Reed Ferguson Short Stories

by Renee Pawlish

  “You’re sure they’ll help?”

  “Are you kidding? They had fun last night, and they’re all over anything that doesn’t involve a stakeout.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  He thanked me and ended the call. Then I went downstairs to talk to the Goofballs.

  Chapter Five

  Just before midnight, I was standing under a big maple tree near the pavilion and reflecting pool at Cheesman Park. The moon gave off tepid, half-full light, leaving shadows all around. The marble pavilion was a shimmering silver hulk in the darkness. A chilly breeze whistled through tree branches, leaving me with an eerie feeling.

  I glanced over my shoulder. On the street near Ninth Avenue, Cal’s beat-up Honda Civic was parked facing me. I peered into the darkness ahead of me. The Goofballs were in place, but I couldn’t see them. I had on my Navy Seal attire again, but this time with a black baseball cap to hide my face. I had the mic in my ear as well, and I tested it.

  “Can you hear me?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Roger that,” Cal said, still official.

  We were ready, now all we had to do was wait.

  Time crept by as I listen to the far-off sounds of traffic noise on Eighth Avenue. Cal’s voice suddenly startled me.

  “You think he’ll show?”

  I put my hand on the earpiece and adjusted it, then murmured, “Sit tight.”

  But I had to admit, I was wondering if my plan was going to fail before it started. I shifted from foot to foot and waited. Time crept by. Then I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. A dark figure was crossing the park toward me. I adjusted the brow of my dark hat, pulling it down low.

  The figure crossed Ninth Avenue several feet from Cal’s car, then made his way toward the pavilion. When he reached an open grassy area, I stepped away from the tree. He didn’t notice me at first, but when he did, he visibly jumped and swore.

  “You’re a lousy criminal,” I said in a low voice.

  The man approached, a sneer on his face. It was Fitzgerald. I let him get a little closer, then pulled out my Glock and aimed at him. The sneer turned into wide-eyed surprise. He slowly held up his hands.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  He cursed again. “You got a lot of nerve. First you steal from me, then you point a gun at me.”

  I smiled at him. “I’m the least of your problems. Those guys you’ve been dealing with? You think they were going to pay you for that disc of credit card information?” I shook my head. “They were going to get it from you, then leave you in a ditch with a bullet in your head.”

  His face went white. “How do you know that?”

  “I know a lot about you and your plans. You’re nothing but an amateur. A great hacker wouldn’t show up to a meeting like that. You’re lucky you’re dealing with me and not them.”

  “Oh yeah?” He was trying for tough but it wasn’t working.

  “This is how it’s going to go,” I said in a low, menacing voice. “You don’t threaten me or try to blackmail me anymore. And the disc? I keep it.”

  “No way!” He started toward me, and I raised the gun. He stopped. “How do I know that’s a real gun?”

  “You really want to test me?” Then I raised my left hand and made a motion. Two tiny red beams suddenly hit Fitzgerald in the chest. “I came with a backup. At any moment, you could be shot, either here or at some other time.”

  He stared at the red spots on his chest, and his gulp was audible.

  “Is the disc the only copy of the credit cards?” I asked.

  He nodded. I took a step toward him.

  “If I find out you’re lying…” I left the sentence unfinished.

  “I’m not. “That’s the only copy!”” He was almost whining.

  I studied him for a moment and believed him. He seemed too terrified to lie.

  “Don’t mess with me again,” I said.

  “What are you going to do with the disc?”

  “That’s my business. Now get out of here.”

  He spun around and started across the grass. I clapped my hands together, the sound loud in the darkness. Fitzgerald started running to Ninth Avenue.

  I waited until I couldn’t see him anymore, then murmured, “Is he gone?”

  “Yes.” I knew Cal was watching Fitzgerald with binoculars. “He’s headed east toward Race Street. I saw him pass under a streetlight.”

  I put my Glock in my pocket and whistled softly. The Goofballs emerged from behind some trees to my right.

  “Did it work?” Ace asked as he held up a small penlight.

  “That was pretty cool to let him think we had high-powered weapons,” Deuce said.

  I nodded. “It worked like a charm. I almost felt sorry for the guy, he was so scared.”

  “As long as he leaves me alone,” Cal said in my ear.

  “He will. Besides, I’ll be talking to Spillman tomorrow. Fitzgerald will be so busy running from the police, he won’t have time for you.”

  “How about some pool?” Ace suggested.

  “B 52s is closed,” Deuce said.

  “I’ll treat everybody to burgers and pool tomorrow night,” I said. I glanced at some headlights at the other end of the park. “I think we’d better head home now, before we attract any attention.”

  The Goofballs agreed, and they ran toward Deuce’s truck, parked a little farther down from Cal’s. I waved at them, then got in Cal’s car, and he drove me home.

  Chapter Six

  “What’s this?” Denver homicide detective Sarah Spillman stared at me, her coffee-colored eyes swirling with curiosity.

  “It’s a disc,” I said, stating the obvious.

  Spillman picked up the disc and examined it.

