Ames To Thrill: Three Full-Length Gripping Mystery Thrillers

by Dan Ames

  "I'm a private investigator, Ms. Schletterhorn. What are you?"

  She sighed and looked up at the ceiling mosaic, as if she could divine a simple answer from the complex pattern.

  "I'm curious, Mr. Ashland." She lolled her head to one side, then fastened her gaze on me. As she did, I became sure of one thing. Mary Schletterhorn was insane.

  "Curious about what?" I asked.

  "Everything, but at this time, I'm curious what you are doing here."

  I pulled out the still frames and set them on the table. I looked at the one of the young girl, then looked back up at Mary Schletterhorn. Even though time had taken its toll, I could see a resemblance to the fresh young face in the photograph.

  I watched as her eyes lingered on the photograph of the man. Her eyes seemed to darken with emotion, her mouth parted and her hands shook. Her chest heaved as she breathed faster. She caught me looking at her, and closed her eyes. She spread her hands flat on the table, her fingers were long and slender. A giant diamond ring sat on her right ring finger. A gold bracelet encircled her left wrist. It too was covered with small diamonds.

  "I'm here because a friend of mine was murdered,” I said. “And the film of you and this man had something to do with it."

  "You are a dullard," she said, seemingly unaware of the fact that I'd just said my best friend had been murdered. Or had she already known?

  "That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that,” I said. I drank the rest of my beer and looked for some kind of ringer button to get another one.

  She gestured toward the pictures on the table. Her face was flushed, and her throat worked without emitting a sound.

  We sat there for several minutes while she contemplated. The sound of the clock on the wall grew in intensity. I wanted to crack a window. The fresh, chilled air would be a welcome relief from this mausoleum of a house, filled with dead memories.

  Suddenly, she snapped up the picture of the man with both hands. Her lips trembled with anger. Red spots appeared on her sagging cheeks. "You cretin!" she yelled at it, a big gob of spit hung from her lower lip. The photo began to collapse in her hands as she squeezed it, trying to choke the image of the man’s face in her hands.

  Then, just as suddenly, she dropped it to the floor where it landed between her feet. She lifted the hem of her dress, looked at me, a challenge in her bulging eyes. Then she closed them.

  And a long yellow stream of urine shot out onto the picture.

  It splattered on the photograph, sounding like a spring shower on the rooftop. I sat there, unmoving. Not believing what I was seeing.

  I looked at the picture, then back up at the old woman. She met my eyes. "I don't mean to rain on your parade," she said and giggled, her chest shaking with convulsions.

  The male nurse appeared behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. The sound of the urine diminished, like a faucet being turned off. I stood and decided not to ask for the picture.

  Mary Schletterhorn let go of her dress and it dropped back down over her scrawny legs. She plopped back into her chair.

  The nurse led me from the room. The old woman shouted obscenities at me as I left.

  Outside, it was cold and gray. But I couldn't have been more relieved than if it had been seventy-five degrees and sunny. I stood there for a long time, taking deep breaths.

  I got back in the car. Took a last look at the giant mansion. I drove off, the hint of a snowstorm hanging in the air.

  20

  Twenty

  I wasn’t really sure how much jail time could come from a charge of obstruction of justice, or withholding evidence, or even evidence tampering. I supposed it would depend on the judge, and the mitigating circumstances. Maybe how good my lawyer was. Or how pissed off the cops were. I did know, however, that I didn’t want to go to jail. A week behind bars was too much, let alone five to ten years. That’s right where Tim’s killer would want me, so that my investigation would stop.

  I had a bottle of Point beer in front of me. I was at a bar just around the corner from Hoopin’ Productions. Which would make the whole transaction simple and efficient. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be painless, though.

  Homicide detective Gabby Engel walked through the door like she was breaking the finish line at one of her races. She had on dress slacks and gray overcoat. Which looked sexy as hell, for some reason.

  She sat next to me. “Bottled water, please,” she said to the bartender.

  "So this isn’t your kind of place?” I asked.

  “Off-duty, maybe. On-duty, no.” She looked around the place. “Actually, not even off-duty.”

  I lifted a box from beneath the table and set it in front of Gabby.

  “Ooh,” she said. “For me?”

  “A few days ago, my friend Fred Pip received this in the mail. They were from Tim Bantien. Not knowing what they were and if they might have anything to do with Tim’s death, he didn’t look at them right away. This morning, he dug them out, called me, and together we looked at them. After I saw them, I called you. Immediately.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “You called me right away. I know that whole timeline is probably bullshit, so just get on with it.”

  “It may be bullshit, but it’s bullshit that’s on the record, am I right?” I still had my hand on the box, like I could run out of the bar and throw it in the lake.

  “Yes, it’s on the record,” she said, rolling her incredibly cute eyes.

  “They’re old eight millimeter films,” I said. “I had Fred digitize them and put them onto DVDs for you, as well as a zip drive. You’ll want to take a look at them right away.”

  She took a sip from her water. “What’s on them? Reruns of Family Feud?”

  “Why don’t you just watch them. It’ll probably be similar to your typical evening.”

