Electile Dysfunction (Gotcha Detective Agency Mystery Book 6)

by Jamie Lee Scott

  ELECTILE

  DYSFUNCTION

  by

  Jamie Lee Scott

  A

  Gotcha Detective Agency

  Mystery

  Text copyright © 2014 Jamie Lee Scott

  All Rights Reserved

  ELECTILE DYSFUNCTION

  Copyright © 2014 by Jamie Lee Scott

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, LBB Company, 1106 Hwy 69 N, Forest City, IA 50436.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Scott, Jamie Lee, 11-15-14. Electile Dysfunction. LBB Company. eBook Edition.

  For Gracie

  You made my world brighter for thirteen and a half years.

  You’ll be missed more than you’ll ever know.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks so much to Teresa Watson for being with me from the very first Gotcha Detective Agency book, reading and editing, and cursing me for my hatred of commas. (I’m getting better, even if she denies it). Stacy Jeziorowski, who started as a beta reader and became an author’s personal assistant extraordinaire. She’s dabbled in a bit of everything with this book, and with my last one, a collaboration called Unlucky 7. Stacy is also a marathon runner, which makes her a goddess in my mind.

  To the police, everywhere, who keep us safe, even when they aren’t always appreciated, but especially to Officer Rebecca Shaver and Sergeant Chris Bourg, who answer my crazy questions, and make me laugh. I must thank their boss, Chief Scott Silverii, who introduced me to them, because without all three of them, my life wouldn’t be nearly as cheerful and entertaining.

  To Hildie McQueen, a fellow author, romance writer, and all around fantastic woman. Thanks for letting me vent, or is it rant? And thanks for being such a great friend.

  As a writer, I’ve been lucky to meet some of the best, nicest, most giving people a person could ever hope to know. I can’t list them all here, because I’d forget someone, and I’d feel guilty, but I’m sure their names will come up from time to time if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook.

  I also want to thank CJ Lyons, not only because she’s a wonderful person, but because she showed me how wonderful the Mac Air could be for a writer who is on the go. Electile Dyfunction would not have been written in 2014 if not for CJ, because I traveled so much, and I don’t usually bring a laptop. Thanks CJ, for talking me into the Air, and making me a more prolific writer.

  There are always the same characters; my employees who listen as I plot murders, poke holes, then pick up the pieces. They laugh as I talk about Mimi, Nick and Charles, as if they will walk in the door any minute. I think they think they are real people too. Ha!

  And last, but not least, my husband, who puts up with it all, and lets me be me. Thank you Scot for being you, and still loving me, even though I think you got a lot more than you bargained for, and not in a good way.

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  CHAPTER 1

  MIMI

  A black blur flew past my office door so fast I almost didn’t see who it was. I yelled, “You look like you’re dressed for a funeral.”

  The blur yelled back, “You always look like you’re dressed for a funeral.”

  I wanted to come back with some snide retort, but the response was true. And at that moment, I heard the front door open, and I didn’t know who might be walking in. Thank goodness I kept my mouth shut, because I heard Uta Huber, our receptionist, say, “May I help you?”

  A deep male voice with a slight southern drawl responded, “Good morning, ma’am, I have an appointment with Miss Mimi Capurro at eight-thirty.”

  I looked at my watch. He was twenty minutes early. If he’d worked for me, I’d have liked this guy. But as a client, I hated when they were this early, especially if I didn’t have a previous client, and I wasn’t ready for them. Not that I wasn’t ready; I just wasn’t ready to deal with people so early. But my door was open, and there he was, ten-gallon hat and all, standing right there where he could see me.

  Before she could respond, I said, “Uta, I’m ready.” I stood and came around my desk to meet the man at the door. Uta worked hard, and I didn’t think she needed to get up and show him to my office.

  Our building was a Victorian house that used to be the place where my husband ran his produce brokerage business. Or at least that’s what he told me. My husband died in a plane crash, and since Dominic’s death, I’m not really sure who I was married to, or what he really did for a living. Some day, when I got up the nerve, I’d start snooping, but right now, my heart wasn’t in it. I had the entire house redecorated and it was now the humble home of the Gotcha Detective Agency. After finding out about the Capurro family, I wanted the house to feel completely different, to change everything and make it my own, not the house I’d shared with Dominic.

  When I got to the door, I was impressed at the size of this southern gentleman. Tall as a beanstalk and just as skinny, I guessed he’d make both Nick and Charles look up to look him in the eyes. His eyes were a dark blue, set in tanned skin that had seen more than its share of sun.

  He put down his briefcase, removed his hat, and reached out to shake my hand. “Skinner Mathis, ma’am.”

  I hated him on sight. Mostly because the silver in his long, brown sideburns made him look distinguished, and his leathery skin made him look rugged. But really, it was because if he was a woman, he’d have looked rode hard and put up wet (that’s about the only horse/rodeo term I know, but I had a feeling I was about to learn a whole lot more), but as a man, he looked damned sexy. It wasn’t fair.

  I shook his calloused hand and welcomed him into my office, then I went around, sat back down in my chair, and did my darndest to keep from fanning myself. I was still too young for hot flashes, but it was getting warm in here real quick.

