If I Had A Nickel (Roy Ballard Mysteries Book 3)

by Ben Rehder

  © 2015 by Ben Rehder.

  Cover art © 2015 by Bijou Graphics & Design.

  Digital design by A Thirsty Mind Book Design

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  In memory of our sweet girl Nellie.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Much appreciation to Tommy Blackwell, August Harris, Cisco Hobbs, Becky Rehder, Helen Haught Fanick, Mary Summerall, Marsha Moyer, Stacia Hernstrom, Linda Biel, and Leo Bricker. Special thanks to Martin Grantham for getting the idea started. All errors are my own.

  1

  If life gives you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade—but what if life gives you size 48NN breasts? One option is to turn them into moneymakers, as Serenity Sweet had done. She’d learned a few years ago that there was a small population of men who would pay handsomely to have their heads and faces squashed, smashed, slapped, or smothered by her enormous boobs.

  She called it “adult massage,” and the intent was to give her clients a type of experience they couldn’t get elsewhere. There were, however, some strict ground rules. Her clothes, skimpy as they were, stayed on at all times. The client could not touch Serenity or use any body part to rub against her. There might have been sexual gratification—wasn’t that the point?—but there was never any actual sex.

  For Serenity Sweet—which was quite obviously a fictitious name—her creative new career was transformational, from a personal standpoint. One day she was a large woman who was somewhat self-conscious about her buxom physique, the next she became a successful businesswoman in great demand for her unique physical attributes. Her self-confidence skyrocketed, as did her bank balance. All of this was according to a colorful profile a local website had written about her, complete with photos of Serenity in a flimsy halter top—clickbait extraordinaire. The reader comments beneath the article were appalling.

  Miss Sweet’s line of work was illegal, of course, but the Austin cops had more or less left her alone—until a recent evening when one of her clients died. The cause of death was still unclear, but the time of death appeared to coincide with Serenity’s visit. She’d responded by getting the hell out of Dodge and later making an anonymous 911 call, but she was caught on the home’s front-door security camera, so it didn’t take the detectives long to track her down and start asking questions.

  The deceased was a rich guy named Alex Dunn: Sixty-three years old. Made a small fortune inventing software that streamlined electronic medical records in doctors’ offices. Dunn was twice divorced. Father of three adult children. Grandfather to two teenagers. Once ran as a libertarian candidate for Texas governor in the 1990s, earning one percent of the vote. Lived in an exclusive neighborhood in western Travis County, outside the Austin city limits.

  “And he was apparently a dedicated boob man,” said Heidi, our largest client, on speaker via my iPhone. Heidi was a senior claims adjuster for a large insurance company, and she frequently hired us when she suspected fraud, or if an item of great value had been stolen and she thought we might be able to help get it back.

  “Lot of that going around,” said Mia, my partner, casting a glance my way in the rearview mirror.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Here you have an older gentleman who pays money to have enormous breasts rubbed all over his face, or perhaps whacked upside his head, and you two ladies somehow make it sound sordid.”

  “Not necessarily sordid,” Mia said. “Just... peculiar—if that’s the only thing that, uh, gets you there.”

  Mia and I were parked in front of a Hooters on the north side of town, and our location, combined with our current conversation, said something—I’m not sure what—about our culture’s fixation with breasts.

  We were waiting patiently in the aging Dodge Caravan that sometimes acts as our rolling office. It’s beige. So boring it’s almost invisible. In other words, perfect. Mia was in the driver’s seat and I was on the bench seat behind her, manning a video camera aimed through the tinted side window. Inside the Hooters was a 25-year-old motorcycle-riding pinhead who had filed a lawsuit in relation to an injury he had allegedly suffered. Our job was to prove he was a con artist.

  “You might be surprised to learn that Serenity Sweet averages about a thousand bucks a night,” Heidi said.

  “Oh, you’re kidding,” Mia said.

  “And she recently started a webcam subscription service. Big bucks there. People pay to watch her smash items with her boobs. Beer cans, a bag of potato chips, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay, you know I’m not judgey, but what is the thrill in that?” Mia said. “Men pay her for that?”

  “The woman is a brilliant entrepreneur,” I said. “And she should be congratulated on her innovative business model.”

  “Well, she was arrested instead,” Heidi said. “Currently charged with prostitution, for starters, until they can confirm the cause of Dunn’s death. But the cops suspect she might’ve smothered him.”

  “On purpose?” Mia said.

  “I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know the reason they’re putting some heat on her—and the reason I’m calling you—is that the day after it happened, when his children were let into the house, they noticed that Alex Dunn’s coin collection was missing. He owned an extensive collection of hobo nickels. At this point, you’re wondering—”

  “What the hell is a hobo nickel?” I said.

  “Exactly. I’d never heard of them either. It’s where you take a nickel—or some other coin, but usually a nickel—and you carve the face of it into something else, like a skull, or a man in a boxcar, or you put a top hat on the president.”

  Mia was already tapping away on her iPhone, and now she turned the screen to show me several examples of hobo nickels.

