Heat

by R. W. Clinger

  Other jobs included insurance fraud, arson, rape, domestic abuse, and theft. Not one job in the last three years, since the opening of my establishment, had I taken on a case that entailed ghost hunting, alien abduction, or spirit tracking. I enjoyed my work and career, believed Hurricane Bay one of the most exciting places in Florida to live, and wasn’t against seeing a pirate with an upright erection between his ghostly legs. Who was I to judge, right?

  I walked for a mile on Hurricane Bay Beach, turned around at Leader Gas, Oil, and Electric Station, and headed back to Bungalow Sixteen. Still wide awake, unable to sleep, insomnia caused cruelty in my small world.

  Chapter 9: Night Swim

  Hurricane Bay Beach

  Bungalow 16

  11:47 P.M.

  Back at the bungalow, I stripped down to my birthday suit and headed into the Gulf. Saltwater licked my skin. I glided into the Gulf with ease, felt seaweed brush against my ankles, legs, and swinging balls. A horrible fear of getting tangled up in the slimy shit surfaced in my mind, which caused me to wade closer to beach. Not once did I put my head under the water. I wasn’t really in the mood to portray a playful porpoise by enjoying water games, a scene that Casey usually enjoyed watching. Instead, I slowly waved my arms to and fro through the water, relished the strong current, and watched the night’s thick clouds block out the moon’s light. I relaxed in the feisty water, enjoying my time alone.

  Company arrived. Casey soon joined me. He appeared out of nowhere on the beach, a shadow in the moon’s silver-blue beams of soothing light. He looked like a ghost positioned in the sand. Thick darkness made it too difficult to see what he wore (nothing, I had hoped), the expression on his face, or other details. He stood motionless and quiet.

  “Casey, I thought you were sleeping!” I called out to him, smiling because he had made his way out for maybe a night’s swim with me.

  He didn’t answer me, which I thought peculiar, since the guy could talk a hearing-challenged person into boredom. Rather, he stood still on the beach, a mere shadow of gray and black in the distance, with his arms and hands at his sides.

  “Casey, are you coming in? I know the undertow is dangerous, but it’s never stopped you before. You like to swim at night, calling it sexy.”

  How many nights had he seduced me in the Gulf, worshiping my nakedness in the saltwater, calling himself Captain Blue Torteese, being bad with his fingers, mouth, and his erection? He admitted first that sex in the Gulf was one of his favorite pastimes, particularly with me.

  Nothing happened, though. My boyfriend stood immobile and silent on the sand, some twenty feet away from me. He looked featureless there, a blur of sorts in the darkness. Half of me believed he was sleepwalking, but he wasn’t. Casey didn’t have a history of walking around while he dreamed.

  “Casey, what’s wrong?”

  I was just about to wade through the Gulf’s wicked current and walk up and over the sandy beach to meet him when a yellow-gold light appeared in the distance, behind the figure on the beach, inside our bedroom. Then Casey’s thin silhouette moved from one side of our bedroom window to the other side, obviously up from his sleep.

  Every muscle in my body froze, and my heart stopped beating almost immediately. Fear ebbed into my nervous system and through my entire frame. The person on the beach wasn’t Casey.

  My attention quickly concentrated on the stranger positioned on the beach between me and the bungalow. Nervous trembles rocked my stomach, and goose pimples bloomed on my arms and legs. My head felt as if it were going to explode because of the drumming sound between both ears. I feared for my life, having no clue who the interloper on the beach could be.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Nothing. Silence.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I called out to the man, terror in my voice as it wavered. “What are you doing here?”

  The trespasser moved then, turning around. He sprinted over the sand, leaving the beach.

  It gave me enough time to call out, “Casey! Help me! Casey, someone’s on the beach!”

  When the interloper reached the corner of Bungalow Sixteen, opposite the bedroom, a burst of red-orange fire came to life in one of his hands, which then fell to the sand. Then the trespasser bolted away and vanished around the front of the bungalow, lost in the night, perhaps running toward downtown Hurricane Bay or elsewhere.

