The Hidden Throne (Hazzard Pay Book 2)

by Charlie Cottrell

  Contents

  Front Matter

  Hazzard Pay Book Two: The Hidden Throne

  Copyright 2017 Charlie Cottrell

  charliecottrell.com

  xeyeti.com

  Front Cover Design: Copyright 2017 rebecacovers

  Book Design: Charlie Cottrell

  eBook Edition

  No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. I have a horde ninja squirrels and I am not afraid to sic them on you. Exceptions are reviewers who may quote short excerpts for review purposes. Please write to the author at crookedhalo42@gmail.com for permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No, really! The characters are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. If you or someone you know was killed in this book, it probably wasn’t meant maliciously as payback for some past slight against the author. Probably.

  All rights reserved USA (USA! USA! USA!)

  For the real-life Little Blind Girl, for inspiring my favorite character in the whole series.

  I.

  It was a Tuesday morning, and I was drunk. None of this was all that unusual, mind you; I was drunk most days, often still from the night before. But for most private detectives, this is a benefit rather than a detriment: sobriety invites all sorts of second thoughts and reconsideration about things like following suspicious people into dark alleys and expressing bravado in the face of men with bad intentions. You might start to question the wisdom of your actions, second-guess yourself, and that means you’re not paying close enough attention to the guy who just stepped out of the shadows and is pointing a gun at your kidney. Alcohol may be many terrible things, but among its more positive attributes is that it’s a great liquid substitute for courage.

  An image of my secretary, Miss Ellen Typewell, sprang up in a small vid window floating above my desk. The hard light construct flickered softly under the harsh fluorescent lights in the ceiling, and Miss Typewell’s light brown skin in the image looked faintly washed out. You couldn’t really tell that her hair—pulled back in a simple, no-nonsense bun—was dyed a bright blue. “Eddie, you’ve got a . . . client,” she said. There was a strange edge to her tone, one that it took me a second to catch. I stared at her for a moment, bleary-eyed, while my brain cells marshaled themselves to convey the message to any part that could listen and comprehend. Realization dawned, and I sat up with sudden understanding.

  “Really?” I finally managed to croak out, trying to straighten myself up. My tie was loose around my neck and stained with the dregs of last night’s dinner. Or possibly last Thursday’s lunch, who knew. I rubbed my chin and felt what had to be two—three?—days’ worth of patchy stubble there, the best my Native American heritage ever seemed to allow. I ran a hand back through my hair, which was greasy and at least a week or two past shaggy. When had I last showered? Probably around the same time I’d shaved. No time to get cleaned up now, though, if the client was already in the anteroom. I would just have to be good enough as-is. “Send them in, I guess,” I said. Miss Typewell’s image gave me a wry look as she closed the vid window.

  The door to my office opened and a woman with wavy red hair, and a figure guys would kill for, slinked into my room. Her face was an alabaster portrait of confident self-assurance, and her dress and pocketbook spoke of money and style to spare.

  All of this was old news to me, though, because I was already far-too familiar with the woman.

  “Vera Stewart,” I said, rising unsteadily from my chair. “You’ve got some nerve comin’ here, lady.” I started around the desk, my hands clenched. “After that debacle with your husband, you think you can just walk into my office and…” I sputtered to a halt, too infuriated to continue.

  Why did I hate Vera Stewart, a woman with legs that wouldn’t quit and a figure they’d have made classical sculptures of? Well, it’s a long story, but let me summarize: late last year, this woman had walked into my office and turned everything in my world upside down. She’d asked me to take on what seemed like a simple missing person case, but turned out to be something much bigger than that. The man she was married to, a Mr. Wally Stewart, had discovered her closest-held secret: Vera was the Boss, the head of the Organization, a criminal empire in the city of Arcadia that controlled everything from bank robberies to drugs, kidnappings, arson, gun running, and any other criminal enterprise you could imagine. As the Boss, Vera Stewart was the undisputed, anonymous leader of this gang of unrepentant villains, thugs, and bastards. She kept a pretty tight lid on her identity to protect herself, and she’d been pretty effective: most people in town—hell, in the Organization—still thought the Boss was some guy, probably with a name like Vincenzo or Anthony or Alfonse, big guys with slicked-back hair and tailored suits, who sat around eating plates of pasta. Even in this day and age, sexism and racial stereotyping are alive and well, I guess.

  Everyone would’ve been wrong, of course, because Vera didn’t fit the profile at all. Sure, she was a Type-A personality with no sense of humor, but she came across as a wealthy heiress or high-powered CEO, not a mafiosa.

  Anyway, turned out that Vera’s husband, this scrawny little accountant, had managed to figure out her secret identity and was actually staging a coup attempt. Wally was ruthless and considerably less ethical than even his wife, and allowing him to take control of the Organization would’ve been hell on earth for the law-abiding folks of Arcadia. His efforts to take over the Organization fell a bit short, though, because despite our differences, I helped Vera stop him.

  Then she went and killed him right in front of me.

  Needless to say, while I’m more than willing to bend the rules a bit and work with a known criminal for the good of the city, watching her commit murder was a bit too much. I’d barely spoken to her since then, and I couldn’t say I was upset about the fact.

