Reed Ferguson Short Stories

by Renee Pawlish

  “So instead of talking to Joe about his dog, you try to kill the dog?”

  He opened his mouth wide, then sighed. “That damn thing barks all the time, I’m sick of it!”

  “Trying to kill it isn’t the way to handle it.”

  His lips continued – in and out – as he frowned at me. “What’re you going to do about it?”

  Santa Claus he wasn’t.

  “I’ll let Joe know what you did,” I said. “It’s up to him whether he wants to report you.”

  “Fine.” He stared at me like a petulant child.

  I shook my head in disgust as I headed back to talk to the next-door neighbor, Joe. He was surprised when I told him what Santa Claus had done, and he said that he’d report it to the police. I could only hope that the police would talk to Santa Claus and put a scare into him so he’d leave Joe and Boris alone.

  Joe thanked me profusely, and I finally was able to break away and return to the 4-Runner. Deuce had a big grin on his face.

  “He cashed in the ticket, right?”

  I nodded and handed him the cash.

  “Cool!”

  “He spent a little of it.”

  “Wow, Reed, you did it! You solved the case.”

  “I guess so.”

  With that, we left.

  Chapter Six

  When Deuce and I got home, Willie was on the front porch chatting with Ace and Bob Smith. Bob looked much like his two younger brothers, just a little older, with wisdom lines around his eyes.

  “Hey, Bob,” Deuce said excitedly. “Reed got my money.” He waved around the cash.

  Bob quickly put things together. “Is that from the lottery ticket?”

  “Yeah.” Deuce launched into an account of what had happened. “Isn’t that great?” he said when he finished. “I didn’t want revenge, like that movie I was telling you about. I just wanted the ticket, or the money. And Reed got it for me. Isn’t he a great detective?”

  My cheeks grew warm, and I knew I was blushing. “All in a day’s work,” I said in my best Bogie imitation. I’m pretty sure Bogie never said that in a movie, and I’m darn sure he’d never blush about anything, but it sounded good, and I thought it’d be how he’d respond to such sincere praise from friends.

  THE END

  Turn the page to keep reading the second Reed Ferguson short story, The Big Steal.

  The Big Steal

  A Reed Ferguson Mystery Series Short Story

  Chapter One

  “I can’t believe it, Reed!”

  Cal Whitmore stormed past me and into my condo. My wife Willie – real name Willimena – was sitting in a chair in the living room, reading. She looked up at him, curiosity in her green eyes.

  “What’s going on, Cal?” she asked.

  “I’ve got some hacker after me,” he said, “and I don’t know who it is. Can you believe it? I’m the hacker, not the hack-ee.”

  The evening news was on, talking about a local clothing chain whose website had been hacked and credit card information stolen. I turned the TV down, stared at Cal, and shrugged. “I realize I’m a private investigator, but when it comes to computers and your hacking, that’s way out of my realm.”

  “And I thought you wanted to be called a Clandestine Information Specialist,” Willie said to Cal as she closed her book. She tucked her shoulder-length blond hair behind her ears in a way that I found both adorable and sexy.

  Cal waved a hand in the air. “I’ve never had someone come after me. That’s some nerve this guy has. Telling me that I better back off.”

  “Why don’t you sit down and tell us about it.” I motioned for him to take a seat at the couch. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’ll take a Coke.”

  It was a beautiful fall day, and Willie and I had just finished dinner. I was going to take care of a few things in my home office while she read, and then we were going to watch a movie.

  Cal tossed his backpack on the floor by the door, then went over and sank onto the sofa. Humphrey, our kitten, leaped up onto his lap. Cal absentmindedly stroked him behind his years. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Coke from the refrigerator, returned, and handed it to Cal. He opened it and took a long drink.

  “Does this have something to do with your new client?” I asked.

  Cal looked up at me. “How do you know I have a new client?”

  “You normally show up down here in Denver before or after an appointment, but never unannounced.” I indicated his clothes. “You’re in khakis and a blue striped shirt, again not your usual wardrobe. Both of which means that you likely just visited with a client. Otherwise, there’s no reason why you’d be in town instead of at home.”

  My longtime friend Cal lived in a secluded house in the foothills west of Denver, and he rarely ventured from it unless he absolutely had to, preferring to do everything he could online, including his grocery shopping.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Not bad deductive work. I did just visit with a new client.”

  “As you say, I am the detective.” I grinned. “And so I repeat, does this hacker have something to do with your new client?”

  He nodded. “I won’t bore you with all the details, but I was poking around in some highly secure websites, and then I had this guy message me. He’s being quite persistent, and I may need your help to scare him off.”

  Cal owns his own business, which specializes in computer viruses and virus protection, and he spent his days and nights ensuring that his clients’ web security systems were hack-proof. This meant he did his fair share of his own hacking. He frequently helped me on my cases, gathering information that I either couldn’t access at all or that would take me too much time to figure out. So having Cal asking for my help was a different turn. Ironic, but for me, gratifying.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out who this guy is.”