  Chapter 10: Fire’s Delight

  Bungalow 16

  11:59 P.M.

  “What’s going on out here?” Casey exited the bungalow in nothing more than a pair of white boxer-briefs.

  Naked, dripping wet, and already at the side of the abode, pushing sand over the small fire, I saw that the flames were immediately tamped. Following my beginning skills as a firefighter, I turned to Casey and told him exactly what had happened.

  In a state of disbelief, he dashed around the side of the house in search of the interloper who played firebug on our beach.

  Because I knew that the stranger had already vanished into the night, I immediately went into the bungalow, fetched a pair of rubber cooking gloves from the kitchen, and exited the abode. Very little to no light illuminated down from the overhead moon. On my knees, I uncovered sand from the item that was set ablaze, picked it up, and carried the charcoal mess into the bungalow.

  Casey met me at the kitchen counter a minute later, panicked and out of breath. Shoulder to shoulder, we analyzed the white sand and what looked to be charred paper on the counter.

  After closer inspection, without touching the evidence of the intruder, Casey said, “It looks like a few pages from a paperback novel.”

  I agreed. An italicized novel title, centered at the top of one of the six pages that had not been scorched, read Fire’s Delight. One did not have to be a bookworm to know that Fire’s Delight was one of Margo Pagino’s bestselling paperbacks. It had been made into a movie the previous year. Cynthia Bodeen, a lanky blonde with doe-like eyes, and Branch Jarr, an Oscar-winning cowboy with a rock hard jawline and plated chest, starred in it.

  “We saw that movie,” Casey said. “Branch was shirtless through most of it, and he gave me an erection.”

  Upset, I ignored his comment. “Call 911 and get Chief Darren Dawe here. Tell them to send Cane Bishop, too. We need an officer of the law to help us out.”

  * * * *

  Chief Dawe arrived less than ten minutes later, which allowed me enough time to get dressed. The man had three chins, gray hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. I knew that he was fifty-seven and would be retiring from Fire Chief in a few years. Until then, he was still doing his job, and well.

  He told me Officer Cane Bishop was busy with a domestic violence ordeal on the other side of Hurricane Bay, and that Cane wouldn’t be showing up at our bungalow anytime soon.

  Chief Dawe also said, “I’ll take the charred pages to Cane in a baggie and snap off a few pictures of the spot on the beach where your guest decided to burn them.”

  “There are footprints in the sand,” I told Dawe.

  He shook his head. “Don’t get all biblical on me, young man. And don’t tell me how to do this job.”

  I stepped away from him, let him have at the scene, and watched him process exactly what he had said he was going to process, without fail.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Dawe left with his baggie of burned pages, digital pictures of the footprints left behind from the stranger on the beach, and more pics of where the flaming paperback pages were dropped to the sand by the interloper.

  Casey locked up the bungalow, took me to bed, curled me against him, and said, “I’m not letting some crazy hurt you, Axle.”

  “Because you love me.”

  “I do love you. With all my heart and soul.”

  “That’s cliché,” I said.

  “Whatever it is, I love you.” He squeezed me tight to him and told me to close my eyes and go to sleep.

  * * * *

  I couldn’t sleep, though. Instead,
I lay in the queen-size bed with my eyes wide open and my mind racing. The past day had been a whirlwind of events. I reached for my tablet next to the bed, turned it on, and started placing them in a rational list:

  Peter Rotunda hires me find out who set his bar on fire and who killed his head bartender, Rudy Shower.

  Margo Pagino hires me to find her missing son, Bobby.

  Bobby is missing and is somehow linked to Edgar Sign.

  Edgar Sign says that I may not like what I see when I find Bobby.

  Rebecca Rexx has a date planned with Clifton Monigal.

  Clifton is visiting Laura Monigal, his grandmother.

  Laura Monigal, the upper crust of Turtle Bay because of her billions, had been tried for arson but was quizzically declared innocent.

  Rudy Shower collected M figurines.

  The clay figurines are made by Gregg Hofflander.

  Gregg Hofflander is Margo Pagino’s first husband. Their short marriage failed and ended badly.

