False Gods
A Rafferty P.I. Mystery
W. Glenn Duncan Jr.
Contents
Free Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Wright & Wrong | Chapter 1
Wright & Wrong | Chapter 2
Coming Soon
Free Book
Did you enjoy this book?
The Rafferty P.I. series
Acknowledgments
About the Author
GET YOUR FREE BOOK
For a limited time, score a FREE ebook of Rafferty’s Rules, the book that started it all.
* * *
You’ll also get all the scoop on the release of new books, special promotions and other behind-the-scenes stuff on Rafferty and the men who brought him to life.
* * *
Click here to get started:
RaffertyPI.com/RR
There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships.
The only choice we get is what to worship.
—David Foster Wallace, This is Water.
Chapter 1
“You’re my last hope, Mr Rafferty.”
Kathy-Lee Troupe sat straight-backed and tired-looking in my office and glanced around like she was afraid she might catch something.
I sighed. Did she really say that?
“I’ve tried everything,” she said. “I’ve spoken to her friends and no-one knows anything. The police listened but they can’t help me. Not without evidence, they say.” She twisted her wedding ring around. She’d been going at it hard since she sat down and I was starting to feel sorry for that ring finger.
I wasn’t sure what bothered me more: how weak her case was, or that I was already thinking of taking it on. But, if I had learned anything from the Akister case it was that I needed to make an adjustment to one of my rules.
Rafferty’s Rule Seventeen: Never take a client at face value. (Amendment B): Or a case.
My concerns didn’t seem to bother the woman sitting in front of me, because she gave that ring another twist and continued.
“I’ve prayed on it Mr Rafferty, and I know that God wants her to come home. He sent me to you.”
It was time for me to venture into the conversation.
“Okay.”
“And when you find my daughter, the Glory will be His.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at me. “You will find her won’t you, Mr Rafferty?”
I leaned forward, forearms on the desk and gave her my best disarming smile. Her eyes tightened and she pressed her lips together, so I might not have nailed it.
“Mrs Troupe, I’m good at what I do. I can find your daughter.”
“Thank you, Mr Rafferty. I knew I was …”
I held up a hand and let her wind down.
“However,” I said, “when I find Kimberly, I can only do my best to convince her to come home. I’m not in the business of relocating young women against their will.”
The silver crucifix around her neck twitched.
“Heavens no! God has told me that wherever Kimberly is, she’s scared and wants to come home. There won’t be any problems.”
I wished I was as confident. I’ve had too many people over the years tell me their case would be “no problems”. “Simple”, “easy” and “quick” were also regularly mentioned. No prizes for guessing how many of them turned out as advertised.
Still, Mrs Jorgensen, my landlady, didn’t care whether my cases were problematic, as long as I paid the rent. Which led me to …
“Okay. Now, Mrs Trou—”
“Please, call me Kathy-Lee.”
I resisted the urge to have her address me as Regis.
“My rate is two hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses, and I don’t see this taking more than three or four days. You say she left you a letter.”
“Oh, to think that Kimberly will be home in three days.” She clasped her hands in front of her bony chest and looked to the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord.”
I thought for a second about getting a rate schedule typed up. You know, on a letterhead—Rafferty Investigations or some such horseshit—to make sure there was no confusion about who was doing the work here. Or who would be getting paid.
I waited.
The thought passed.
“Kathy-Lee,” I said. “The letter.”
“Oh, yes.” She reached inside a practical, black purse, retrieved a folded piece of paper, and passed it across the desk.
Unfolded, it was more a note than a letter. Written in purple pen with flowing, loopy letters. The I’s were finished with little heart symbols and the whole thing ran to only half a page.
Mom,
I can’t stay here. I love Brian and he loves me, no matter what you and Daddy think. I know you say that we’re only kids but I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young and in love.
I can’t put up with Daddy running Brian down all the time and you telling me to stay away from him because God has big plans for me.
What if Brian is part of those plans?
I love you and Daddy, but I’m not going to waste my life waiting.
I’ll write when I can.
Love, Kimberly
Shit.
This girl’s not missing, she’s getting on with her life. And Mom can’t handle it. That’s not a case, that’s a Census description of half the population. Or more.
“Kathy-Lee …”
She took a break from her ring-twisting and looked up with shining eyes.
“Were there problems between Kimberly and you or your husband?” I said. “I don’t want to find out you’ve been locking her in basements or waling on her with coat-hangers. If that’s what this is, I’ll make sure you never find her again.”
