What Lies Beneath: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 10)

by Scott Cook

  What Lies Beneath

  Scott Jarvis Private Investigator - Book 10

  Scott W. Cook

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Drawn from the case files of the world’s most luscious detective

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  From the exciting adventures of lil’ Lisa, America’s cutest action hero

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Scraped from the adventures of the world’s baddest-assed chica

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Lovingly compiled from the adventures of la chica bonita detectiva

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Compiled from the chronicles of a true warrior princess Amazon battle goddess

  Chapter 16

  Book Two

  Uncovering the hidden layers

  Chapter 17

  Eastern coast of Florida – 0400 Zulu

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  From the secret doins’ of Lisa the Fabulous

  Chapter 20

  From the scintillating goings on of Gonzalez, P.I

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Pulled from the remembrances of La Chica Fantastica

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Twice the chicks, three times the excitement and 400% more awesomeness

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Twice the chicks, three times the excitement and 400% more awesomeness

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  4 boobs, 2 guns and a Mercedes

  Chapter 32

  Book Three

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Gently coaxed from the X-chromosome files

  Chapter 37

  Gently coaxed from the X-chromosome files

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  From the musings of Scott’s better half… way better!

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  The last of the hotness

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  What Lies Beneath

  Copyright © 2021 by Scott W. Cook

  All rights reserved.

  Book formatting and cover designed by Ardent Artist Books

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  The average temperature in the greater Orlando area had rarely risen above sixty since Christmas. Three weeks into January, we’d had two frosts that caused the citrus growers no end of consternation. The Covid situation continued to ebb and flow, with the usual conflicting reports and arguments about what should stay open and what shouldn’t, and about the potential efficacy of a new vaccine… should it ever be released.

  A new president had been elected as well, so of course that had divided the country as it always seemed to these days. As is usually the case, everything bad that happened is the last guy’s fault and anything good that happens is because of the new guy.

  In spite of all this silliness, life was marching ever onward. My restaurant… well, Lionel and Trish Argus’ restaurant, that I’d been made a junior partner in and that was themed somewhat after me… was doing quite well in spite of Corona. There was little that could stop the onslaught of snowbirds flocking into the Sunshine state and they were happy to spend money at a great location with awesome food, quality live music and a lovely view.

  Cases continued to flow in. Now that the word was spreading that I had a newly licensed private investigator who also happened to hold an MBA from UCF on my staff, Lisa was getting a fair number of cases solely for herself. Since November and the situation with Don Ramon Tavares, which I was even then writing into a book, things had been fairly routine.

  At least until this particular day near the end of the third week in January. As with most cases that become what I like to call “book worthy” cluster fudges, this one started out mundane enough. On this day in late January the almost continuous four weeks of cold fronts that brought clear but windy days in the forties or gray and rainy days in the fifties had abated and left us with a gorgeous cloudless day whose late morning temperature had risen into the mid-seventies. Naturally it was a Wednesday. You can’t expect beautiful weather on a weekend, that’d just be crazy. So common and regular was this oddity that I sometimes got close to taking it personally.

  Late that Monday afternoon, a friend of ours and sometimes client named Virginia Chandler stopped by my office. Both Lisa and I had separately done work for her the previous year and she’d become a personal friend, especially to Lisa. Virginia was the founder of Chandler Homes, a custom home builder based in Orlando. She was self-made and very successful.

  Well, it seemed that Virginia had purchased a large tract of semi-developed land out in Davenport. Davenport being a town just south of Disney and a popular area that was once again growing after the big real estate and stock market bust of 2008.

  This particular tract of land had originally been acquired by another builder back in 2006 and was partially prepared for new home construction when the financial bottom fell out and the company had gone under. The point was that Virginia now owned this land and had plans for a new community featuring some three hundred homes, community amenities and incorporating some unique green technologies that she’d partially helped to develop along with EcoLife no less.

  The problem, it seemed, was that she’d commissioned an extensive environmental survey. This survey, along with detailed and proprietary plans for the development had been stolen by one of her vice presidents, Ted Blake. She feared that the information was going to be sold or given to one of her competitors who could use the material to thwart or delay her in some way that I didn’t quite understand.

  My job was to stalk this fellow and find what he’d taken and provide proof that he had indeed stolen it and that he was indeed providing it to a competitor in exchange for money, a job or whatever. This would then provide Virginia with legal recourse to go after said competitor and grind their treacherous bones beneath her heel. I was only too glad to assist, both because Virginia always paid her bills and because I despise a thief.