  A stranger shows up on the beach and sets a few pages ablaze of Fire’s Delight, which just happens to be one of Margo Pagino’s bestselling paperbacks.

  I read the list a number of times, yawned, eventually set the tablet aside, closed my eyes, and recited the compiled list under my breath. Before falling asleep, twisting inside a dream that consisted of slimy seaweed, I mumbled, “My two cases are connected. I just don’t know how. You have to figure this out.”

  Part 2: June 3, 20—

  Chapter 11: The Matriarch Becomes Sassy

  The Sea Star Country Club

  Aruba Suite

  9:04 A.M.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Axle. You don’t have a membership. I pay millions a year to have this amazing view,” Margo said after sipping her coffee. She wasn’t admiring the white sand or blue waves that licked the beach. Instead, she had her view locked on the tiny china bowl of strawberries in front of her.

  The membership fee for the Sea Star Country Club exceeded well over one-point-five million dollars a year. Only the super-rich were allowed to apply for a membership, which probably included Peter Rotunda, Rebecca Rexx, and Laura Monigal. The view just happened to be killer, though, even if the romance writer wasn’t enjoying what soothing medicine it had to offer. The Gulf turned into a blue and white blanket of rolling liquid. Seagulls and white herons glided over its magical surface. A private and sandy island with three palm trees sat approximately two-thirds of a mile offshore. The windows inside the Aruba Suite were open, and a light wind brushed against our faces. The comforting and fine wind did not make the fluff writer across from me smile, although I wanted it to.

  “Margo, I swear they were the pages from your novel Fire’s Desire that were dropped next to Casey’s bungalow. The interloper took off after lighting and dropping them to the sand.”

  “You’re mistaken,” she said, sneering at me, taking her view away from the strawberries.

  “Officer Cane Bishop will back me up. He has the pages in his custody. I’m sure City Forensics is currently testing the pages for fingerprints and DNA.”

  She huffed. “This isn’t NCSI or Castle, Mr. Dupree. This is a small town on the Gulf that has a sleepy essence about it. You’re being absurd. And you’re wasting my time. I have a massage in ten minutes that you won’t make me tardy for.”

  Sassy, I thought. The woman reeks of sassy.

  “Mr. Dupree.” She leaned forward and said my name in a serious and almost intimidating tone. Thereafter, she attempted to blink, but failed because she suffered from far too much plastic surgery. Instead, she snapped at me and hissed, “Shouldn’t you be worried about my Robby? Am I not paying you a bloody fortune to find him? How can you possibly be worried about a trespasser on your property when my baby boy is missing?”

  I cleared my throat, sat straight, and asked, “Do you know an Edgar Sign?”

  “A who?” she asked, confused.

  “Edgar Sign. A very odd man who looks like something out of a circus. He says he knows where your son is and that I won’t like what I see when I make contact with him.”

  “Sign,” she whispered. She looked up at the suite’s vaulted ceiling, obviously in deep thought. “I don’t know of the Signs, which tells me they can’t be of wealth.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. My meeting with her would adjourn at any second, pleasing the both of us.

  “Axle, how dare you roll your eyes at me. No one does that to a Pagino, particularly not to a matriarch like me.”

  “You’re exhausting,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “I’m what?” she hissed at me again.

  “You’re exemplary, to say the least.”

  “Of course, I am,” she said, attempting to smile.

  I stood, pushed my chair in, and said before leaving, “I’ll keep in touch, Margo. I want to find out who this Edgar Sign is. I hope he leads me to Bobby.”

  Margo started to speak, but I turned away from her and walked out of the suite. Now who was being sassy?

  Chapter 12: Cougarize

  Catalina Bay

  728 Meridian Blue Way

  10:04 A.M.

  “Axle, I want you to meet a very special man in my life.”

  Rebecca introduced Clifton Monigal to me at her residence in the uppity area of Catalina Bay, south of the downtown Hurricane Bay area. The three of us sat in her study; a dusty loft filled with leather tomes, two desks, and very little morning sunshine. The loft swirled with heat, somewhat steeping. I considered taking my shirt off and showing my chest to the cub, but thought it unmannerly and decided to keep it on.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Monigal,” I said, shaking his bearlike. “You’re brawny and adorable. No wonder my dearest friend likes you.”