  “Just tell me what’s on the tapes,” Gabby said.

  “Porn,” I said.

  “And that would be your typical evening,” she said with a smirk.

  “It’s old porn. Like turn-of-the-century porn. Fred thought the originals were really old. Way back when movie cameras were first invented and being used. That kind of old.”

  Gabby drummed her fingers on the top of the bar. They were nice fingers. Slim, the nails clear and not bitten.

  “All together, how much…”

  “Footage?”

  “How much footage is there?” When she nodded, I said, “All together it’s a little over a half hour.”

  “Great, a fuck film,” she said. “The boys in evidence will get a kick out of this. Probably schedule a movie night.”

  21

  Twenty-One

  The sun blessed my living room with its presence, threw soft rays of dappled light on my oak floor. Sunny days like this made the long winter more tolerable even though at this time of year it was a lame duck sun: it still held the position but with none of the power.

  A ringing phone had awoken me from a restless night. It was almost nine o'clock.

  The woman on the other end of the phone told me she was Philip Krahn's secretary. She said that Mr. Krahn would like to meet with me, could I stop by later this morning? I pretended to think about it briefly, then said yes.

  I threw back the sheets put on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, checked my watch then headed upstairs and fired up the computer. My desktop icons appeared one by one. I double-clicked on the Firefox icon and watched as Google's home page popped up. I closed the window without looking, then called up a search engine and typed in the word “Krahn.”

  I’d heard of Philip Krahn, since he was managing director of Krahn Breweries, and great-grandson of Jacob Krahn, the company's founder.

  After showering and throwing on jeans and a sportcoat, I took 68th to Wells. Wells took me to 35th street where I saw the first sign of Krahn breweries, a huge tower with the logo spinning slowly on top.

  I reached a giant cement bridge that provided an overview of Krahn breweries. To the north of the bridge sat
the main warehouse, next to which were the towering fortress-like vats that looked like mutant farm silos gathering for a riot. I saw the mile long line of beer kegs. A sour stench filled the area, smelling vaguely of a frat house the morning after a rush party. The Krahn sign sat atop the vats, now crusted in ice and snow.

  The road dipped and went between more Krahn warehouses before cresting another hill. To the right was the original Jacob Krahn house, now a museum. It was from that house the old man built the brewery, watched as horses carried sleds of beer up the hill. Built his dynasty of hops, malt and barley.

  A man after my own heart.

  The brewery tour and info center was on the right, its windows filled with Krahn beer memorabilia of every kind: mugs, banners, t-shirts, wastebaskets and inflatable Krahn logos.

  At the top of the hill a sign pointed to Krahn headquarters and I turned onto a private drive. It curled and meandered its way past evergreens and park-like benches before arriving in front of corporate headquarters.

  The new, modern office building was only four stories high, and seemed remarkably unimaginative for a corporation of this size. They must have gotten a bad architect.

  Inside, I told the receptionist I had an appointment to see Philip Krahn. She motioned toward the elevators and told me his office was on the fourth floor and that I should check with his receptionist.

  The elevator deposited me into a room of rich, dark wood and thick plush carpet. A secretary sat behind a half-oval desk made of faux granite.

  "I'm here to see Philip Krahn," I said. "My name is Michael Ashland."

  She checked her appointment book.

  "Oh, yes. You can go right in."

  •

  There was so much smarminess in his office that I feared when I stepped onto the thick carpet I would hear a soft, squishing sound. I didn't know if it was the mood lighting, the low ceiling, the control panel that held switches for the lights, stereo and temperature, or if it was just the man himself.

  Philip Krahn, one of the richest men in Milwaukee, and certainly among the Forbes Four Hundred, sat with his back to me, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet propped up on the edge of a bookcase. His shoes looked Italian, his suit was neatly pressed.

  The office was large and elegant with a sleek desk, two Steelcase leather and chrome chairs and a black leather couch. On the right was a giant picture window, providing a view of the brewery trucks, rows and rows of kegs, the giant tower with the Krahn sign, and beyond, wooded bluffs from which a few old homes watched.

  He swiveled his chair to face me.

  "Mr. Ashland." His voice was smooth, refined. Just the slightest hint of a baritone rasp.

  I reached across the desk and shook his hand.

  "Mr. Krahn."

  He was an odd contrast of a big man with wide shoulders and large hands, yet the face of a pretty boy. Straight, cosmetically straightened and whitened teeth, sharp nose, thin lips, clear skin, soft brown eyes and sandy tan hair, brushed casually across his forehead. I knew he was in his early forties, but he looked like he was twenty-eight.

  "So glad you could take a meeting with me." His tone was cultured and silky, his smile as genuine as only the finest social coaching could produce.

  "It was my pleasure," I said.

  We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes until he said, "So you're a private detective, I understand?"

  "Fully licensed," I said.

  “Do you have room to take on a case?” he asked.

  “Not right now, no. I’d be happy to refer you to someone, though.” I decided to leave it at that. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Normally, someone in my position would be honored to be summoned by Philip Krahn. There were at least a half-dozen PIs in town who would salivate over the prospect of taking a meeting with Krahn.