  Cal shook his head. “I haven’t found him yet. He’s really good. We’ve just been chatting – if you can call it that – online. He seems to think he owns the Internet, and he’s trying to tell me my business. And he’s threatening to turn me in to the FBI.”

  “Do you think he would?” Willie’s brow furrowed in concern.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Cal said. “Well, I don’t know that. I guess he could, but I’m sure he knows that he can’t tell them who I am without jeopardizing his identity. And since he hasn’t figured out who I am just yet, what would he go to the FBI with? He also knows if he tries to turn me in, I can do the same to him.”

  “Do you really think he can figure out who you are?” I asked.

  “No, I’m too good for that. I’ve got plenty of safeguards in place, and I know what I’m doing. Besides, he seems to be a bit of an amateur.”

  For some people, that would be bragging, but with Cal, it was true. I had no doubt he was the best in the business.

  “Then why are you so uptight?” I frowned. “How is this guy a threat to you?”

  “I’ve never had anybody come at me like this.” His eyes narrowed. “I can’t have my business compromised.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be okay.” Willie’s voice was soothing. “You’re smarter than anyone I know.”

  He blushed, then turned to me. “When I figure out who he is, I may need someone to talk to him for me. He can’t know who I am.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll do it for you.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  I nodded. “You’ve helped me out a lot. It’s the least I can do.”

  He brushed that off. “I don’t mind working on your cases, as long as you don’t put me in danger.”

  I ignored the not-so-subtle jab, because I had at times put him in somewhat risky situations. But we made a great team. We’re like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, only he’s so much smarter than I am, he should be Holmes.

  “You let me know what you need,” I said.

  He looked relieved as he scratched Hu
mphrey’s ears.

  “We were going to watch a movie,” Willie said. “Would you like to join us?”

  “The Big Steal.” I held up the DVD case. The Big Steal is a noir movie with Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer. Willie isn’t into film noir like I am, but she had agreed to watch one of Mitchum’s lesser known films.

  “Robert Mitchum plays Duke Halliday,” I went on. “He’s an Army lieutenant who’s wrongly accused of robbery, so he has to go after the real thief, Jim Fiske, played by Patric Knowles. But Mitchum is also being pursued by his corrupt superior. Man, Mitchum is great in any noir, right?”

  Cal and Willie stared at me with blank expressions.

  “Anyway,” I said, “along the way, Halliday runs into Fiske’s girlfriend, and–”

  “Let me guess,” Willie interrupted with a smile. “Jane Greer.”

  I nodded. “Right. She plays Joan Graham.”

  Cal held up a hand. “It sounds interesting, but I better get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

  He got up, handed Humphrey to Willie, and grabbed his bag. He barely said goodbye as I let him out.

  I shut the door and turned to Willie. “He seems unusually upset about all this.”

  She pursed her lips. “Yeah. Do you think there’s anything to worry about?”

  “Let’s see what happens.” I pointed to her book. “You want to read for a while before that movie?”

  She patted the couch. “No. Come sit down.”

  I snuggled up next to her, my office work forgotten. Humphrey laid down nearby, and we watched The Big Steal. It was all fine.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Chapter Two

  I called Cal a few days later and asked him how things were going.

  “I’ve figured out the house where this hacker’s Internet signal is coming from,” Cal said. “He’s covered his tracks well, with lots of tricks. But I found him. However, I don’t actually know who lives there.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think it’s being rented. The house belongs to Richard Gannon, but he’s not paying the Xcel bill. That’s Brian Wilson.”

  “The Beach Boy?”

  “Huh?”

  “Brian Wilson was with The Beach Boys. You know, all the surfer songs in the sixties?”

  “Oh, right.”

  I laughed at his lack of music knowledge. “What if this hacker is some thirteen-year-old kid?”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.”

  “You have the address, right?”

  “Yes,” Cal said.

  “Why don’t I go over there and see what I can find out, maybe talk to this guy, if he’s around. In the meantime, you see if you can figure out who he is. If you do, call me.”

  “Perfect.”

  Cal rattled off the address, and I wrote it down.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said, “as soon as I find out anything.”

  Cal thanked me, and then he was gone.

  Willie was at work, so I wrote her a note, then grabbed my Glock and my keys, and left. The address Cal had given me was in the Ruby Hill neighborhood, less than five miles south of downtown. It was after four, and traffic was building as I headed down Santa Fe Drive. I soon took a left on Florida Avenue, and finally turned down a quiet street. Halfway down the block was a tiny ranch-style home with worn white paint, a carport, and a rickety front porch.

  I drove on down the block, then parked and studied the house. I couldn’t see any movement through a large window to the right of the front door. As I watched, the occasional car went up or down the street, but no one seemed to notice me. I was wondering how I could figure out who lived in the house when a boy about eleven or twelve years old rode by on a bike. He pedaled to the end of the block, turned around, and headed back toward me. I rolled down my window and when he passed, I waved him over.

  “Hey,” I said. “Who lives there?” I pointed at the white house.

  The kid stared at me for a second, then glanced over his shoulder at the house. “Patrick.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Fitzgerald.”