  “We’re looking at some now,” I said. “That’s actually pretty cool.”

  “It’s a legitimate form of folk art,” Heidi said, “going back about a hundred years.”

  I watched as three college-aged guys entered Hooters. Yesterday, we’d followed the motorcycle-riding pinhead around for the better part of the day, just waiting for him to make a mistake, with no luck. What we knew from his file was that he had supposedly torn the anterior cruciate ligament in his right leg after slipping on a wet floor inside a convenience store. Pinhead’s limp was pretty good. Almost looked real.

  He’d hired a lawyer, who’d sent him to a doctor, who’d said Pinhead needed surgery. And of course Pinhead wanted some money on top of that for pain and suffering, because the store shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that kind of negligence, should they? It was a small case, but the insurance company for that particular chain of convenience stores had grown weary of getting shafted by cheaters. They’d begun fighting back.

  “Was it actual hobos who carved these?” Mia asked.

  “It was,” Heidi said. “They typically used a buffalo nickel, for whatever reason. There are several famous carvers from back in the early days, although I don’t remember any of their names.”

  “Nickelangelo, for one,” I said.

  Mia and Heidi groaned in unison, although I could see Mia’s smile in the mirror.

  “There are modern carvers, too,” Heidi said, “but purists—like Alex Dunn—insist that anything after the Depr
ession isn’t a ‘real’ hobo nickel. He was a traditionalist.”

  “So they think Serenity Sweet stole the collection?” Mia asked.

  “I don’t know that for sure, either,” Heidi said. “She says she didn’t take anything, and when they asked how Dunn died, she said she had no idea. When they pressed too hard, asking if she was giving him a massage at the time—and the evidence says she was—she refused to answer any more questions. So they arrested her, and then she bonded out.”

  “How many coins are in Dunn’s collection?” Mia asked.

  “Last we knew, about three hundred—most of them tucked in little plastic sleeves inside a wooden curio box.”

  “How big was the box?” Mia asked.

  “Oh, about the size of a 12-pack of Cokes.”

  The double-doors to Hooters swung open, and out walked a couple of tipsy businessmen. Bummer. Oh, wait. There was Pinhead, following right behind them. About time. He’d been in there for nearly three hours. Seriously, did the man have no sense of moderation?

  “You said Serenity was on the security camera,” Mia said. She’d seen Pinhead exit the restaurant, but she knew I had, too, so there was no need to point it out. “Was she carrying anything when she left?”

  I had the camera rolling as Pinhead gingerly climbed onto his bike—a big cruiser—inserted the key, and hit the button for the electronic ignition. The big engine turned over, but it did not engage. Of course it didn’t. That’s because earlier, after he’d parked his bike, I’d noticed that his old Honda also had a kick starter. And a plan had taken shape in my nimble mind. Pinhead could gimp around on his bike and claim that it didn’t put much stress on his knee—and he might even be right—but if he started kicking the crank with his right leg...

  “According to Ruelas, it’s hard to tell,” Heidi said, “because you can only see her from the back.”

  Ruelas. Frigging great. Why was it always Ruelas?

  Pinhead tried the electronic ignition again. No go. That was because, after he’d gone into Hooters, Mia had followed him inside and kept an eye on him while I disconnected his spark plugs. Mia hadn’t been amused when the manager on shift had asked if she was there to apply for a job.

  “So it’s possible the collection disappeared earlier? Or later?” Mia asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Heidi said.

  Pinhead gave up on the electronic ignition and swung the kick starter into position. He glanced around the parking lot, but there was nobody to be seen. Nobody watching. Nobody about to ruin his little scam—as far as he knew.

  “What’s the collection worth?” Mia asked.

  Pinhead kicked the crank hard with his right leg. Then again. And again. Case closed. Mia was giving me a thumbs-up.

  “About three hundred and seventy thousand dollars,” Heidi said.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Mia said. “For a bunch of carved nickels?”

  “Yep. Are y’all free to take this one on?”

  “You bet,” I said.

  2

  The next morning, we took Mia’s red 1968 Mustang fastback to the home of Callie Dunn, who lived in Tarrytown, not far from Mia’s house. I had called Callie the previous afternoon, and, after explaining who I was and why I wanted to speak to her and her two brothers, she offered to arrange a meeting. She said it was very important to all of them to find out what had happened to their father.

  Her home was much larger and newer than most of the homes in the historic Austin neighborhood. It was what many Austinites disparagingly called a “McMansion”—an oversized, often ostentatious, modern home on a small lot, where once existed a smaller, older, more tasteful residence.

  Callie answered the door wearing black yoga pants and a hot-pink tank top. She was shoeless and her thick chestnut hair was pulled into a ponytail, à la Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie. She was slender. Green eyes. In her late twenties. Obviously fit and healthy. As long as she didn’t stand next to Mia, she might be the most attractive woman in any given room.

  “Hi!” Callie said very perkily. “You must be... ”

  She’d already forgotten the name.

  “Roy Ballard,” I said, reaching to shake her hand. “And this is my partner Mia Madison.”

