Twice as Fatal: A Jarvis Mann Detective Novel

by R Weir

  It wasn’t meant to be a put-down.

  “Yeah, hard-headed like me.”

  The waitress returned with my drink, and we both decided on dinner. I picked the ribs with a side of fries, no salt. I enjoyed the taste of the potato and not the salt. Bill ordered the works on a burger with fries. I’d seen him put one away in four or five bites in the past. I wondered if tonight would be different.

  “What should we do?” he asked.

  “I will drive up there tomorrow and nose around. I tracked him down last month, so I can probably find him again. He’s got to end up somewhere.”

  “I can take some time and help, use some sick days.”

  “Use them to comfort Rachael. I can handle this. Anything comes up, I’ll call you.” I was making excuses, as I was worried how he might act. Besides, I worked better alone.

  “It’s rough with kids. Even after they are grown you fear for them, worry what could happen. He’s had it tough the last couple of years. When he can’t play football it kills him. He can’t seem to see there is more to life than the game. I try to help him…”

  “How’s your daughter taking it?”

  “It’s hard for Monika, too. They were always close, even though they are several years apart in age. Her ‘big bro,’ as she calls him, was there for her whenever she needed him. I know she wants to be there for him too. Like us, she isn’t sure what to do because we can’t understand all he is going through.”

  As usual, the food was promptly served. I did my best not to get sauce on my face but failed when digging into the tender ribs. Isn’t that what napkins are for? Bill didn’t wolf down his burger like normal. He had a couple of bites and left the rest, nearly half, sitting there. They brought him another beer and even it sat unwanted after three short sips. It was clearly hard to eat when your child was missing, even when they are twenty years old.

  “Bill, I’m good at what I do. I can track him down. You go home and take care of the family. I’ll call you tomorrow if I come up with anything.”

  He stood up and tossed down three twenties to cover the meal. As he walked by, he stopped, put his hand on my shoulder for a minute without looking at me and left. This might have topped the earlier glare on the emotion meter.

  Chapter 5

  The next day required a trip up to Greeley to visit the University of Northern Colorado campus. Surveillance on Jack would wait for another time. Calling Kate, I explained what I needed to do today. One or two more days and I’d have her evidence, which she was fine with. He wasn’t likely to clean up his act overnight.

  Greeley was north and east of Denver, about sixty or so miles away. I got an early start to try and beat rush hour and failed, since there is traffic twenty-four hours a day now, and proceeded on I-25, then took I-76 to State Highway 85, which passed through Brighton, Fort Lupton, La Salle and Evans before entering Greeley. It was roughly an hour before I hit the town I knew fairly well since I’d been there a month earlier looking for Bill’s son.

  Ray Malone was a young man who had lived a rough life the last couple of years. He had been a promising tight end at Abraham Lincoln High School, sought after by many Division 1A schools, including CU, until in his senior year when he tore his ACL midway through the season. After nearly a year-long rehab, he received an offer to play for the UNC Bears in Greeley. They were a solid football institution with a rich history of developing excellent student athletes, a few of which had made it to the professional ranks, long a goal of Ray’s. After redshirting his freshman year to allow him to achieve full strength in his knee, acclimate himself to the college life, and get his school grades in line with an academic school’s expectations, he suffered a concussion in his second game in a head-to-head collision. After going through a series of tests, he was cleared to play after an off-week but two more games later another concussion put him out for the remainder of the season. This completely changed his whole demeanor and state of mind. He stopped going to classes, started getting into scuffles with other students, campus and local police. Bill had driven up on two occasions to bail his son out. A flash of his badge and Ray’s status as an athlete had been enough to get him released and back to school. But this didn’t last long.

  A week had passed and Ray’s roommate contacted Bill to tell him he’d not been to his room for a day or so. Calls went unanswered and Bill, unable to get away from work, called me in to see if I could find him. I spent two days in Greeley going from place to place, showing his picture around before tracking him down. He had been staying with a young woman living off campus who appeared to be his girlfriend or someone he hooked up with. Once I found him, Bill came up and, after much conversation, we persuaded him to go back to school and to see the sports athletic trainers. He wouldn’t or couldn’t admit to us he was having judgment issues, possibly related to the concussions. A month passed and all seemed OK until this latest news of him missing. I would retrace my steps from before, with the first stop being at the home of the girl he’d been shacking up with.

  She lived two miles east of the campus in a simple brick two-story apartment complex. I had learned very little about her other than her name, Ariela Martinez. She worked at a local bar and dance club, which is where they met. It didn’t appear as if they were a couple per se, just two people looking for a good time. She was a few years older than Ray and acted as if she was a little fearful of him when I arrived at her place, cowering and cringing when he got upset. Of course I was a little fearful of him myself, as he wasn’t real happy I’d come to bother him or call to tell his dad I had found him. He threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t leave him alone. At 6’4” and 250 pounds, he was an imposing figure to reckon with.