“What kind of people do you think we are, Mr Rafferty?” To her credit, and this would make all the difference later, Kathy-Lee didn’t storm out at that point. She sat up straighter and fixed me with a maternal glare that could’ve melted steel.
“We are ordinary hard-working, God-fearing folk, Mr Rafferty. Kimberly is our daughter and we love her to pieces. She’s been an A-grade student through high school, active within the Church, leading Youth Groups and such. Wayne—that’s my husband—and I may have misgivings about her boyfriend, Brian, but the things we said were only ever for her benefit. God has big plans for her and we didn’t want to see Kimberly give all that up over a boy.”
I made a mental note to ask about these big plans and how Kathy-Lee came to be in the know. For the moment though, I needed to start wrapping things up to have any chance of getting out of the office before dark.
“O
ne last question. What is it that bothers you and your husband about Brian? Does he mistreat Kimberly? Is he violent?”
“My goodness!” she said. “Your mind lives in dark places, Mr Rafferty. Nothing like that. Brian was valedictorian of their high school and lettered in baseball. And he treats Kimberly well. He’s a real gentleman.”
I sighed again and was glad for about the twentieth time this week that I’d started smoking again. I reached for my pipe.
“Except …”
Hold that thought.
“Yeah?”
“Well, the family are Evangelical Christians. Vineyard Christians at that.” Her lips tightened again and she looked like she might be sick.
“I assume you mean that’s their church,” I said. “That’s a problem because …”
She shook her head and took her turn to sigh. I was obviously in one of the rear cars on this train of thought.
“We’re Episcopalian. So, I’m sure you can see why it will never work out for Kimberly and Brian.”
Chapter 2
“I swear Hil, I’m considering giving up the game.”
Hilda Gardner’s voice crackled down the line.
“Tough day, big guy?”
“It used to be easy.” I puffed blue smoke to the ceiling. “This guy’s bad because he killed his wife or the guy sleeping with his wife, or whatever. Simple.
“But now, I’m being asked by Mom to find her adult daughter because she can’t handle that the girl has run off with her boyfriend who, wait for it, believes in a different version of their god story.”
I puffed.
“I might as well go out and start blowing away Dukakis voters or people who answer wrong on the Pepsi Challenge.”
“Any thoughts on what you’d do if you stopped being a professional thug? Customer relations, maybe?”
I imagined Hilda’s dark eyes dancing with her voice. It almost broke my heart to have to imagine it.
“You jest, but that’s not such a bad idea; I could move more antiques for you than Ramon. I bet my blackjack can be more persuasive than his spit curls and purple shirts.”
“Hmm. Tempting. What’s the bet?”
“If you win, you can use my handcuffs and have your way with me for the whole weekend.”
“And if you win?”
“Same thing.”
Hilda’s laugh, even filtered by Ma Bell, balanced the world and not for the first time I counted myself the luckiest guy alive.
“How goes the oil-ionaire’s estate?” I asked.
“There’s a bunch of other dealers trying to get their hands on it, including a Jewish father and son who’ve flown in from New York, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to beat me in my own backyard.”
“Atta girl.”
“I hope to wrap up the deal tomorrow morning and then I want to spend the afternoon organizing transport. Bottom line, I should be back in town Friday mid-afternoon, ready for a weekend with you, Ugly.”
Houston always seemed so far away.
“Are you taking the case?” Hilda asked, jerking me away from a few nice thoughts about the upcoming weekend.
“Yeah, I am. I know how Patty Akister’s life would have turned out if I hadn’t listened when she asked me to find Sherm …” I shrugged. Stupid thing to do during a phone conversation but what the hell. “I’ll see what I can dig up. On the other hand, maybe this’ll be the first case that turns out to be just what it looks like.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Handcuffs or not.”
I laughed. “No bet.”
A yawn oozed down the line.
“Hey big guy, I’m going to bed. Early morning wheeling and dealing tomorrow. But, I miss you.”
“You too, hon.”
“I love you, Rafferty.”
“You too.”
The next morning, after a second cup of coffee and throwing the mail into the wastebasket unopened—who said office administration needed to be time consuming—I dropped in at Dallas PD to see Ed Durkee and get his side of Kathy-Lee Troupe’s story.