  It was for this reason, then, that on that lovely Wednesday late morning, Morgan and I were sitting in the front seat of my Jeep Rubicon at J. Blanchard Park. It was just before noon and we were sharing a variety of goodies I’d purchased from Pollo Tropical. I’d also brought along a couple of slices of Lisa’s homemade banana bread as a surprise for my four-legged buddy. While Lisa wasn’t much of a cook, as she’ll readily admit, she’s quite a hand at baking. Unlike myself, who’s culinary talents lie less in that direction.

  “Now, big guy,” I teased, watching him devour a plate of yellow rice, boneless chicken breast and Caribbean steak as if he’d never seen food before. Morgan was my three-year-old un modified Doberman. Un-modified in that I hadn’t hack
ed off his tail or carved up his ears into that triangular shape most Dobey’s had. “If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding! How can you have your pudding if you don’t eat your… oh, you ate your meat… well, okay then.”

  In truth, I wasn’t overly worried that Morgan wouldn’t eat his meat. I don’t think I’d ever seen him turn down meat… most vegetables… snacks… much of anything, really.

  The reason that my trusty furry friend and I were having lunch at the Park, aside from the fact that it was a beautiful January day in Florida, was that we were also scoping the target of the last day’s investigation. I’d quickly identified where he lived, his habits and had been tailing him for the entire previous day as well as this particular morning. This was made all the easier thanks to some high-end technology that I’d… borrowed… from ICE, the International Counter-criminal Enforcement agency of which I was now an active member. My association with this group along with my fairly new rank as a Navy Lieutenant Commander gave me access to a variety of resources to which a regular civilian wouldn’t otherwise be privy.

  I had, therefore, planted a very small and very powerful listening device in my target’s vehicle. This device was voice activated and could not only record what it heard but also stream this audio data to a specific server location of my choosing to be reviewed any time I desired. This was done using the target’s own cellular service, unbeknownst to him. As if this weren’t ingenious, and okay insidious too, enough… the device took the form of what appeared to the casual observer as a cigarette plug. One simply inserted the device into the existing cigarette plug and it was so small and conformed so well to the actual plug it occupied that you wouldn’t notice the difference without a close inspection. The target could plug their phone charger in just as if the device weren’t there. This meant that my bug also had a continuous source of power for its remarkably tiny batteries.

  My direct actions and my monitoring of his conversations disclosed that our target was coming to the park today and meeting a lady for lunch. Although their conversation, at least while he was in his car, had been vague, it certainly seemed underhanded and sneaky to me. The man in question, a moderately dumpy guy in his early forties, was sitting at a picnic table close alongside the little Econlockhatchee River. He was dressed casually in khaki slacks and a light blue long-sleeved golf shirt. His polished dress shoes gleamed even in the shade. The term sore-thumb came to mind.

  “You see that, pal?” I asked my partner. “He’s just sitting there, as innocent as you please… never realizing that all the while he’s under the remorseless scrutiny of the Evil Doctor Jarvis!”

  Morgan sighed.

  “Okay… and the ruthless international assassin, Morganstein!” I corrected.

  He stared at me.

  “What…? Oh, sorry… Morgansteen, of course.”

  As Morgan and I ruthlessly devoured the moist and delicious nanner bread, we watched as a late model BMW drove along the road and parked not far from my target’s own Lexus SUV. Out of the vehicle stepped a well-dressed and attractive woman. She was of medium height, pretty in a modest sort of way and well-shaped. She had light brown hair cut into a bob.

  “I say, Pupson, I believe the game is afoot.”

  Morgan indicated that he too thought that we were about to witness evidence of Ted Blake’s misdeeds. Well, he didn’t say that, exactly, but that’s the gist of his feelings on the matter.

  The well-dressed businesswoman sauntered over to where the villainous Mr. Blake sat. Her stride was one born from the unbreakable confidence that only the most dastardly characters can command. She took a seat next to him. Rather closely, I thought.

  In order that I wouldn’t miss a single sinister moment, I grabbed my trusty Nikon underwater digital camera and snapped off a shot. I zoomed in and shot another.

  “Ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille…” I muttered.

  I also took a picture with my iPhone and sent that off as a text to my client. I wanted her to confirm that I had the right parties. It’s important to know into whose evil clutches you may possibly fall after all.

  That’s Patricia Graham. My counterpart, Virginia texted back.

  “Our net is closing, Pupson,” I stated.

  Morgan grinned and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation of the thwarting soon to occur. Well, he didn’t have hands, and even if he had, he was using his fore paws to hold himself erect to stare out of the windshield. He seemed to be grinning, though… mercilessly.

