[Lady Justice 03] - Lady Justice Gets Lei'd

by Robert Thornhill

  REVIEWS

  These books are fast reading and a really humorous mystery series. In this third book of the series Walt and his sweetie are going to get married in Hawaii. Sound simple? No way. Walt, Maggie, Mary and Willie embark on an adventure you just won't believe. Throw in ancient artifacts, political zealots and a tiny lizard who appears when he's needed and you have a recipe for humor, Lady Justice style. You will laugh till your sides hurt. Rene – Goodreads

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  Each time Robert Thornhill writes a novel in this series, it just gets better. This time the characters Walt, Maggie, Mary and Willie are off to Hawaii, and a huge caper ensues. This one takes up the whole novel, which I LOVE. Tons of history about Hawaii, its history, the climate, the economy, the Islands, and the people are included. And since the writer lived there, he would know all about it. I love that part the best!

  It is still a short, easy read, but you will love it the most of all of them. I did! Stephanie – Goodreads

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  This is the third book in the Lady Justice series. Each one is better than the last, which is saying a lot because the first one was fantastic. Mr. Thornhill has a wonderful sense of humor which he sprinkles liberally throughout his stories. Barbara – Goodreads

  LADY JUSTICE

  GETS LEI’D

  A WALT WILLIAMS

  MYSTERY/COMEDY NOVEL

  ROBERT THORNHILL

  Lady Justice Gets Lei’d

  Volume #3

  Second Edition

  Copyright August, 2014 by Robert Thornhill

  First Edition

  Copyright 2011, by Robert Thornhill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and entities included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover design by Peg Thornhill

  Fiction, Humorous

  Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General

  DEDICATION

  To all of our wonderful friends on the beautiful Hawaiian Islands who made our five years there an experience we will never forget.

  A hui hou kakou.

  Until we meet again.

  PROLOGUE

  When I was a little dude, maybe five or six years old, my grandma would say, “Walter, act your age!” Then she would give me “the look.” At that point in my life, I had begun to grasp the concept of right and wrong, and her admonition was usually brought on by a momentary lapse into more childish behavior.

  As a young teen, I was fully aware of the boundaries of proper decorum but tended to test those boundaries on occasion. These forays into inappropriate behavior were most often cut short by Mom’s stern, “Walter, act your age!”

  Grandma taught her well.

  Now I am faced with a dilemma. Is there a point in one’s life where the restraints of “acting your age” no longer apply?

  If the answer is yes, then I’m home free.

  If the answer is no, then someone tell me, please, how is a sixty-seven-year-old man supposed to act?

  As I reflect on the events of the past year and a half, I think I started off on the right foot.

  At age sixty-five, after thirty years as a real estate salesperson and landlord, I retired and applied for Social Security. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

  But something didn’t feel quite right. I was bored.

  My life had no direction. I began to wonder if I was through with all that life had to offer.

  Then one day I witnessed the mugging of an elderly lady, and everything changed. A new fire was kindled in my bosom, and I knew the rocking chair would just have to wait.

  Justice is depicted as a lady with a blindfold trying to balance the scales of life, and I knew I needed to give the blind lady a helping hand.

  At the ripe old age of sixty-five, I wanted to be a cop!

  Age appropriate? Who knows? But Mom and Grandma aren’t around anymore, and no one stepped up and shouted, “Walter, act your age!”

  As I began my new career, there were many who questioned my sanity, and I have to admit that I harbored some doubts of my own. Thankfully, I have a mentor and good friend, eighty-six-year-old Professor Leopold Skinner, my old philosophy professor from UMKC, who now is a tenant in my three-story apartment building. He helped put things into the proper perspective when he reminded me that Grandma Moses started painting in her seventies, Laura Ingalls Wilder started her Little House on the Prairie series in her sixties, Paul Newman didn’t start racing cars until he was an old dude, and Colonel Sanders started KFC when he was in his sixties.

  That was good enough for me. If the colonel could do it, so could I.

  But a cop?

  Come on. It’s one thing to throw some secret herbs and spices in a bowl and dip a chicken. They don’t fight back.

  It’s a whole different story when you’re chasing a

  Latino gangbanger or a goomba from the Italian mob.

  They have guns!

  In the year that I’ve been on Lady Justice’s payroll, I’ve been poked, punched, kidnapped, shot at, and at least three times I have been close enough to death to see the bright light and smell the carnations.

  And if this wasn’t sufficient evidence to question my sanity, consider the fact that somehow I have become the undercover expert in our squad.

  I’ve been a “John” in a strip bar, half of a gay couple, and donned a dress and wig, all in the name of justice.

  But most improbable of all, imagine a sixty-six-year-old Elvis impersonator performing live in front of 19,000 people in the Sprint Center Arena.

  Each time I look around and hope someone will step up and say, “Walter, act your age!”