“Hell, Rafferty,” Ed growled over the cityscape of files on his desk. No surprises, the lieutenant was wearing a brown suit, just like every other day. Ed must have owned the biggest collection of brown suits in the Southwest, each one rumpled and ill-tailored for his bear-like frame.
“Do you have any idea what our workload would be if we chased every instance of Mom being unhappy with junior taking off from the family home? This is Texas, for chrissake; Moms are supposed to hate their daughter’s boyfriends. Besides, I’ve barely got enough manpower to get through …” Ed waved his hands and jowls at the remainder of the office, where every horizontal surface was covered with files.
“I get it, Ed.” I puffed and tamped my pipe. “Mom’s sob story sounds the same to me. I want to see if she said anything different to you guys. Covering all bases, just like they recommended in the latest issue of Private Investigator Monthly.”
“Rafferty, I don’t have …. Oh hell, you’re not gonna leave me alone, are you? Don’t answer that.” He stabbed a finger at me, then at his phone.
“Get in here. I need you to talk to Rafferty so he can leave me alone and I can get some real work done.”
“What is there to tell, Rafferty?” Sergeant Ricco said. “I talked with the mother for ten minutes. Maybe less. No case, nothing.”
I looked up at him. “I like the trilby, Ricco,” I said. “A lot of people said you couldn’t pull it off, but you sure showed them.”
Ricco peered out from under the felt brim and picked at the blade-straight crease in his pants, making sure they fell perfectly over his wingtips. He was a good cop, despite dressing like he’d arrived at Police Headquarters by mistake on his way to a community production of Guys and Dolls.
“Har har. I don’t know how it is I stop myself from laughing.” Ricco stirred a toothpick between his thin lips and glared. “You want me to tell you what I know or not?”
I tilted my head and smoked. Kept quiet. Hilda might be right about using that more often as a strategy.
“The mother came in begging for us to find her missing daughter …” He checked a black notebook. “Uh, Kimberly. She’d been gone for a couple of months and Mom was getting worried. That’s a long time to wait before coming to see the police and I told her this. Mom said she had checked with the daughter’s friends but nothing. I wait. Then she starts telling me the truth. Turns out this Kimberly is eighteen and left a letter saying that she was going away.” Ricco flipped the notebook closed and shrugged. “I told her there is nothing we can do. The girl’s an adult and she’s run off with her boyfriend. Simple.”
“Did she say ‘god had told her’ that Kimberly wants to come home?”
“Yeah.” Ricco gave a wolfish grin. “I said that the Almighty makes an unreliable witness, so we would be needing more than that, most likely.”
Ed put his head in his hands.
I laughed.
Ricco continued. “I think she was praying for me when she left. Or cursing me to hell. She was talking quiet. I could not tell for sure.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it. You gonna take the Mom’s money on this one?”
I nodded. “I expect I’ll find Kimberly shacked up with her boyfriend and playing happy families. What happens then …” I shrugged.
“Poor Rafferty,” Ricco said to Ed. “So hard up for work, he is taking missing person’s cases for persons who aren’t missing. He might actually solve this one.”
“At least,” Ed said, “he won’t be getting in our way. And we won’t have to run around cleaning up after him. I might even be able to look forward to a weekend off.”
Ricco snorted and the corners of Ed’s mouth rose above horizontal which, for Ed, represented unbridled mirth.
I packed my pipe away and stood up.
“In the spirit of ongoing co-operation with the Dallas Police Department and in my never-ending search for personal betterment
, I will ignore your juvenile attempts for humor at my expense and continue undaunted upon my quest to do good in this dark and bitter world.”
“Uh huh,” Ed said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. Ricco’s mouth twitched.
I even closed his office door gently to show there were no hard feelings. The frosted glass pane didn’t stop the whoop of laughter as I did so.
Columbo never had to put up with shit like that.
Chapter 3
The Mustang and I stuttered through the city haze on the way to the Troupe house. Kathy-Lee had insisted that all had been quiet on the home front. I wanted to see for myself.
Cynical, Hilda called it.
I preferred to think of it as “thorough”.
Morning peak hour had come and gone, and I made it out of the city fast. That was good; the Mustang had been running hot over the past few weeks and I didn’t need to be stuck in traffic with the windows down, sweaty shirt plastered to my back, and the heater running full blast.
For this day though, the drive to Irving was heater-free and it wasn’t long before I pulled up next to a low-slung wooden bungalow not far off West Rochelle.
False Gods Page 1