  "I think I have someone leaking insider information to the press,” he said. He placed a huge stack of papers on his desk. “This is all of the research we've done so far. I'd like you to look it all over, and come back in say, two weeks, and give me your assessment."

  I hefted the papers. This was a serious assignment. But not as serious to me as finding out who killed Tim. Perhaps Krahn hadn’t heard me.

  "It's all in there," he said, gesturing to the papers, and letting me know he didn't want to talk specifics.

  "Like I said, I can refer you to some good people…”

  "I’ll pay you a retainer of fifty thousand a month.”

  I tried to remain still, the number was shocking. Not unreasonable perhaps for a company of this size, but to simply be handed that amount was unheard of.

  “Would you throw in a lifetime supply of free beer?”

  He smiled, not sure if I was kidding. “Of course,” he finally said.

  I pushed the stack of papers back toward him. “No, thanks.”

  He looked at the packet on his desk then switched gears. "I wanted to ask you about something else, if you don't mind. There was a story in the papers about a history professor who was murdered. I understand he was a friend of yours."

  "Yes, he was, as a matter of fact."

  He looked at me, hoping I would continue. I decided not to.

  "I don't know how to ask this, but I guess I'm wondering if you're...involved?"

  "Involved?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

  He held his hands out, palms up. "Like I said, I was just wondering."

  I shook my head. "No, I'm not involved."

  "Okay, I figured you wouldn't be, I was just wondering because...well like I said, Milwaukee's a small town. You hear all kinds of things."

  "What kinds of things have you been hearing, Philip?"

  "To be honest," he said and leaned forward. "I've heard nothing about it. I just wondered if this project would help take your mind off things.”

  “Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,” I said. “But no.”

  Before I could answer, his phone rang. He snatched it up listened, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Spoke to me.

  "Think it over. It’s a lot of money to piss away.”

  "I’ll do that," I answered. "Think it over, I mean."

  I stood and we shook hands. He still had the phone pressed against his shoulder.

  "Good luck," he said, and I wondered to what he was referring.

  22

  Twenty-Two

  There were only a few cars in the parking lot of the Soup Kitchen Saloon, which was fine with me. I went inside. A few people sat at tables. A few more lost souls at the bar.

  I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. I swiveled around, took a closer look at the crowd.

  "I don't know about you," I said to the bartender, a slim Hispanic guy I hadn’t seen before. "But this atmosphere simply screams auld lang syne to me.”

  He smiled and moved down the bar.

  The first beer came and went like a stranger passing through. The second stayed a little longer.

  A few more people came in and before long, the place was nearly half-full. For the Soup Kitchen Saloon, this was an extraordinary feat. It was the kind of out-of-way place that had only a few regulars and it looked like we were all there. The rest of the crowd was probably made up of people lost and looking for the great end of the year party that they definitely wouldn't find here. I got the feeling that most people were having one drink and leaving. A fact I didn't mind so much.

  A blues song, something from Muddy Waters I believed, churned from the speakers overhead. A fog of thick smoke hung over the place, casting a filter on the framed photographs of blues legends. A man and woman were playing pool at the far end of the bar, others stood near the window that fronted Port Washington Road.

  The Muddy Waters song ended and it was replaced by Robert Johnson singing “Love in Vain.”

  I listened as the words resonated in my mind until the chorus:

  It's hard to tell it's hard to tell

  when all your love's in vain.

  The song was moving, and I must have shown
it because I soon felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “I see you like that song, too.” Eve Rochelle looked beautiful in the half-light. A simple black sweater, blue jeans and black shoe boots. Her dark hair was pulled back, a simple diamond stud adorned each ear and a small diamond solitaire necklace lay against her musky throat.

  The fog of my mood instantly began to lift. Being in the presence of beauty of any kind always did that to me. "What are you doing out here? This is the very definition of a hole-in-the-wall."

  "You think I give up easily?" she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Fred told me you come here.”

  "So you're working tonight?"

  "I'll expense the beer I'm about to buy you," she said.

  "I don't mean to disappoint you," I said, "but I'm definitely off the clock tonight."

  Eve's dark eyes flashed, or maybe it was just the reflection of the neon sign above the mirror.

  "So am I." She caught the bartender’s eye and motioned for him to refresh my beer.

  "Any reason you chose to end the year here?" she asked, seeming to take her first good look at the place.

  “None that I can think of,” I said. “You?”

  "I'll be honest," she said. "I wasn't going to do anything this year. So I turned down all invitations. I was sitting at home, ready for a quiet night when suddenly I thought, I don't want to do this! So I grabbed my coat, remembered some friends had said they might get together at some place near here. I couldn't remember where it was exactly, and I remember Fred mentioning this place, so I took a chance and dropped in."

  "Well, I'm glad to be your fallback," I said. "So tell me what you do when you're not running a brewery."

  She spoke for several minutes. Books she'd read. Movies she'd seen. The relatives in Chicago who she visited once in awhile.