Contents
Copyright
Dedication
THE TRUTH COLLECTOR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Most Important Thing You Can Do to Spread the Word
About the Author
The Truth Collector
by Corey Pemberton
Website: http://www.coreypemberton.net
Newsletter: http://bit.ly/1LNJ9pz
Email: [email protected]
Copyright © 2015 by Corey Pemberton. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about The Truth Collector, to help me spread the word.
Thank you for supporting my work.
Dedication
For Alejandra, my partner in crime. Thank you for believing in me.
- CJP
THE TRUTH COLLECTOR
by Corey Pemberton
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
-Friedrich Nietzsche
CHAPTER ONE
Malcolm Morris was tired of the truth.
It was all he could see, all he could hear in a world of lies. The truth tasted like the can of light beer dangling from his hand half-finished: watered down and almost tasteless. But there was plenty more where that came from. He had a meeting with a man in less than half an hour. If everything worked out it might lead to a few hundred dollars. What a way to make a living – profiting off jealousy and relationship wreckage.
But someone had to do it.
It was well past time to get dressed and make himself appear at least somewhat presentable, but something kept Malcolm pinned to that chair on his front porch. He took a swig of the beer, staring across the street at the Victorian with the trimmed hedges and neat wraparound porch. Its very existence defied the chaos creeping into the neighborhood.
Windmill Hill had been nice once. Perfect for young families, according to the realtor who had shown Malcolm the duplex two years earlier. She assured him it was very livable – safe, even – and that was getting harder and harder to come by in Lemhaven. Then she tossed him the keys and drove off before the gangbangers and drug dealers could swoop in.
A door opened behind him. Not his door, but his neighbor's, just a few feet from his own. They shared a porch, walls, and noises from late-night escapes where clothes came off and women pretended to enjoy themselves. Well, his neighbor shared those with Malcolm at least. What was his name again? Peter? Something like that. Something with a 'P.' Paul. It had to be Paul. Between all the women and the music, Malcolm knew more about the man than he ever cared to.
A woman walked out of his front door. This flavor of the week had red hair matted against the side of her face like she'd gotten in a punching match with her pillow and lost. She held high heels in her hands and stumbled out onto the porch. Paul followed her out. He wore a t-shirt and the kind of silk boxers you'd get for someone as a gag. Apparently in his world it was too early for pants. They squinted at Malcolm in the morning light, and he gave them a little salute with his beer can.
“Hey, man,” said neighbor Paul. His voice was cigarette-stained and hoarse. He blinked rapidly, steadied himself on the door frame. “Long night?”
Malcolm sipped his beer. “Something like that. Couldn’t sleep. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Paul and the girl exchanged a look.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “Sorry about that.” A little smile crept across his face. It grew wider by the second. Then the girl saw it and they were both smiling, both laughing and ruining an otherwise peaceful morning.
Malcolm looked at the girl. “That’s all right. I’m used to it.” She looked at the man in his ridiculous boxers and her smile faded. Malcolm saw a flicker of doubt on her face. Then it was his turn to smile.
“Don’t listen to him,” Paul said. He scratched at little wisps of chest hair and looked down. “He’s kind of an asshole.”
Malcolm shrugged. “He’s right about that.”
The woman's hands went to her hips. She sized him up from across the porch. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”
Malcolm finished the beer and crumpled the can in his hand. “I was just toasting your performance last night. It was Oscar worthy. Truly. Well done.”
The girl’s face turned as red as her hair. “You think I was… faking it?”
Malcolm just looked at her. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited.
Then all the muscles in the girl’s face tightened. Her eyes bulged as the tension ratcheted up, up, up until a confession burst from her lips. “Okay, fine. Maybe I was faking it. Plenty of women do. I read eighty percent. Plus it was our first night together and I – I don't know why I just said that.”
Malcolm waved her off with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t want to know. I already know way too much.”
Paul stepped forward and slipped an arm around the woman's shoulder. “It’s okay, babe. A little honesty never hurt anybody.”
Malcolm laughed at that.
“I should probably get going,” the woman said.
Paul pulled her in for a quick kiss. “Okay. Last night was… great.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him back. “Call me later?”
Paul's eyes dove to the wooden planks in the porch. “I, uh, look...” He scratched his hair, searching for an eloquent word under all those brown curls. He scratched and stammered and shifted between his feet until the truth came out. It always did. “Look. I had a great time. But I probably won’t call you.”