  Instead, I see the faces of my captain, Dwayne “Shorty” Short; Ox, my partner; Vince, my first recruit in the City Retiree Action Patrol; and of all my fellow officers in the squad. And I hear their words of encouragement and congratulations for a job well done.

  I see the love and admiration of my friends, Mary, Willie, and Jerry, whom I have inadvertently drug into my liaison with Lady Justice. They are my family.

  But most importantly, I see Maggie McBride, my sweetie, soul mate, and bride-to-be. You see, at age sixty-seven, I will be getting married for the first time.

  Am I acting my age? Heck, I don’t know. I’ve never been this age before.

  Anyway, what does age have to do with it? I recall a quote from Satchel Paige, who pitched major league baseball till age fifty-nine: “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you was?”

  That’s good enough for me.

  Am I acting my age?

  Probably not!

  But I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m having the time of my life.

  I’m Walter Williams, and I’m a cop!

  CHAPTER 1

  We are all creatures of habit. I think the Big Guy intended it that way.

  The advantage is that the mundane things we do over and over again each day become hard-wired into our brains and become automatic. That frees our minds to pursue more noble and worthwhile challenges.

  The downside is that once the minutiae of life become ingrained, they are awfully hard to change.

  I sit at my breakfast table with m
y coffee and newspaper, and I swear, I can’t remember how I got here.

  With great difficulty, I retrace my activities from the first screech of the alarm clock to the present, and I discover that what I did is what I have done every morning for the last thirty years.

  I awake with a start, slap the alarm clock, stumble into the bathroom to pee, shuffle into the kitchen, start the coffee, shuffle back for a hot shower, dress, get the newspaper, pour a cup of coffee and a bowl of Wheaties—the breakfast of champions—and read the paper while I eat.

  I don’t even think about it. I just do it.

  So what’s the big deal today?

  The big deal is that everything in my life is about to change.

  You see, I’ve just asked my longtime sweetie to marry me.

  Maggie and I have been together for a long, long time. By together, I mean we have dated exclusively.

  If we were teenagers, you could say we’ve been “going steady.” We do everything together. We love to dance, eat out, go to movies, or just curl up in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn.

  We know each other in the biblical sense as well, and if heaven is half as great as when I’m in her arms, I’ll be a happy camper.

  What we have not done together is occupy the same dwelling. Oh sure, there have been many sleepovers, but these are momentary distractions from the usual, and the next day I am back to my thirty-year routine.

  I am reminded of the old joke, “My wife and I had a wonderful relationship. Then we got married.”

  So why spoil a good thing? I’ve asked myself that question a bazillion times since I proposed to Maggie at the Sprint Center Arena in front of 19,000 people, dressed as Elvis—but that’s another story.

  The answer was simple. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

  I live on Armour Boulevard in my three-story, brick walk-up. There are five other two-bedroom apartments and a basement apartment all occupied by golden agers that have one thing in common—they are all alone.

  We are all close friends; most have been with me over ten years. But at the end of the day, we each retreat to our own inner sanctum, close the door, and spend the night alone.

  Since my new vocation seems to require that my body be abused on a regular basis, I’ve found that nothing heals the body and soul more than coming home to a loving, nurturing woman.

  So what was the problem?

  I was scared! That’s what!

  The most frightening thing in the world is the unknown.

  What if I was too set in my ways? What if I couldn’t change and adapt? What if I spoiled the beautiful relationship we already had? What if—what if?

  I guess this is what is known as cold feet.

  My consolation is that nothing cures cold feet better than a warm body next to you.

  In keeping with my daily routine, I headed to the precinct for squad meeting as I had every morning for almost a year.

  The sun was shining, robins scratched in dry leaves looking for the early worm, and at last the long winter seemed to be over. Spring had arrived.

  Life was good.

  I parked and headed for the locker room. I met Ox, my partner, and we were off to get our daily assignment.

  Ox is a twenty-three-year veteran of the force, and at 220 pounds he is the perfect guy to balance my meager 145 pounds. Together we have combined his bulk and police training with my years of life experience and incredible good luck to produce a very respectable arrest record. When not on special assignment, we routinely serve bench warrants and patrol the streets in our ancient black and white Crown Vic.

  Today was no exception. My old high school friend and mentor, Captain Short, proudly proclaimed that crime seemed to be taking a holiday and dismissed us all to our regular assignments. We patrolled midtown Kansas City in silence, enjoying the warm sun and each other’s company.

  Finally Ox broke the silence. “You and Maggie set a date yet?”

  Truth be told, since that night at the Sprint Center when I proposed and Maggie accepted, we had both steered away from that subject. I began to wonder if her toes were getting a bit nippy too.

  “Actually, no. We’re still kind of getting used to the idea.”

  Thankfully, the topic was interrupted by the car radio. “Car fifty-four, what is your location?”