  “God, y’all look like those detectives from that TV show,” Callie Dunn said. “What’s the name of it?”

  I shook my head.

  Mia said, “Uh...”

  Callie said, “Well, they’re both gorgeous, so take it as a compliment. Anyway, come on in.”

  She swung the door open and stepped aside to grant us access to a small foyer that led into a large and well-decorated living room. Everything was very contemporary and sleek, including the matching red leather sofa and twin chairs. “Y’all want anything to drink? Max was supposed to be here, but he called ten minutes ago and said he can’t make it. That’s just like him, because he has two small kiddos and they totally rule his life. I can’t even imagine. Doesn’t really matter, because he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer any of your questions. He’s so disconnected from all of us lately.”

  “What about Cole?” I asked.

  “As far as I know, he’ll be here,” Callie said.

  I was glad to hear that. Some quick research last night had revealed that Cole was a problem child. He’d been busted four times in the past three years, including twice for possession of drug paraphernalia—in this case, used needles. The other arrests were for theft, which caught my eye. If Cole Dunn had a history of theft—

  Then I realized Callie was looking at us inquisitively, apparently expecting one or both of us to say something. Oh, right, the drinks.

  “Got any iced tea?” I asked.

  “Sure! With sugar? Sweet’N Low?”

  “Unsweetened is fine.”

  She looked at Mia.

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  “Be right back,” Callie said. “Have a seat.”

  She left in her yoga pants and I did my best not to watch.

  “She’s cute,” Mia said. “Vivacious.”

  She looked at me. I nodded but said nothing. It took a lot of self-restraint.

  We sat in the matching leather chairs and waited. I could see through a couple of windows into her backyard. She had a swimming pool. Small—more of a wading pool—because the size of her home used up the bulk of her lot. Just past the pool was a small pump house built from limestone to match the design of the home itself. Expensive, but it looked much nicer than your standard Home Depot metal shed.

  “You usually put Sweet’N Low in your tea,” Mia said.

  “I do,” I said. “Didn’t want to bother with it.”

  We waited another minute.

  “Beautiful place,” Mia said softly. She was studying the artwork on the walls, and then her eyes lingered on a stunning metal-and-glass sculpture of a dragonfly in one corner of the room. “I think that’s an Anne Woods.”

  “I was going to say the same thing,” I said. “She expresses herself in ways I can’t fully—”

  Callie came back into the room carrying a tall, narrow glass filled with dark tea and two large, perfectly round ice cubes. I’d seen people use that type of cube in mixed drinks.

  “Thank you,” I said, rising to take it from her hands.

  “You’re very welcome,” she said as she took a seat on the sofa and I sat back down on the chair.

  “We’re neighbors, sort of,” Mia said. “I live two blocks over.”

  “How long have you been in the neighborhood?” Callie asked.

  “A little over a year. The house has been in my family since the 1920s, and my uncle left it to me when he passed away. Do you remember a house fire earlier this summer?”

  “That was you?”

  “It was.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Fortunately, the damage was minimal, thanks to a fast-acting neighbor. Now you can’t even tell it ever happened.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” Callie said. “So,
should we wait for Cole or get started? You said you wanted to ask questions. You’re like investigators for the insurance company, right?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “Before we start, we just want to offer our condolences on the loss of your father.”

  “I appreciate that. It’s been rough, but I’m trying to remember the good times and not dwell on the pain. It’s what Daddy would want.”

  “He sounds like a good man,” Mia said.

  “He was. He really was. Not that he didn’t have his weaknesses, like a lot of powerful men. He had a hard time resisting temptation. To be blunt, he liked women. All kinds of women. But he was a great father and I miss him a lot.”

  She looked at me.

  I said, “To answer your question, technically, we aren’t investigators,” I said. “We’re freelance videographers and we specialize in insurance fraud. In this particular case, we’ve been hired to see if we can find out what happened to your father’s coin collection.”

  It might have been easier to simply say that we are investigators, but we aren’t licensed. There were various legal hurdles we couldn’t clear, the biggest one being my criminal history involving an assault on a boss at an old job. He called a female co-worker a disgusting name, so I broke his nose with a microphone stand. Ended up with probation. Shit happens, right? The man deserved it and I wouldn’t change a thing. However, I would change the fact that I later had a separate charge for possessing some pills I used occasionally to stay awake on stakeouts. Dumb. More probation. Been on the straight and narrow ever since.

  “Oh,” Callie said in response to my last comment. She had a blank look on her face. Was she going to be reluctant to speak further? “I guess I misunderstood.”

  “Many times the work we do exposes all sorts of interesting facts,” Mia said. “As we look into the disappearance of the coins, it wouldn’t surprise me if we learn some things about your father’s death.”

  Nicely done, Mia. Keep her interested.

  “We’re still waiting on the autopsy,” Callie said. “It’s just so weird. How do they not know how he died? That woman had something to do with it. It’s so obvious. Why else would she run away? And it’s not a stretch to think she stole the coin collection in the process.”