  “I know I shouldn't be telling a homicide detective about this, since there hasn’t been a murder, at least not that I know of,” I said. “And I wanted to talk to my favorite detective.”

  She ignored that, then set the disc down and crossed her arms. “I’m sure there’s a story behind this.” She waved a hand around, encompassing the Rooster & Moon, a hip coffee joint near her precinct. “You didn’t ask to meet here just to buy me coffee.” She held up her mug. “Although I’m grateful.”

  I sipped some of my latte, then pointed at the disc. “There’s stolen credit card information on that disc.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “From the local clothing store hack?”

  “I think so. And here’s a picture of the guys I think were trying to buy the information.” I pushed a photo across the table. “It’s not very good. I took it at night.”

  She studied the photo. “I might know this flat-faced guy. I hope you’re not hanging around him.”

  “Nope.”

  She gestured at the disc. “How’d you get it?”

  “I can’t tell you, but I don’t think anyone’s going to use those numbers.”

  “Do I want to ask how you were involved?”

  I didn’t say anything to that.

  She sighed. “I also know better than to push you to explain yourself.”

  “It’s resolved.”

  “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

  I looked her askance. She held up a hand.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  “You want to talk to a man named Patrick Fitzgerald.” I told her where he lived. “I don’t know if he’s still there or not.” She pulled out a small notepad and wrote it down, along with the address. “He stole the credit card information and was trying to sell the disc to some foreign guys, possibly Russians.”

  She thought for a moment. “I’ll pass this along to the appropriate people. They can talk to Fitzgerald and see where it leads. They won’t be able to do much to those without any proof they were involved in the credit card theft, but they can put some pressure on them, rattle their cages a bit. Anything else?”

  I shook my head. No way I was telling her about Cal, or
our visit with Fitzgerald last night.

  She stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Sure thing. Let me know what happens with Fitzgerald.”

  “Will do.”

  I watched her walk to her ’65 Ford Mustang, get in, and drive away. Then I finished my coffee and left.

  True to her word, Spillman called the next day.

  “Fitzgerald’s not around.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” I said.

  “But they’ll be after him.”

  “He’s not the smartest hacker around, so I’ll bet they catch him.” Or we scared him enough that he won’t try anything illegal again, I thought.

  “Let’s hope so. Take care, Ferguson.”

  “You, too,” I said, but she’d already hung up.

  “Who was that?” Willie asked as she came into the room. Humphrey raced up behind her. “Come here.” She picked him up and he meowed. “Oh, you’re just fine.”

  “Spillman.” I told her about the conversation.

  “It’s too bad Fitzgerald got away from the police, but is he leaving Cal alone?”

  “So far.”

  “That’s good.” She sat down on the couch. “You want to watch that movie? What’s it called?”

  “The Big Steal.”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I turned on the TV, and as I got the DVD out of its case, the news was about the local credit card theft, and how the police were after the hacker involved, but that the credit cards hadn’t been compromised.

  “Here we go,” I said as I put the disc into the DVD player.

  I started the movie and settled in next to Willie. Humphrey bounded up and curled up in her lap. As we watched Robert Mitchum, I couldn’t help thinking about Cal. He was a little like Mitchum’s character, innocent of a crime, but with someone after him, and he’d had to act to save himself.

  Hmm. Cal like Robert Mitchum? That’s like saying I’m like Bogie.

  Nah.

  THE END

  Turn the page to keep reading the second Reed Ferguson short story, The Wrong Woman.

  The Wrong Woman

  A Reed Ferguson Mystery Series Short Story

  Chapter One

  “Reed, I need a miracle.”

  “’Tis the season,” I said, trying for jovial.

  That elicited nothing but a frown from Natalie Bowman. She’s one of the bartenders at B 52s, one of my favorite hangouts. It was a chilly Monday night in mid-December, and the bar, a converted warehouse decorated with old plane propellers and advertisements from a bygone era, now also had a Christmas flair, with lights and garland strewn all around. The usual piped-in 80s music was interspersed with a lot of Christmas tunes. I should’ve felt festive, but Nat’s serious expression was immediately sobering.

  Nat – a tall, no-nonsense African-American woman – shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m about to get kicked out of school.”

  Nat is a pre-med student, and she works incredibly hard, both at her schooling and at the bar. I frowned. It sounded as if her dream of being a doctor might suddenly be dashed.

  “But why would the University kick you out?”

  This was from Ace Smith. He and his brother, Deuce, were with me. They are my downstairs neighbors and two of my closest friends. They were given their unusual names by their father, who is an avid poker fan. I affectionately call them the Goofball Brothers because they don’t always operate on all cylinders. But they are fun-loving and loyal, and I am grateful to have them in my life.

  “The University thinks I stole some test answers,” Nat said. “But I didn’t do it.”

  “How do you steal an answer?” Deuce asked, his brow furrowed in bemusement.

  “You know,” Ace said to him. “Cheating.”

  “Oh.” Deuce stretched out the word. “I get it.”

  Nat and I exchanged a glance. You had to love the Goofballs.

  “Hey, Reed,” Deuce said. “You’re a detective. Can you help Nat?”