  “Detective Hazzard, sit down before you do yourself harm,” she replied disdainfully, looking at the chair I kept in front of the desk for clients to sit in. She examined it carefully, apparently decided it wasn’t worth the risk of whatever strange parasites might inhabit the thing, and remained standing. I stood next to my desk, anger thrumming through my body.

  “I have a case for you, Eddie,” she said, opening her pocketbook. She dug out a small datachip and placed it on my desk. I stared at it like she’d put a dead fish there instead. Ms. Stewart pressed on, oblivious or indifferent to my lack of interest in her case.

  “You know about the explosions that have been occurring around town the past few weeks,” she said. It was less a question than a statement, which was pretty much par for the course with the Widow Stewart. She didn’t ask for help or ask questions, she made statements about how the world was and the world jumped in order to make her correct.

  Surprisingly, I did know about the explosions, despite my usual ambivalence towards current events and the news. Something like five major bombings over the past month had rocked Arcadia and even managed to penetrate the whiskey-induced haze I generally lived in. I remained silent and she continued. “Well, what you probably don’t know is that every location that’s been hit was one of mine.”

  “And my reply to that would probably be ‘tough shit,’” I finally said, arms crossed. I leaned against the corner of my desk in what I hoped was a nonchalant fashion. The stance was only slightly spoiled by my wobbly sense of balance; my left hand shot out and stabilized me against the desktop as I gave Ms. Stewart an equally-unsteady eye. “I made it pretty clear that I wanted nothing else to do with you.” Whatever instability exi
sted in my physical form didn’t extend to my voice, which sounded like it was made of iron.

  “As I’m well aware,” she replied coolly. “However, this particular case concerns everyone in Arcadia.” She gestured to the datachip on my desk. “That datachip contains all the information my people were able to gather on the explosions as well as data on the possible bombers. It’s more than just wanton property damage, though. Someone is trying to take over crime in the city.”

  “Again? Why should I care?” I asked, giving up on standing, and collapsing back into my chair. I dug an ancient cigarette butt out of the ashtray, saw it still had some life left to give, and hunted for my lighter.

  “Don’t pretend to be so naïve, Detective Hazzard,” Ms. Stewart spat. “You know as well as I do that war between rival crime syndicates would destroy everything. It would be even worse than if my late husband had taken everything over. Arcadia will not survive a gang war on the scale we’re talking about, and no one in my Organization has the freedom or the outsider status to do what needs to be done. You do, though, and you’ll be able to find out who’s doing this and put a stop to it.”

  “And if it just so happens to help save your criminal empire, that’s merely a welcome coincidence, I suppose?” I asked, finding the lighter under the desk and flicking it on. I lit the dog-end, which smoldered to life.

  “A matter of happenstance is all,” she replied.

  I sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke, my frustration mounting. Every conversation with Ms. Stewart went like this. You knew you were getting the shitty end of the stick, but there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it. “You’re not gonna let me out of this, are you?” I asked, resigned. While I’m not the brightest guy in the world, I can see the shape of things pretty clearly when they’re right in front of my face.

  “No. If you keep refusing, I’ll probably just have to send someone over to kidnap your assistant or maybe just kill you for your refusal,” she answered. Nothing in her tone indicated a threat. It was simply another statement of how reality would be.

  “You have a real way with people, lady,” I said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “Fine, I’ll take the damn case. You’re already familiar with our fee structure, I believe?”

  Vera nodded and pulled out another datachip, which she placed next to the first one on the desk. “There’s ten thousand dollars on that credit chip. Ought to take care of anything you need,” she said, snapping her clutch shut with what I swore was a noise as loud as a gun shot. I flinched slightly at the too-loud sound. Hangover senses are much too acute, if you ask me. I was also feeling a little annoyed. The last time I’d received a credit chip from her, I’d decided the money was tainted and I couldn’t take it. Miss Typewell had destroyed that chip, even though it meant we didn’t get paid for the job. The fact I was willing to consider taking her money this time… Was I losing something important, some vital element of my character? By taking her money, would I be complicit in any crimes she committed down the road?

  Then again, ten thousand is ten thousand, and my creditors were not known for being a forgiving bunch. I looked up from the desk and my ethical quandary to find Ms. Stewart making her way to the door.

  “Hey, who’s really after you, Vera?” I called after her. She stopped. I could see from her body language that she wanted to turn around, but she didn’t. Vera had a will you could bend steel around.

  “I…if I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you for help, Eddie,” she replied without looking back at me. That’s when the true severity of her situation hit me. Vera didn’t like me any more than I liked her, and it took a lot for her to come to me and ask for help, regardless of how she tried to play it off. I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes as she walked out, wondering if a mess this big was worth even ten grand.

  II.

  Old Town is a rough place to eke out an existence. It’s where I ply my trade, and where I live, and where most of the horrible things I investigate end up happening, but none of that is by my choice. Once upon a time, when Arcadia was young, Old Town had been a sparkling, bustling metropolis full of prosperity. That was back when the city was still a shipping and manufacturing hub, which was well before my time. By the time I set up shop, about twelve years ago, Old Town had lost its luster and was more like a festering wound. All the rich stiffs had moved north into the inaptly-named Downtown.