  The kid didn’t have a problem sharing the information, but something in his tone made me scrutinize him more closely.

  “You don’t like Patrick?” I asked.

  The kid shrugged as he wiped his nose with his hand. “He’s kind of a weird dude.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I dunno. He’s kind of a geek.”

  Even at that age, everyone was labeled.

  “Is he home from work yet?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know if he has a job. He kinda comes and goes at weird times.”

  “Have you been riding your bike since you came home from school?” I asked.

  He nodded, and seemed to know what I was after. “Patrick came home a little while ago, if you want to talk to him.”

  “Thanks.”

  With that, the kid tore off down the street and around the corner. I watched Patrick Fitzgerald’s house for a while longer, wondering if he was the hacker after Cal. Then a tall man with curly brown hair came out the front door. He walked to a black Audi sports car that sat in the driveway, and I got a better look at him. He was muscular in his jeans, tight T-shirt, and light jacket. Not exactly a geek look.

  The Audi backed out of the driveway and headed north. I let him get to Florida, then followed. The Audi drove west to Federal Avenue and turned right. We drove to Alameda Avenue, went back east, then north again to a neighborhood of businesses and small warehouses. The Audi finally parked on Second Avenue. The man got out, walked through a parking lot, and went up some stairs into a small, unnamed bar located in a warehouse.

  I pulled to the curb, then sat in the 4-Runner and watched. A moment later, the man came out a side door onto an elevated deck and sat down at a table with a few other men. He ordered a drink, and the group began to talk.

  As I kept my eye on them, I reached behind my seat and pulled out a pair of binoculars I keep stored. I focused on the curly-haired man. He held up a red disc case, waved it around, then tucked it in his jacket pocket. One of the other men rubbed a hand over his flat face, then nodded slowly as they continued to converse.

  It appeared the group might be there for a while, so I got out of my car and headed down the sidewalk. Dusk was falling as I crossed the lot toward the bar entrance. As I neared the stairs, I glanced up at the deck. The curly-haired man and his cohorts were hunkered around the table, and I didn’t think any of them had seen me.

  Instead of going inside, I walked quietly toward the deck area and leaned against the wall below the deck. The deck was full of people, and I strained to hear. Then the sound of accented voices – Russian, if I had to guess – carried down to me. I stole a glance up. The voices were coming from the men sitting with my quarry. I heard snippets of conversation.

  “… can sell you…”

  I was pretty sure this was the curly-haired man, as the voice had no accent.

  “… give them to me…” This was an accented voice, deep and commanding.

  A rowdy group of twenty-somethings came out of the bar and drowned out the rest of the conversation. When I glanced up, the guy with the flat face was looking toward me. I didn’t want to arouse his suspicion, so I acted as if I’d just left the bar. I sauntered to the sidewalk and headed down the street. When I peeked over my shoulder, he was talking to the curly-haired man again. I hurried back to the 4-Runner, hopped in, and waited.

  A half-hour later, the curly-haired man left the bar, and I followed him home. He parked in the drive, went into his house, and didn’t come back out. I waited a while longer, then concluded he was in for the night. I started the car and drove toward Florida Avenue.

  It was dark by the time I arrived back at the bar. As I drove by, I looked at the deck. The flat-faced man and his pals were still sitting there. I parked in a different place, walked back to the bar, and sneaked along the wall underne
ath the deck. The men were mostly talking in a foreign language and accented English. I listened for a minute. I couldn’t hear the entire conversation, but the snippets I heard were chilling.

  “…get the disc from …”

  “…not paying him …”

  “… ditch … bullet in the head.”

  I didn’t want to arouse their attention, so I hurried to the end of the building. When I looked back, they hadn’t noticed me. I pulled out my phone, zoomed in, and took a few pictures of them. The light wasn’t great, but it would have to do. Then I sneaked back to the 4-Runner, hopped inside, and called Cal.

  “Your man might be named Patrick Fitzgerald,” I said when he answered. I told him what I’d seen and heard. “He’s connected to some pretty unsavory characters.”

  “How old you think Fitzgerald is?” Cal asked.

  “Mid-twenties?”

  “Huh. The guy who owns the place – Richard Gannon – is in his seventies.”

  “That’s not this guy. And who’s Brian Wilson, the man on the Xcel bill?”

  “A roommate? Hang on a second.”

  The sound of his fingers hitting the keyboard came through the phone. Cal was searching for something, and I knew it wouldn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. I’d no sooner thought that, than he spoke up.

  “Okay, I’ve got it. Patrick Fitzgerald has a cell phone bill for that address. You’d think he’d cover his tracks better than that. Maybe he uses a fake name – Brian Wilson – for the electric bill, but he should be doing that across the board. What an amateur.” More sounds of typing. “He’s twenty-eight years old, and he went to the University of Colorado, but he dropped out. Looks like he’s unemployed right now.”

  “Not bad,” I said as I watched the men at the bar order more drinks.

  “With a little time, I’ll know all about him.”

  “Dig up everything you can on him, and I’ll go over there tomorrow and talk to him.”

  “Before you do, I want you to install something on his computer.”