  Ox keyed the mike. “We’re at Thirty-seventh and

  Main.”

  “Please respond to a disturbance call in the thirty-eight hundred block of Baltimore. A Mrs. Brown will meet you on the street.”

  “Roger that. On the way. Car fifty-four out.”

  Like much of midtown Kansas City, this neighborhood consisted of once-elegant two and three-story homes that had been converted from single-family residences to duplexes and triplexes by enterprising landlords.

  There is an old saying, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

  Conversely, when people are living on top of one another, the opportunities for conflict rise dramatically.

  As we turned off Thirty-eighth Street onto Baltimore, we saw a middle-aged lady on the sidewalk in front of one of these typical conversions, wildly waving her arms. The woman was obviously distraught.

  She reminded me of the poor lady in high school who had just spent the day with the kids in the detention room.

  “Bet that’s Mrs. Brown,” I quipped.

  “You think?”

  Mrs. Brown wasted no time. She was on top of us before we could get the doors closed.

  “I’ve had it! I just can’t stand their constant bickering any longer. Somebody’s got to do something!”

  Ox raised his hands. “Whoa. Calm down, Mrs. Brown. Why don’t you take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”

  Before she could reply, a loud crash echoed from the second-floor apartment, along with, “Edgar! You dumb shit! Just look what you’ve done now!”

  Mrs. Brown didn’t have to say a word. She just pointed and shook her head. We got the picture.

  “How do you want to handle this?” I asked, remembering our last domestic disturbance when I left covered in Chinese takeout.

  “Let me take this one,” Ox replied. Most folks think twice before getting physical with the Incredible Hulk.

  We climbed the stairs to the second-floor unit, and Ox knocked on the door. “Kansas City Police Department. Open up please.”

  “Get lost! We don’t need the cops.”

  “Sorry, can’t do that. We’ve received a complaint, and we’ll have to file a report.”

  “It’s that damn busybody next door, isn’t it? Why can’t she mind her own business?”

  “Open the door please, and let’s talk this over.”

  The door swung open, and we were face to face with the wicked witch of the north. She was in a long, pink robe; her hair was in curlers, and a Marlboro hung from her lower lip.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she growled.

  I looked past her and saw a little old guy about my size sweeping peas into a dustpan.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” Ox asked.

  “Ask Einstein over there. It’s all his fault.”

  Ox looked at the crestfallen Edgar.

  “Yeah. It’s my fault. I didn’t mean nothin’. We was just sittin’ there talkin’ about our anniversary comin’ up. Number twenty.

  “I asked Wilma where she’d like to go, and she said, ‘Somewhere I haven’t been in a long time.’ All I said was, ‘Okay, how about the kitchen?’ That’s when the fight started.”

  “So who threw the peas?”

  “Who do you think, dimwit? If he don’t like eatin’ my cookin’, I figured he could try wearin’ it.”

  “So you folks do this often?”

  “Only when he acts like a dipshit, which is most of the time.”

  “Anyone ever get hurt?”

  “Hell no. Edgar wouldn’t lay a finger on me. He’d be afraid to ever sleep again knowing I’d cut his balls off while he was out.”

  “Actually, I was more
concerned about Edgar.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a smartass too!”

  I figured I ought to step in at that point.

  “Ma’am, what you and your husband do in your own home is nobody’s business as long as you don’t disturb your neighbors and you don’t hurt each other. If you promise to keep a lid on it, I think we can wrap this up.”

  “Sure, sure, whatever.”

  “Great. Don’t make us come back again because next time we’ll have to issue a citation for disturbing the peace.”

  On our way back to the car, Ox remarked, “How can people live like that? Twenty years of constant bickering. It would drive me crazy. I wonder if they started off that way or it just evolved over time. And if they’re so miserable, why stay together?”

  This graphic exhibition of matrimonial disharmony wasn’t exactly what I needed to help me shake my case of cold feet. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I questioned what Maggie and I were about to do.

  The remainder of the day was uneventful, and I was looking forward to an evening home alone.

  Not a good sign.

  I was actually relieved when Maggie called and said she had an evening listing appointment.

  I had just settled in with a glass of Arbor Mist when the phone rang.

  “Walt, it’s Mary. I need your help.”

  Mary Murphy is the resident manager of my Three Trails Hotel and a dear friend.

  The hotel and the building I live in are the last vestiges of a rather sizeable rental portfolio that I once had. I sold out lock, stock, and barrel, but no one would buy the hotel. This once-proud structure had evolved over the years into a flophouse for vagrants and druggies. I bought it, kicked everyone out, and remodeled, but it’s still a flophouse. Twenty sleeping rooms with bed, dresser, and chair share four hall bathrooms. Plus, there’s a small one-bedroom apartment for Mary. Most of my tenants are single, retirees on Social Security, or guys working out of the daily labor pool. They pay by the week—forty bucks a pop.