by K Elliott
The driver of the Camry said, "Sorry for your accident. Please accept my apologies." His accent was Middle-Eastern. He looked white with a slight tan.
"Sorry for my accident? Didn't you see this big-ass Benz? I saw you looking my way before you hit me."
"It was the brakes. They did not work because the gas pedal continued . . . eh, sticking. Got stuck."
Echo looked at the damage. He'd heard about certain Toyota models having such a problem. "They had . . . Toyota had a recall in 2010. Why didn't you get your shit fixed?"
"How much. What is the cost?" the man said.
"You don't pay for recalls."
"No, I . . . eh, want to pay for your repair?"
Echo said, "You're coming out to Cedar View; don't tell me you don't have insurance."
"Yes, but quickly. I pay for repair quickly."
"What's your name? Let me see your driver's license."
The man reached for his wallet. "I am Abul al-Shaziz." He gave his license card to Echo.
Echo looked at the card. "Spring Valley Lane. Is that in this neighborhood?"
"Yes."
Echo assumed the man was either a business owner or a fucking tech wizard; he must be, with a funny name like Shaziz. "Okay, Abul. You dented my shit up pretty bad. Can you write me a check for twelve thousand dollars?" The actual damage was worth no more than three thousand dollars.
Abul smiled and said, "Expensive automobile. Excuse me a few moments, please."
Echo nodded as the man returned to his Camry. Echo returned to the driver's seat of the Mercedes, slipped Abul's driver's license in his coat pocket, and pulled out a Blackberry. Echo called Brian.
Brian said, "What's the problem?"
"No problems. Lori Anne couldn't tell me anything we didn't we didn't already know. Allen Orcutt was a fag, he never got in any trouble, and most of his friends were young women."
Brian said, "I hope you're not using that insensitive word when you talk to witnesses. The word 'gay' is a better choice."
"Same shit, Brian, but I know what you're saying. Either way, he was still a faggot. Maybe fifteen years ago, that word wasn't so restricted. Now it's like a white person using the word 'nigga'. How the fuck them fags got so much clout?"
"Echo, I know you're homophobic, but we got too many cases for me to work this alone. We're being paid good money for results; don't let your personal feelings get in the way."
"Man, I'm just bullshittin'. We'll find out who left a knife in the fucking punks' temple."
"I'm gone; I got shit to do."
Echo laughed. "Me, too. I was in a light car wreck with a tycoon named Abul. He's writing me a check right now."
"Call me later, with your lying ass." Brian ended the call.
Echo slipped the phone back inside his inner coat pocket and saw Abul in the rearview mirror. He was approaching the Mercedes with a plastic shopping bag. Echo stood at the driver's door and said, "What's up?"
Abul walked up to him and showed Echo the contents of the shopping bag. "Twelve thousand dollars. Sorry for your accident."
Echo had not expected cash money. Crisp bills, dominations of tens and twenties, banded in stacks of five hundred dollars as if done by a bank.
CHAPTER 2
BRIAN CATHCART had been seeing Janelle Frazier for nearly three weeks now. He sat across from her in a romantic booth in a restaurant called The Whale Tail. It was 8:17p.m., and dinner was over. Brian said, "Marissa is the assistant I was telling you about. We started Godsend together. She gave it up last month because she made enough money to launch her online dating service. My sister invested with her and is a thirty-percent partner."
Janelle said, "Sheree is your new assistant, and she's white too. Any reason your assistant is always white?"
"That's just a coincidence. I would have hired Sheree regardless of her color, mainly because she's well-connected with underground contacts and is college educated." He sipped his lemon tea. "Marissa was a grinder and willing to get her hands dirty if necessary. Godsend wouldn't have been a reality without her vision and startup ideas."
"What about Echo?" How did he get in the picture? I know he's your cousin-"
"Short story version: My sister twisted my arm. He's her favorite cousin."
"He seems like a nice guy."