The woman backed away from him. She was careful in her movements, like someone was directing them at gunpoint and the slightest flinch would finish it all. “Oh,” she said, her voice hardly a whisper. “I see how it is.” She backed down the steps until she was in the front yard, fishing her car keys from her purse at the same time. Out flew the keys. “Asshole,” she said, pointing them at Paul. Then she aimed the keys at Malcolm. “You, too.” They watched her pad barefoot across the tiny yard, climb into her car, and scream off down the street.
Paul stared into the street and sighed. “Jesus. I kind of liked her. I have no idea why I said that.”
Malcolm got out of the chair with a groan. He grabbed the empty beer can from the cup holder, looked at it for a moment, and dropped it onto the porch to join the pile of others. “You can blame me. I have a way of drawing the truth out of people.”
Paul’s eyes flashed. For a second the hangover haze was gone and there was only anger. “Yeah, man. You sure didn’t help things with all that talk about her faking it.”
Malc
olm clasped his hands. “That was probably uncalled for. Mistakes were made. Chalk it up to sleep deprivation?”
“Yeah,” said Paul. “Whatever. She isn’t coming back anyway. What are you up to today?”
“You see,” Malcolm said, “that’s what I don’t get. Most people try to get away from me as fast as they can. But it’s like you don’t mind sticking around. You even ask open-ended questions.”
Paul blinked at him. His lips fell open, trying on a few responses for size, but no words came out.
“I’m meeting with a client,” said Malcolm. “Well, hopefully he’ll be a client. If he can handle being around me long enough to give me what I need.”
Paul stretched his arms into the air and yawned. “Yeah? What kind of client? You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked what you do.”
“Most people don't,” said Malcolm. “It's stuff no one else wants to do. Following people. Digging around and finding things. A lady called me a detective once, but she liked to exaggerate. If you're worried about getting screwed over by your business partner or your lover having an affair, I'm your guy.”
Paul stood up like he’d been shocked. “No shit? A real-life private eye?”
Malcolm tightened the knot on his bathrobe before giving the neighborhood an unwanted show. “Sure. At least for now.”
Then Paul was smiling, breathing traces of nicotine and rum on Malcolm’s side of the porch. “I can’t believe this, man. I loved that Sherlock Holmes stuff ever since I was a little kid. Listen. If you ever need help with something you’re working on you let me know. Anything. I mean it. Even if it’s going through some old lady’s trash.”
Malcolm stepped away towards his front door. Normal people didn’t linger around him for long. Something was wrong with his neighbor. This one was different. He eyed the taxicab parked on the curb in front of their duplex. “You drive that cab, right?”
Paul nodded. “Yeah, man. I drive it. When I’m not playing gigs.”
Malcolm held out his hand and Paul shook it. “Maybe you could help out sometime. It’s hard to tail people without a car.”
Paul pumped his hand up and down and smiled. “Any time, man. I mean it.”
Malcolm pulled his hand free. “You take care, Paul. I have to get ready for my client. Good luck getting red back.”
“Yeah,” said Paul. “Thanks.” He started pacing back and forth on the porch. “You know? She might be something. I know I just met her, but I think there’s something there.”
Malcolm shrugged. Healthy human relationships were outside of his wheelhouse. He looked at the pile of beer cans on his side of the porch one last time and went over and gathered them up in the extra fabric of his bathrobe. Then he went past Paul and his running mouth and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him and slumped against it. There were still words flying on the other side, and they probably wouldn’t stop for at least another hour.
* * * *
The knock on the garage door came just before ten.
At least he was punctual. Punctual clients usually weren’t a pain in the ass when it came time to pay up. Malcolm straightened his tie – the same blue one he’d worn for the half a dozen other “meetings” at this poor excuse for an office – and ambled over to the little button on the wall. He pressed it and the garage motor rumbled to life. The door rose on its tracks, letting in a flood of sunlight and a man built like one of those gold figurines on top of bodybuilding trophies.
“Are you Malcolm?” he said.
“Yeah.” Malcolm squinted his eyes and motioned at the silhouette. “Come on in.”
The man looked over one shoulder then the other before slipping inside. He moved in jerky little movements, shifting this way and that like a junkie half his size. Malcolm lowered the garage door after he came in, but he left a crack wide enough to slip through just in case the man decided he didn’t like the look of this “private detective” – or he got so uncomfortable he had no other choice but to dive out of the office and never come back. It’d happened before. More than once.
“You have the appointment at ten?” said Malcolm. He let out a little laugh. Saying it like that made it sound like he actually had something else to do today.
“Yeah,” the man said. “I'm Eric.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, fidgeting. “Listen. I gotta bad feeling about this, man. I shouldn’t have come. I really shouldn’t have come.” His eyes traveled the room in wild circles. “What if she followed me?”