  I approached the house, searching to see if I could find Ray’s car. He drove a 2003 black Chevy pickup, but it was nowhere to be seen. Knowing Ariela worked nights, I expected her to be home. I rang the doorbell vigorously; it took a few minutes for her to answer. I had awakened her, as she answered in her underwear, but topless, a thin brown blanket wrapped around her to cover her up. The door opened on a security chain and she peered through it. Once her eyes adjusted she remembered me and swung it wide open, my engaging smile like a key in the lock.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I stated, closing the door behind me trying to block the chill of November in the air today.

  “You looking for Ray again?” she said while sitting on an old, dirty brown sofa.

  When she sat down the blanket came off and she flashed lots of brown skin. She had nice firm legs, average-sized breasts, and I could see a butterfly tattoo on her right thigh. It didn’t seem to bother her to reveal herself for she didn’t cover herself back up. It didn’t bother me either as I took in the view.

  “Yes. He is missing again.”

  “I haven’t seen him for several days.”

  “Has he been in the club lately?”

  “Last saw him on Wednesday. He wanted to hook up but I told him to beat it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he only cares about one thing. Which was fine at first, but a girl needs more after a while.”

  “So you broke up?”

  “If you want to call it that. All it had to do with was sex and him trying to impress his friends. Someone he was banging to show off at the club.”

  “Sorry to hear it didn’t work out.”

  “It was enjoyable at first, an attractive guy spending money on you, good in the sack. But he had his scary moments, too. Waking up in cold sweat, as if demons possessed him. It would go away and he’d be OK for a while and then return with a vengeance.”

  “When was he last here?”

  “The weekend before I told him to buzz off. He had a major meltdown on Sunday morning. I had to call the cops. By the time they arrived he had already gone. He smashed up some of my stuff and pushed me around. I knew I couldn’t be with him anymore.”

  “So you last saw him at the club on Wednesday. What about his friends? Do they still come into the club?”
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  “Yeah, most nights.”

  “If I stop in tonight can you direct me to them?”

  She stopped for a second, a look of concern on her face.

  “I promise they won’t know. Discreetly point them out.”

  “I make my living there as a dancer. Come over by the stage where I can see you and I’ll put on a show for you while pointing them out without them knowing. I expect a decent tip.”

  “This can be arranged. What time do you work?”

  “Five to closing. I’m on the stage at the top of every other hour for about twenty minutes.”

  “What are you doing after?”

  She smiled lightly. “Whatever someone is willing to pay me well enough to do.”

  It didn’t take much to understand what this meant.

  “What’s the name of the club?”

  “The Hustle. It’s a gentleman’s establishment.”

  “And they pay a membership to act like a gentleman?”

  “If they come across with the right amount of cash, they can act however they damn well please!”

  “OK, I’ll be there tonight. Thanks for the info. If you hear from Ray, give me a call.” I handed her my business card.

  As I started to leave, a large Hispanic man walked into the room wearing only his blue-striped boxers. Not a single button was in use, his junk hanging out of the opening. He saw me and seemed to be mad I was there.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded loudly.

  “Pest Control. A snake is loose and I think I just found it.”

  Chuckling to myself, I slammed the door behind me.

  Chapter 6

  My next stop was to speak with one of the coaches. I headed towards the campus and Butler Hancock Hall, where all the intercollegiate offices are located. I had a map of the facility and made my way around with ease over the large area it covered. There are over 12,000 students at UNC, and I tried to blend in the best I could. With jeans, boots and leather jacket I probably fit in well with everyone else, other than age; though I wasn’t the only mid-thirties-aged person traversing the grounds. Maybe I’d pass as a teacher: Professor Jarvis Mann at your service.

  When I arrived at the offices I flashed my ID to talk with the head coach. Of course he was too busy, but they said one of the assistant offensive coaches and possibly the trainer could squeeze me in. I found a chair and a copy of the campus periodical, UNC Mirror. After an hour of reading the newspaper cover to cover, along with a couple of several month old Sports Illustrated magazines, I was led to the office of the coach.

  Entering the room he stepped around his desk and shook my hand, introducing himself. He was tall and athletic, dressed in Dockers and a team polo. I showed him the ID, but he waved me off as if to say not to bother. I took a seat.

  “So you’re looking for Ray,” he stated. “Damn shame what happened. He has a lot of talent.”

  “How well did you know him? Can you point me to somewhere he might have gone, any friends of his?”

  “As coaches we are tight with our players on the athletic field, but personally we keep our distance. Not enough time to be social. Generally these kids are here and gone before we know it. We want to make sure they are solid student athletes, which is most important.”

  “How about his latest injuries? What information can you give me?”

  “Well, I’m no doctor, but he suffered two concussions over a three-week period. In the old days we’d have put him back on the field. Now with all the evidence of problems they have afterwards, we have strict protocol on how to handle it and the doctors make the final call. After the second one he wasn’t cleared to play again this year, as he failed many of the tests. He didn’t accept the news very well. Said everything was fine but they wouldn’t clear him. The brain requires time to heal. No amount of pain medication, braces, whirlpool treatment or physical therapy can get you playing again.”

  “Is he allowed to practice?”

  “No, can’t take the risk.”

  “So he is basically cut off from the other players.”

