mack’s throat with his left hand. The long fingernails raked the air like tiny daggers. Three more cops arrived, cuffed his hands behind his back and dragged him away to be charged. Detective Russell helped Mack to his feet. Mack checked his side and was satisfied that the knife had barely scratched the skin but there was blood, so he had to follow procedure and have it checked out at the hospital.

  “Fuck that was close,” Russell said. “I didn’t even see the knife. She could have slashed both of us before we had a chance.” His face was bleached white and glazed with sweat. The young rookie stood there like a zombie as realization sunk in.

  “Ya think, Inspector Clouseau! What the fuck’s the matter with you two,” Mack flared panting with exertion, adrenaline still jazzing through his system. “How did she...he get in here with a weapon? Didn’t you frisk her?” The two officers looked blankly back at him. The whole room was silent. Embarrassed officers stood like mushrooms not knowing what to say. “Jesus Christ Almighty, now I’ve got more fucking forms to fill out for the fucking gods of red tape. He took a wad of tissue from a box on his desk and pressed it to his side. The slash was about three inches long but thankfully not very deep.

  “One of you ladies has to accompany me to get this fixed,” Mack said. Detective Russell quickly grabbed his jacket and lifted Mack’s from the back of his chair and placed it over his arm. They walked to the elevator and the room snapped back into life behind them.

  “What gave her away?” Detective Russell asked Mack as soon as they were settled in his car.

  “The way she looked at her nails,” Mack answered. “A woman looks at her nails like this,” Mack said and held his hand out flat, palm down. “A man does it like this, right?” He held his hand palm up and curled his fingers back toward him in a claw-like gesture. Detective Russell nodded in disgust. He knew the importance of body language to a cop and that simple mistake like that should never have been made.

  “I should have recognised him right away,” Mack added. “Shit, I’ve arrested him half a dozen times over the years for dealing, pimping, B&E, you name it. He’s been on the streets since he was fifteen. The crazy hair threw me. He’s a natural blonde and always had a brush cut or even passed as a skinhead for a few years. Maybe he thought he could start over as a woman and we would never know.”

  “Could you tell if he had his ‘boys’ removed?”

  “I was too fuckin' busy trying not to be stuck like a pig,” Mack said. “Never knew he had such a good body though. He must work out when he’s not out sellin’ himself. Those tits musta cost a fortune.”

  “Get a good feel, did ya?” Russell smirked.

  “As Clint Eastwood would say, he made my day.” They laughed.

  Chapter Seven

  MACK MACKENZIE:

  His little romp with the redhead cost Mack five staples in his side that were itchy and painful at
the same time. But nothing hurt worse than the thought of Lauren and Smythe together in holy matrimony. That pain was harder to deal with. His instincts told him that there was more to investigate. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. It wasn’t envy. It was just a ‘feeling’. He had a duty to his best friend to do all he could to stop this wedding. If he could just find something....

  In previous investigations, when Mack had to slide outside the lines, he would call on an investigator known simply as Franko, whose number was unlisted. Franco did not advertise. He relied on word-of-mouth to a very select clientele and was anything if not discrete. No one knew exactly what Franko did as a day-job but he certainly knew how to dig out the most deeply buried skeletons. A few favours had been exchanged back and forth over the years, and a mutual respectful, if not trusting, relationship had formed, cementing him into Mack’s network of contacts. Mack had only met him face-to-face once but there had been many phone calls. Franko was originally from Rome and mumbled almost incoherently, like Brando in the Godfather. He possessed all the basic features of a handsome man but, like Caesar, he’d become self-indulgent and overweight. His hooded brown eyes stared coldly out at the world from under thick, black eyebrows and riotous hair, shot with grey. His nose was large and hooked, and was his pride and joy. He didn’t have a neck, but around his double chin, he wore a gold chain thick enough to restrain a pit bull. Nestled in the hair that sprouted upward from his open shirt, hung a large gold coin, stamped with the same profile, which obviously confirmed to anyone who would listen, that he was directly related to the ancient leaders of Italy. His mouth curved cynically. Franko knew everybody. His tentacles were everywhere, woven even through the fabric of organized crime. His informants could travel with impunity through closed doors and buried files in places that never saw the light of day. His manifold secrets were as essential to his existence as oxygen. And Mack Mackenzie needed a favour. He got in touch with Franko through an information drop with a relative that ran a local butcher shop.