  As I watched, Patricia Graham malevolently handed Blake a white envelope. Blake smiled maliciously and stood. They exchanged a few words and then the lady leaned in and kissed him, thus proving that all of my previous adverbs were entirely justified.

  “Ooh!” I said gleefully, holding my Nikon and using the video function to film the entire scene. “Girl, you best not go messin’ around with dat man!”

  The two walked over and got in her car. I briefly wondered if this was going to go further but dismissed that idea. It was broad daylight after all. Even these clearly unsavory characters wouldn’t seek connubial bliss in the park at lunchtime.

  “I think we’re obliged to pursue our quarry, Pupson,” I commented, “I know that you detest rides… yet groan you may but go you must.”

  I started the Jeep and pulled out, being careful to keep a good distance between us and the clandestine pair. Morgan’s tail thumped on the seat as we drove. Normally I’d roll the passenger window down for him, but his head sticking out would probably draw attention to us.

  The Beamer turned right onto Rouse road and then left onto Colonial, where Mrs. Graham sped up considerably. She drove quite aggressively, even fiendishly one might say, weaving in and out of traffic and making my job a bit tougher.

  For a moment, I wondered if she’d made me, yet I doubted it. She was more likely to be just one of those impatient drivers who couldn’t bare living being stuck behind anyone less important with less important things on their schedule.

  We recklessly, and certainly wickedly, wove our way past Alafaya and the UCF and Waterford Lakes areas and even past Bithlo. Somewhere near the area of Christmas… yes, a real town in Florida just outside of Orlando… the BMW turned off of Colonial, now simply highway fifty and onto a gravel side road.

  “Curioser and curioser…” I said as I followed.

  Outside of Orlando, not far from the St. John’s River was a large watershed area set aside by Orange County. This area served two purposes. First, it was a natural water reclamation zone. Treated wastewater was pumped into the marshy wetland. This allowed the water to flow into the St. John’s after being naturally cleansed and filtered by the variety of plant and animal life that lived there. It wasn’t raw sewage by any means, but the post-treatment wastewater was nutrient rich and fed the ecosystem. The ecosystem then purified the water so that it could be safely re-introduced back into the environment.

  The county had turned part of the project, the part closer to the river, into a large park. There was a huge picnic and recreation area and miles of hiking trails. These trails were widely used by runners, nature enthusiasts and birders.

  “What the Christ…?” I muttered, “Are they going for a hike?”

  The BMW parked near the head of the trails and the two business and who knew what else partners got out. I parked on the other side of the lot, backing in so I could peep effectively. I once again withdrew my camera and set it to video.

  To my surprise, they started walking. The lady had exchanged her short heels for sandals. This was bizarre…

  “Come on, pal,” I said to my dog. “Let’s go for a nice walk and see what in the name of Great Caesar’s Ghost is up with these two.”

  I snapped on Morgan’s leash and we pitilessly sauntered onto the well-defined dirt path and followed after the couple at a discreet distance. Too discreet to listen but plenty close enough to observe any random evil deeds they might commit.

  The trail wasn’t one continuous l
oop but a series of crisscrossing paths that led around small frog ponds and a large lake. If you went just the right way and followed the signs, you could make a complete circuit without back tracking too much. It was actually a very pleasant place to go when you weren’t tailing a suspect.

  We stopped for a moment as Morgan rid himself of some extra water weight and then continued stalking our prey. They were about a hundred feet ahead and rounded a curve in the path that meandered between the shore of the lake, that portion bordered by ten-foot-high leafy bushes, and a thick hammock of cypress and eucalyptus trees. They disappeared from view, but I wasn’t worried. There weren’t many places they could go.

  It would take more than a casual stroll to evade the Evil Doctor Jarvis and Morganstein.

  When I rounded the corner, though, I saw that the path went nearly straight for a quarter mile along the shoreline of the lake… and there wasn’t a soul on it. I walked ahead for another ten yards or so and discovered another path leading off to the right that seemed to circle back around the stand of trees. They’d probably gone that way… but why?

  I had no doubt that it would be something unspeakably malicious.

  “Hold it right there, Jarvis.”

  Uh-oh. They’d made me. And the fact that the man who’d spoken knew my name wasn’t a good sign. Morgan began to growl.

  I turned slowly around and saw Blake step out from behind a tree where he’d done a good job of hiding himself. His face held a devilish smile and his right hand a small but lethal looking revolver. The barrel of the weapon gleamed in the afternoon sun.