Malcolm pointed at a camp chair beside his makeshift desk: an old door stretched across two filing cabinets. “Have a seat, Eric. I need you to relax.”
Eric stared at him for a moment, perfectly still. Then all his limbs moved at once. He threw them at the chair and landed on it, caught himself just before crashing into the desk. “This is your office?”
Malcolm sighed. “Impressive, right? Did you bring what I asked?”
Eric reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out some folded scraps of notebook paper. “Here. Everything you asked for. Her schedule and a picture and all that. I work all the time. If she’s screwing around it shouldn’t be hard to find out. She has plenty of chances.” He left the scraps of paper on the desktop and stood up. Into his pant pockets went his fingers, and out came a stack of crisp bills. “So, half now and half when you give me the news. Isn’t that how this works?”
Malcolm took the money and folded it up into a tiny rectangle in his palm. “Hang on. We aren’t done yet.”
Eric stood up, backed away, and put his hands on the desk. He cowered like he was the one about to get trampled – like he’d forgotten the six inches and hundred pounds he had on Malcolm. “Come on, man. I did everything you said. I really can’t be here anymore. It’s too hot to breathe.”
Malcolm pocketed the money. “I need to know you’re sure you want me to do this. Because once I go ahead—”
“I know,” said Eric, shaking his head. “There’s no going back.”
“No,” said Malcolm. “There isn’t. Sometimes people are better off not knowing. The truth's overrated. Take it from me.”
Eric chewed his lip. “No. I know what you mean, but no. I need to know. It’s like I don’t have a choice.”
“You love her.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t hit her, do you? Rough her up?”
Eric snorted. “What? No, man. Hell no. What’s that got to do with –”
“Never mind,” said Malcolm. “You love her, and you need to know. Got it.”
“Look. Six or seven years ago I would’ve been almost relieved if she was cheating. That would give me a good excuse to go chase other skirts. You know what I mean? But that was before Nora. She’s my world, man. That girl deserves to grow up with her daddy. Miranda and I’ll work it out. We always do. Unless there’s some other guy on the side. I can’t deal with that.”
“I understand,” Malcolm said. Another lie. He was racking those up quickly today.
Eric’s cheeks reddened, and he turned to face the little box fan that served as the only source of cool air in the garage. “Shit. This is embarrassing. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
Malcolm nodded, eager to strip out of the tie and dress shirt filling his armpits with ponds of sweat. “I get it. I have that effect on people.”
Eric looked at the little gap beneath the garage door. His face shined with sweat, twisted with lines and wrinkles that made him look decades older than when he’d walked in. “That’s it, then. You know how to get a hold of me. And you remember what we talked about on the phone? My condition?”
“Of course,” Malcolm said. “You want me to ‘figure out who the asshole is so you can shove your boot so far up his ass he’ll taste leather for a week.’ How could I forget such colorful language?”
“That’s right,” Eric said. “I gotta know before you get the rest of your money. That’s my only condition.” He eased away from the desk and towards the garage door.
“Fine,
” said Malcolm. “You’ll know. But whatever you’re planning to do to him – that can’t come back on me.”
Eric shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. That’s my business. Anyway, you know how to find me. Thanks for your time.”
Malcolm held out a hand to stop him before he could slip away. “One more thing. Do you have any idea who the guy is? Any suspicions at least?”
Eric’s fingers balled up into fists. He looked at them while he squeezed, traced the lines on his knuckles with his eyes. “There’s this one guy named Craig. Craig Fielder I think. That’s the name I kept seeing when I went through her phone. He knows one of Miranda’s friends. That’s how they met I think. He seems like a nice guy – I even met him myself. Miranda says they’re just friends. But she talks about him too much, you know? She doesn’t even talk about her mother that much.”
Malcolm put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Eric winced a little and slipped his shoulder away. “I gotta get back before she starts calling. We’re supposed to take Nora to the park. You know where to find me.”
Malcolm motioned towards the garage door. He followed Eric over to it, hit the little button again, and the rising doors let in a wave of sticky summer air. Eric slipped out into it like one of those astronauts from a 1950s science fiction movie. He’d been holding his breath on a hostile planet and finally had the chance to get a sip of oxygen. Malcolm shielded his eyes from the sun and closed the door before Eric made it to the curb. He fanned himself with his hand, clutched at the dress shirt collar squeezing the air from his throat. His hands worked feverishly to open a few buttons, and he could smell the beer sweating through his pores. The money filled his pocket, the blood money that would probably wreck a few more lives. But it was rent money, too. Landlords didn’t care where you got it. They just cared that you had it. Malcolm turned off the little flickering overhead light and went inside.
The Truth Collector (Demon Marked Book 1) Page 1