  The stud blushed, turning a shade of desirable red.

  “Rebecca didn’t tell me you were so handsome in person,” I added, checking out the cub. He had flattering eyes and a playful smile.

  Rebecca waved a hand at me and said, “Stop flirting with my future boyfriend, Axle. Don’t you have any manners?”

  Of course, I did. Just not with baby bears, especially ones that I thought attractive. I wanted to tease him with some honey and chocolate and other goodies from my kitchen of provisions. One thing bothered me about the stud that I couldn’t put my finger on. He wore sexy well and reeked of charm, and his personality oozed niceness, but there didn’t seem to be any cowboy in him that I could recognize. No cowboy hat. No jeans. No boots. No cowboy jargon. Nothing of the sort. My intuition kicked into full-drive and told me that he was hiding something about his life. Of course, he hadn’t shared that secret with Rebecca, deflating the cougar’s interest.

  What I believed of the man felt rather contrived: he didn’t know a damn thing about Mustangs, Palominos, or living on a ranch in Oklahoma or Colorado. But he did know how to cougarize, which meant he could charm cougars out of love, sex, material things, and lots of cash. The reason why I had to pay extra close attention to him, to protect Rebecca so she wouldn’t become hurt by his shady and cruel antics, whatever they mysteriously entailed.

  He winked at me, which made me feel a touch uncomfortable. And then a grin bloomed over his handsome face.

  With excitement, he said, “Rebecca and I were just getting to know each other more before you arrived.”

  Frankly, I knew how the two were getting to know each other better because Rebecca had her right hand under the bar, processing the beginning stages of public sex.

  No matter what Rebecca diddled, I had the perfect plan to judge the young man, knowing that he had spent hours upon hours in bed with my best friend. Rebecca wasn’t being shy or quiet about her fresh affection with the cub. She had become a whirlwind of chatter with unlimited details, which all pertained to Clifton’s cock size, his stamina, and various sexual positions that the young man enjoyed. Her information also provided crystal clear diagrams of the many toys she and Clifton used together while being intimate, not that it was any of my business.


  While Rebecca rambled, Clifton sat across the bar from me, grinning and proud as a peacock. He seemed to be into the odd affair and obviously pleased with himself that he could perform and satisfy Rebecca’s needs.

  I asked him, “How long are you staying in Hurricane Bay?”

  He shrugged, blinked, and said, “I have a few business matters to take care of. After they are in order, I will head back to Stockton County in Oklahoma.”

  “What type of business matters?” I asked, crossing a line with my interrogation.

  “Axle!” Rebecca snapped at me. “Don’t go there. Be nice.”

  Clifton shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable for maybe the first time. He let out a light cough, which stated clearly to me that Rebecca toyed with the man’s dick under the table. After clearing his throat, he said, “Family matters.”

  “Family matters are different than business matters,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just stop, Axle,” Rebecca implored, growing perturbed with me.

  I didn’t have a chance to ask him a dozen more questions, some of which pertained to his grandmother setting fires and being labeled an arsonist in Hurricane Bay and other surrounding cities along the coast. Clifton had to carry out other duties at that moment, since he turned his head and began kissing Rebecca in heated bliss.

  I never really enjoyed threesomes and left. Any PI in my position would have, of course.

  Chapter 13: Naked Play

  Downtown Hurricane Bay

  C-21 Blue Mystic Way

  11:21 A.M.

  I pulled the Mercedes into a narrow parking slip comprised of crushed shells and made my way into the Blue Mystic condominiums. Gregg Hofflander lived on the third floor, which probably offered a minimal view of the Gulf, if any view at all. Uninvited at the man’s residence, I was welcomed by a young female. The woman looked like a Victoria Secrets model with brown hair, high cheekbones, too much lipstick, and no smile. She wore a sheer nightie made of white lace, and her nipples were solid points.