  “Not completely. He needs to do rehab work, which would involve teammates who have been injured. Light workouts in the weight room and running on a treadmill. Of course, it isn’t the same as competing on the football field. Like most athletes, he was extremely competitive and lived for the confrontation with the other teams and players.”

  “Can I talk with the doctor or doctors who diagnosed him?”

  “Due to the strict HIPAA laws these days they can’t disclose anything to anyone other than Ray and those he has given permission to share medical info with. All they can tell you is what is in the standard press release on injuries the NCAA requires us to post.”

  “Even his own family?”

  “Since he is of legal age, no.”

  “How about his roommate? I’d like to speak with him, if possible.”

  “Sure. Let me call and find out what class he is in. You may be able to get him between periods or at lunch.”

  The coach tracked down the roommate’s schedule and provided a picture of him and a list of the various buildings he’d be in. I thanked him and headed out. With the map I got my bearings and walked towards Candelaria Hall, where his next round of classes would be. He had an Economics class coming up in the next hour, so I hoped to catch him going in if I could spot him among the masses. I found the room and leaned outside one of the entrances and waited. Once released, students were everywhere. I was good at spotting people in a crowd and within a couple of minutes I noticed him. It wasn’t real hard because of his tight end stature: an African American standing 6’ 3” and 230 pounds.

  “Casey,” I called out to get his attention.

  “Yes,” he answered with a deep baritone voice.

  “I’m looking for Ray. His father sent me. Do you have some time to talk?”

  “I’m heading to class. I have open period next so we could meet in the Holmes Dining Hall if you want. Are you familiar with the campus?”

  “I should be able to find it on my trusty map.”

  He excused himself politely and moved on. With not much else to do for an hour I made two phone calls. The first was to Bill to let him know what I had, or more likely hadn’t, discovered.

  “Any luck?” he asked when answering.

  “He isn’t at the dancer’s anymore. She said they are no longer seeing each other.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “She didn’t appear to be lying.”

  Since I had been staring at her naked chest most of the time, I could have been wrong.

  “Anything else?”

  “I talked with one of the offensive coaches, and he didn’t have much to say. Knew he was gone and struggling with his latest injury. I’m going to be eating lunch with Ray’s roommate here in a while. Hopefully he can fill in some blanks.”

  “Well, we haven’t heard from him either. We’ve contacted everyone we know who might have seen him, and nothing.”

  “We’ll find him,” was all I could add for now.

  After hanging up I called Melissa to see what she was up to. I got her on the move and couldn’t talk much.

  “I’m heading to court and running late. Are you staying busy?”

  “In Greeley trying to find Bill’s son; he’s gone missing again. I’m roaming the campus talking to people he knows.”

  “Well, you stay away from those college co-eds,” she stated with a laugh.

  “I doubt any of them would be interested. Keeping up with them would be challenging.”

  “Save your strength for Friday. I’ve got to go. Maybe we can talk again tonight. Be safe.”

  After hanging up I needed to kill time, so I traversed the campus looking at the buildings. Some were recently built while others had been there for many years. Housing and classrooms comprised most of the structures. Ray lived in one of the newer facilities, Turner Hall, which stood thirteen stories high with modern rooms and excellent amenities. Walking past i
t on the way to the Holmes Dining Hall, I’d wondered if college life had changed much through the years. Once I arrived I found a bench outside and waited. Using the Windows Smartphone, I searched for the address of the gentleman’s club and stored it in my maps’ location. It got several four-star reviews, but the people who wrote them sounded sleazy with their graphic descriptions. The phrase “Gentleman’s Club” was obviously a marketing expression some genius came up with long ago, with the term “strip club” no longer being politically correct but a more accurate description.

  After a fair amount of time I saw Casey walking with some of his friends. Each appeared to be football players: by their size, likely lineman on either side of the ball. He spotted and waved me over, and we walked in. Being hungry I nabbed a tray and found something edible to eat. I offered to pay for their meals, but for students it was all part of the tuition. We grabbed a table and he introduced his buddies.

  “This is Brad, Parker and Stoney. They play football for the Bears. You can probably tell they are offensive lineman. This gentleman is looking for Ray. I’m sorry I didn’t get your name before.”

  “Jarvis Mann,” I stated. “I’m working for Ray’s parents trying to locate him. Anyone have any thoughts on where he might be?”

  “Are you a cop?” asked Brad, a large white man with farmer hands, big and calloused.

  “Private detective,” I replied.

  “Cool,” said Stoney, who was African American and slightly smaller than Brad.

  “Bet you get all the chicks!” said Parker, the largest of them all, who appeared to be Hawaiian or Samoan.

  “I think jocks get all the chicks,” I answered. “What about Ray?”

  “He was a stud and always got tail!” Parker joked, while high-fiving his friends.

  I gritted my teeth, smiled and counted to ten. Patience, Jarvis…

  “Any thoughts on where Ray might be?” I repeated.

  The laughter subsided.

  “I know he was hurting,” said Casey. “He was having a hard time sleeping after the last blow to his head. It bummed him out not being able to play again.”