  Most of the explosions had occurred in Old Town, which actually made sense. There was more crime here, so the Organization had more of a presence. I started the investigation with the datachip, which contained two files about the attacks. The first simply provided bare-bones information on each explosion, detailing where they’d gone off and a few other basic facts. It didn’t really give me much the police reports hadn’t already provided to the general public. The explosives were improvised, but quite well-made, possibly professionally so. Most of the components were easily accessible in any hardware store, but some of the stuff was fairly exotic and wouldn’t have been available to amateurs, especially whatever had taken out a bunch of warehouses out on Pier 6.

  The second file went into more detail and included a list of possible individuals in Arcadia who might be able to create such bombs, at least to Vera’s admittedly vast knowledge. Three of the six names were individuals working for Vera, whom she’d vouched for as being her guys and probably not involved. I’d save those three for later and focus on the three who weren’t associated with the Organization, since they were more likely to be part of the incidents.

  First on the list was a former military demolitions expert named Walter Ellicott. According to the files Vera had provided, he’d been a decorated veteran who was an expert at not only crafting explosives, but disarming them. He’d saved his platoon on a few occasions by exercising that latter skill, and had been honorably discharged just a few months ago. Since coming to town, he hadn’t had much luck finding a job, but times were hard. He didn’t have much formal education to fall back on, and he was a bit of a loner, according to his file. Not exactly the profile of someone who wanted to overthrow a criminal empire, but you never knew.

  He was staying in a hostel over on Ross Avenue in Old Town, near the Warehouse District. It wasn’t anything like the nicest part of town; what few vid screens were up in the area were cracked, covered in graffiti, or had been stolen. Cars were often missing hubcaps or even tires, and the buildings had a shabby, dilapidated look that spoke of the fact that no one did any real upkeep on them.

  My office was about ten blocks away, as was my apartment, so I was familiar with the neighborhood. Despite that, I hadn’t ever really noticed the hostel, which claimed to exist to help re-acclimate former military back into civilian life. In Arcadia, ten blocks can take you clear into a whole new world, one full of exciting new people looking to kill you in the same old ways.

  I walked up to the front door and found it locked at 1:00 PM on a Tuesday afternoon. I found a button by the door and pushed it; a buzzer sounded somewhere deeper in the building, but no footsteps were forthcoming. I waited a minute, then pushed the buzzer again. Finally, a small vid screen next to the buzzer flickered to life behind a patina of graffiti. I saw a fuzzy, out-of-focus man, several weeks’ beard on his cheeks and chin, and extra weight around the jowls. He looked hard-weathered, the sort of man to whom the term “grizzled” could be applied without fear of contradiction.

  “We don’t open back up until 4:00 PM. If you need a place to sleep tonight, come back then.” His voice was gruff, though his words were said in a flat monotone. Clearly this was a speech that was given frequently.

  “Actually, I’m here to talk to one of your residents, Walter Ellicott,” I replied, holding up my private detective’s license to the vid screen.

  “Oh,” The person on the other end responded, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Like I said, though, we’re not open right now. The residents have to leave during the day, go out and try to find a job or a more-permanent residence. Ellic
ott’s been staying here, but he’s probably out job hunting again today.”

  “Anything you can tell me about the guy?” I asked.

  “Not much, really,” the man replied. “He’s quiet. Doesn’t interact much with the other guys, keeps to himself. Doesn’t seem to have any family or close friends, at least none that he’s contacted from here. I know he was trying to get a job doing construction and demolition work for Jonathan Pithman’s company, if that helps. He had an interview there this morning.”

  “Great,” I said. “Thanks.” The vid screen went dark again, so I turned back toward my office and my car. As I walked, I pulled out my pocket computer, a small box about as big as a pack of cigarettes that had a power button, a projection lens, and a docking port for datachips and cables. Bringing the machine to life, I pulled up a small vid window in front of my left eye. “Phone,” I said, “call Office.” The computer dialed the number for my office, and my assistant, Miss Typewell, answered, her image popping up as a semi-transparent video in the window.

  “Hey, Eddie, what’s going on?” she asked. A young woman in her mid-to late-twenties with warm-brown skin and a no-nonsense look about her, Miss Typewell was the most capable individual I knew. Why she stayed with a mediocre private detective like me was a mystery to me, a guy who solved mysteries for a living, which really just proved my mediocrity.

  “Not much so far,” I replied. “I’ve got a bit of a lead on the first suspect, but I’m reasonably certain he’s not going to be our guy. Call it a hunch, I guess. I’m headed Downtown to follow the lead anyway, just in case. Should finish up with this guy in the next couple of hours, then on to suspect number two.”

  “All right. Anything you need me to dig into?” she asked.

  “Yeah. See if there’s any other background on Walter Ellicott’s war record, any information about official warnings, reprimands, any sort of psych profile or stuff like that. Forward it to my box if you find anything worth a mention.”