Brian smiled then grinned. "He is a nice guy, but only if he's on your side. I've worked with him for maybe four months now, and I wouldn't trade his crazy ass in for anything. I didn't feel that way at first, though. Enough about everybody else. You said you would have an answer for me after dinner."
She used a toothpick to toy with the ice in her glass of tea. "I've only known you for a month, and we've only dated for three weeks. Getting a place together is a big step. We've never even had sex with each other; living together might make us miserable."
"I can read between the lines. You're afraid I might turn out to be only four inches with no tongue action."
She laughed. "I didn't say that."
"When we leave here, we can go back to my room and kill all the suspense."
"Is that your romantic way of asking me for some?"
He said, "Hell no. Here's the romantic version. Janelle, please forgive me for having only nine inches to push up in you. I can make up for my length deficiency by licking every centimeter of your body, especially your birthmark."
"My birthmark? I never told you I had one or where it might be."
Brian said, "I've met your beautiful little girl. The rest is easy to figure out."
She shook her head. "Wait a minute. You can look at my daughter and tell me where my birthmark is?"
"Damn right. Did you have a C-section or a natural delivery?"
"Natural."
"There's my answer. Your pussy is your birthmark; that marks the spot where you gave birth to your daughter."
This time she laughed louder than she wanted to.
"You gonna argue about me licking your birthmark?"
"No. Not at all."
"Well let's go fuck so we can get a place together."
"You are so silly. Slow down and let's talk about this. What if I don't satisfy you? Maybe you'll want more from a woman than what I can offer."
He said, "I got a question for you. Be honest. Do you consider yourself freaky in bed? I don't need any specifics, just a yes or no."
She smiled. "I won't answer that. You'll have to be the judge. We may not define that word the same way."
"I get to be the judge? Let's go. I'm ready to make a ruling."
More laughter. "Not tonight. My sister is going out later, and I have to keep my daughter. Maybe in a few days, if you're not tied up with your case."
"I have your word on it." Brian assumed she was likely on her period. "In the meantime, use the Internet to find us a place in Pasadena, a nice apartment. We can upgrade later, probably after we start our own legitimate company together."
She said, "I like it here in Sacramento. Pasadena is a long way from here."
"Yeah, but it's an even longer way from Knoxville, Tennessee."
CHAPTER 3
THE NEXT MORNING, Echo woke up in Sheree Lockhart's bed. He called her name twice but got no answer. She was gone. After knowing the 28-year-old white woman for only a month, he had keys to her townhouse apartment in San Bernardino and keys to her Mercedes. Although he was happily married and the father of a teenaged daughter, he still desired an extra-marital affair whenever he was away from home too long. Godsend's heavy caseload would probably keep him and Brian out West for another six months, though they would return home twice a month to spend five days each visit.
Echo sat up in bed and heard his cell phone ring. His dick was erect-a morning thing-and he wondered where Sheree was. He grabbed his phone from the night stand and walked toward the bedroom window. "What's up?" His phone revealed that it was Teresa Groove on the other end, an FBI criminal profiler.
She said, "Abul al-Shaziz was born in Saudi Arabia. He came to America in 1987 a
nd graduated from Berkley with degrees in economics, computer programming, and computer science by 1995. He owns an Internet-based company called ElfServe, which allows you online access to high-end computer servers that are virtual and fully customizable. His company grossed nearly a million dollars for the first time last year."
He was wearing a pair of silk boxer shorts as he looked through the blinds. "Why would he pay me twelve grand in cash instead of letting his insurance take care of it? Is he on a Terror Suspect list? Is he a radical Muslim on some bullshit bin Laden revenge?"
She said, "Very doubtful. He was looked at by the FBI after 9/11, mainly because he's from Saudi Arabia. He's not on a suspect list because he hasn't even been tied to a religious faction. He doesn't claim to be a Muslim; there's no evidence that he's ever attended a mosque in this country; he's married to an American woman and has two children with her and doesn't seem to observe any of the Muslim traditions. By that I mean he's clean-cut and happens to enjoy pork."