  “I can try.” I took a sip of Fat Tire, my favorite beer, then set the bottle down and looked at Nat. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She held up a hand. “Hold on.” She went to the end of the bar, served a few beers to a group of women who were laughing loudly, then talked briefly to another bartender, a big white guy with a chest the size of a keg. He nodded and she came back.

  “Aaron will cover for me,” she said, then leaned in to be heard over the music. Ace, Deuce, and I all listened carefully. “We just took our finals, and I’ve been getting ready for that, studying my tail off. And I did well on an exam in one of my premed classes. Then the other day, I get called into the Dean’s office. Apparently they caught a guy named Greg Sutton, who’s been selling test answers for that class. He’s a student at CU.” Nat attends the University of Colorado’s Denver campus, just west of downtown. “My name came up as someone who bought answers from him.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. I’d known Nat for a long time, and I didn’t believe she was a cheater.

  She sighed heavily. “Greg lives in an apartment complex near Logan Street. It’s close to the CU campus, and convenient. I dropped by on Saturday night to visit a friend of mine, Carol, who’s also a student at CU, but she wasn’t home, and I left. But another student – a man – reportedly saw me outside the building talking to Greg, and someone said they heard us arguing about the test answers. But it’s not true. I didn’t run into anyone at all.” She banged the bar top and Ace and Deuce jumped. “The problem is I have no way to prove it wasn’t me. No one saw me there, period.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?” Ace asked.

  I glanced at him. He and Deuce fancied themselves detectives, as long as the task didn’t involve something boring like surveillance. Deuce also wanted to carry a gun, but I wasn’t comfortable with that at all. But they helped me on occasion, like now.

  “The Dean won’t tell me.” Nat crossed her arms. “But whoever it is, he’s mistaken. If he saw someone with Greg that night – or any night – it wasn’t me.”

  Now the Goofballs sat back and let Nat and me talk.

  “What time were you there?”

  “Around five, and since Carol wasn’t there, I left.”

  “Why would someone lie?” I mused to her.

  “Beats me,” she said.

  “Do you know Greg?”

  She shook her head. “Just in passing. I’ve never talked to him at class or anything like that.”

  “What did the Dean share with you?” I asked.

  “Just what little I told you. Whoever saw me – or who they think was me – described my long overcoat and the pom-pom beanie I wear, but lots of women own long overcoats and beanie hats. It could’ve been anybody.”

  I rubbed my chin. “That’s circumstantial evidence.”

  “Yeah,” Nat said, “but the University doesn’t seem to care. Someone named me, and that’s that.”

  “Who ratted on you?” This from Deuce.

  “I don’t know,” Nat said.

  “No one else saw you visit your friend’s apartment?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” Desperation entered her tone. “I think someone else bought test answers from Greg, and then is trying to frame me so they don’t get caught. If I can’t figure out who, and fast, the University will expel me.”

  “Expel?” Deuce again looked puzzled.

  “Kick her out,” Ace said knowingly.

  Deuce nodded. “That’s terrible.”

  “It is,” Nat replied. She stared at me with pleading eyes. “Can you put your investigative skills to work to see what’s going on? I don’t know why anyone would do this to me. I don’t have much money, but–”

  I held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll look into it. And you don’t need to pay me.”

  I had never been a starving student, but I’d known a number of them in college. There was no way I’d add to Nat’s financial
burdens by charging her. But would I have any luck finding out what was going on?

  I took another sip of my beer. “I’ll go over to that apartment building tomorrow and start asking some questions. We’ll see where it leads.”

  She looked relieved. “Thank you so much.”

  Nat went to help Aaron, and I sat for a minute and mulled over what she’d told me. She was under a lot of pressure. Would she have resorted to stealing test answers, or was this truly a case of mistaken identity?

  I’d find out soon enough.

  Chapter Two

  Ace, Deuce, and I stayed for a while longer and then we headed home. I said goodbye to the Goofballs on the front porch of our building, then trudged upstairs. When I let myself in, the condo was dark and quiet. I was tiptoeing toward the bedroom when my foot hit something small and soft. A high-pitched yowl split the silence. Then something pounded toward the bedroom, where a light came on.

  “Reed, is that you?” a tired voice asked.

  I stepped into the bedroom, where my wife Willie – real name Wilhelmina – was sitting up in bed. She was cuddling a small black kitten.

  “You scared Humphrey to death,” she scolded me as she petted him.

  Humphrey, named after my cinematic hero Humphrey Bogart, had recently come into our lives. I pretended I wasn’t too fond of the little guy, but he had won over my heart. And I loved telling my mother – who desperately wanted grandchildren – that Humphrey would do.

  “I couldn’t see Humphrey in the dark,” I said as I came over to the bed and scratched the kitten behind his ears. Then I gave Willie a kiss.

  “How was playing pool?” She asked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you. I was just too tired after work.”

  Willie works as an ER admissions nurse at nearby St. Joe’s Hospital. Her schedule can sometimes be erratic, and so is mine, so we squeeze in time together when we can. Unfortunately, tonight hadn’t been one of the times when we could.