Echo was headed for the bathroom. "I don't trust him. He gave me that money without hesitation, like he was trying to hide something or get rid of me in a hurry before I found out something."
"You're paranoid. Stereotyping him because of his name. Many Americans are Islamophobic nowadays."
"Nah, that ain't it. I thought he was a business tycoon of some sort, all because of his name and the neighborhood he was in. I just want to know why he was riding around with twelve grand in his car. And you can bet he had even more cash with him, but why? Get me some information on his wife. I'mma find out what Akbar's ass is up to."
She said, "You mean Abul."
"Same damn thing. He obviously didn't want any cop on the scene, and it can't be because he didn't want his insurance to go up."
"I'll get you the information, but I think you're wrong on this one."
Echo stood over the toilet and started pissing. "There's nothing wrong with being wrong sometimes. I'm an unlicensed private eye and self-proclaimed, rotten-ass vigilante. So I'm wrong, even when I'm doing the right thing."
CHAPTER 4
BY THE TIME BRIAN had flown down to Pasadena, driven off in his Yukon, and arrived in Blue Diamond, Nevada, it was almost six p.m. Twenty minutes later, he arrived on foot at a trailer park, his SUV parked at a local diner fifteen minutes away. He walked to the third lot and headed for the fourth trailer. He could hear several voices that were obviously behind the trailer, so he walked around back.
Brian was armed and wore a sport coat with dress clothes and shoes. He saw three white men and a white woman, all in their forties, all cleaning fresh-caught fish. There was a mix-breed dog tied to the door handle of a Volkswagen that was on cinder blocks, but it didn't even bark when it noticed Brian. A rear passenger's door was missing from the Jetta, and Brian wanted to laugh when he realized that the car was just a makeshift dog house. He didn't laugh, though.
The woman was cleaning fish at a picnic table with an obese man; the two other men, one short and one tall, were working at a kitchen table in the backyard. They all stopped and watched Brian. The woman said, "If you're selling something, we can't afford it. If you're a bill collector, we ain't home. If you're here to tell me I won the lottery, I prefer you tell me in private." They all laughed as they kept watching Brian.
Brian smiled and said, "And what if I'm here to tell you that you're under arrest?"
Silence. No more laughter.
Brian laughed this time and said, "I'm just fuckin with you. I'm Richard Gaston, Private Eye." He displayed his credentials.
They all relaxed again and the woman said, "Goddamn you, Mr. Gaston. You scared the hell out of me," and she smiled about it. "I didn't think an outstanding medical bill could send me to the slammer."
Brian stopped a few feet from her table. "Are you Mrs. Deana Blackwood?"
She wiped her hands on her dirty apron. "I am now that I know you're just a private eye."
"I need to ask you a few questions about Allen Orcutt."
"Whoa," she said. "I thought the cops gave up on that case. I'm glad somebody's still thinking about Al." She was once a pretty woman, but too much stress made her look like a drunk now.
Her husband, who sat across the table from her, said, "Have a seat. If you help us clean some of this fish you can keep a couple pounds of it." He smiled.
"No, thanks. I'm allergic to fish." He loved fish but only at the final stage-fried. He remained standing and said, "I understand you were a good friend of Allen's."
"Me and four other girls. None of us was older than twenty-two. He was closer to Lori Ann Scarborough than the rest of us. Last I heard she was living in a fancy home down in San Diego, married and all."
Brian said, "Yeah. We've talked with her." He glanced at the other two men, but they seemed to be more concerned with cleaning and gutting fish. "Twenty-three years ago is a long time, but do you recall him being friends with a guy named Andy Culver?"
"I remember Andy. The cops questioned him, but his prints didn't match the ones found on the knife that killed Al."
"Right. Andy's in prison and will be there for a while. Can you think of anyone of Andy's male friends from way back then?"
She thought about it for a moment then finally said, "Guy named George. Last name starts with an A, but I won't remember it until I hear it."
"Where was he from?" Brian said.
"Palm Springs. All of us was from there."
Brian said, "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Blackwood. You guys have a nice evening."
CHAPTER 5
AFTER A GOOD NIGHT'S sleep and some more driving, Brian arrived in Flagstaff, Arizona, just before noon. He enjoyed a medium pizza in his Yukon then drove to Red Rock Street on the south side. He pulled into the driveway of a modest two-bedroom home and was met by a big Saint Bernard dog. The dog did not show any aggression and was happily wagging its tail.
Brian lowered the driver's window a few inches and tossed a few pizza crust ends through the window slit. He watched the dog devour the bread in seven seconds flat. When the dog looked up at him for more Brian said, "We friends? If you trick me I'mma have to give you a shot in your ass, nothing like your veterinarian." The dog wagged its tail even faster, as if it understood. When Brian slowly opened the door, he could tell that the dog was harmless because it backed away and spun in circles, happy to have Brian as a friend. Brian thought about his daughter's 22-week-old German Shepherd.
A heavyset white woman answered the door before Brian could even step out of the SUV. She shouted, "Monster, get to the backyard!"
The huge dog instantly became unhappy and mosied on toward the back of the house.
Brian got out, closed his door, and approached the woman. He was in jeans and a blazer jacket. The shoulder holster underneath his coat carried a .45 automatic handgun. He produced credentials and said "FBI, Special Agent Richard Gaston. I need to have a word with Mrs. Missy Goodard."
"I'm Mrs. Goodard." She stepped out onto her small porch.
"I'd like to ask you some questions about Allen Orcutt."
"Allen?" She thought about her late friend. "I'm happy to help if I can. Come on inside." She led the way.
"Thank you." He followed her. Once inside he quickly assessed her front room. It was clean and neat, nothing fancy.
She closed the door. "Have a seat, please."
He sat on the first cushion of her sofa and said, "Allen had a friend named Andy Culver. Know him?"
"How could I forget him? We used to date." She walked over to her love seat and sat on it. "He's been in prison for about twelve years now, but its got nothing to do with Allen's death. Well, you're an FBI agent; you would already know that."
Brian smiled and said, "Around the time Allen was killed, Andy had a friend named George. Know him?"
She said, "Sure. George Ambercrombie. Nice guy, never got in any trouble. I haven't seen George in maybe twenty years." She turned and looked out the window as a vehicle was pulling in behind Brian's Yukon. It was her husb
and. He must have only worked a half day again. Some days she wished he wouldn't return at all. She turned back to Brian and said, "My husband's home, unfortunately."
Brian didn't give a damn. "Do you know whether George had ever met Allen?"
"I'm not sure about that. I've never seen them together, and I don't remember Allen ever mentioning his name."
An overweight white man at six feet two entered the house. He wore dark blue Dickie's work pants, boots, and a plaid shirt. He looked like a local plumber. He closed the door and said to Brian, "Who the fuck are you? We cut ties with everybody from California several years ago. You're in my parking space."
Missy covered her eyes with one hand and shook her head.
Brian knew the man had studied the Yukon's license plate. He looked Missy's husband in the eyes and said, "I'm Missy's old boyfriend, and I'm here to reclaim her. Why the fuck do you care?"
Missy was shocked. She looked up and said, "Jake, he's just kidding."
"Some things you just don't kid about," Jake said as he stormed toward Brian, fists clenched.
CHAPTER 6
NORMA BELMONT had recently turned thirty-six. Although she was a well-educated white woman, she was a homemaker. Her husband didn't want her working anymore, and she had grown to like that idea. While her two children were in school and her husband was at his headquarter office, she was enjoying some me-time.
She was an attractive woman, even more so now that she was leaving Ensida's Beauty Salon in San Diego. As she was about to enter her new Audi A7, she saw a black businessman approach her calmly. He was well-dressed and was apparently with the white woman who was only a few steps behind him.
Echo walked up to Norma and said, "The three of us are going for a long ride." He opened his sports coat and displayed a handgun. "If you cooperate, you'll see your kids again and live happily ever after. Act uncivilized, and your two daughters will pay for your mistakes."