  Before I could make a complete fool of myself, the blur in black waltzed into my office with a tall crystal glass filled with ice and brimming with white chocolate coffee. My new addiction, the canned Starbucks stuff you can get at the convenience stores and pour over ice. Only I get it at Costco in bulk and store it in the garage at the office, and at my house.

  Jackie Bacarrin, my best friend and employee, handed me the glass, and I made introductions. I saw the appreciation in her eyes, too, as she offered him a beverage while looking him up and down.

  “No, I’m good. I’d like to get down to business, if you don’t mind. I need to get to work.” He was polite, but to the point.

  Jackie decided she’d stay and listen in. Floozy.

  That might be an exaggeration, because when she came back from her vacation, she had an engagement ring and a dainty gold band on her finger, and well, how should I put this… the bitch ELOPED!

  Yes, there you have it: my very best friend in the big, wide world went and got married without me. In all fairness, the only people who knew were her kids, and that’s only because they were with her. Because she’d never have married the guy without their approval. She certainly didn’t need my approval, and if she’d have asked for it, I’d have refused an answer.
Whatever, let’s just drop the subject before I get pissed off.

  “Mr. Mathis, Uta explained that you want us to look into a possible fraud case.” I pulled up the file on my laptop computer.

  Jackie walked over to my desk and looked over my shoulder. Normally, this would drive me nuts, but I didn’t want to be bitchy in front of a client, so I let it pass.

  “If we’re going to be working together, I’d prefer you call me Skinner. Do you mind If I call you Mimi?” He looked at Jackie. “And Jackie?”

  In stereo, we said, “Not at all, Skinner.”

  As he pulled papers from his briefcase, I kept glancing at his clothes. He was straight out of a rodeo arena or a western store. He wore a short sleeved plaid shirt with pearl snap buttons tucked into well-washed and heavily starched blue Wrangler jeans. He wore a trophy buckle of some kind, but I didn’t want to stare at his crotch trying to figure out what it said, so I don’t know how he won it. I’d heard the clop of his cowboy boots when he walked in, but I couldn’t see them from my seat behind the desk.

  “Here’s the deal.” He shuffled through some papers he’d pulled from a briefcase. “I was in business with my old team roping partner for a few years. I should have known better, because you know how it is: you see someone screw over other people for years, and somehow you consider yourself friends, and you think, ‘He’d never do that to me, we’re friends.’ Well, I learned the hard way.”

  Jackie put her hands on the back of my chair. “What kind of business were you in?”

  Skinner pulled a business card out of the breast pocket of his shirt and placed it on my desk. It was a plain white card with some sort of cattle brand embossed on it. The name read “Stockyards Contractors” and had Skinner’s name and contact information. “I’m in the livestock business. I handle all sorts, but mostly I’m a stock contractor for rodeos.”

  I asked, “This is the same business you were in with…” I was fishing for a name.

  “Sort of the same business. And I was in business with Bucky Cox.”

  I felt Jackie stiffen behind me. “Bucky ‘I’m your man’ Cox?”

  Skinner cringed. “The one and only.”

  “Ugh.” Jackie didn’t even try to hide her dislike.

  “I see we’re of the same mind regarding Bucky.”

  Bucky Cox was the county supervisor, and he was running for another term. His face was everywhere; TV, buses, bus stops, Twitter ads, on Facebook under “people you may know.” We couldn’t get away from him.

  Bucky Cox, his good ol’ boy grin, and his ever present cowboy hat. Bucky was Salinas, born and bred, and he was a cowboy through and through. He’d been a five time world champion saddle bronc rider before switching to team roping, and just about everyone in Salinas, home of the California Rodeo, knew who he was. He used his World Champion Rodeo Cowboy status to win the supervisor position, but it wasn’t his first rodeo (excuse the pun). He’d played in politics with the rodeo association, and even with the city council before that. Bucky had his hand in a lot of pies.

  “This isn’t going to go well for our agency when he finds out we’re investigating him,” I said, tapping my pen on the blotter on my desk.

  “So you won’t take the case?” Skinner looked disappointed.

  “I need to know what we’re investigating first.” I started to look through the papers.

  “Bucky is Teflon. He writes bogus contracts, which I’ve been the victim of, but that’s another story, and plays at shady deals, but this is the worst.” He leaned forward and flipped the page for me.

  The picture was of a beautiful, fully appointed livestock trailer. The other photos on the page showed luxury living quarters, and livestock stalls fit for royalty. I looked at the price at the bottom of the page and nearly choked. “Holy mother of…”

  “Yes, ma’am, Bucky bought that with my credit. And because of that, I now have no credit.” He crossed his legs. “I’m in the livestock business. My livelihood depends on my good name and an excellent credit rating.”

  I watched Skinner closely as he spoke. Somehow this story didn’t add up. “And just how did he do that?”

  “It’s called fraud, Mimi. And that’s what I need help with. We’re ready to go into a civil trial with this, but I think it’s a criminal trial. I need to prove Bucky committed an egregious crime. He’s everyone’s best buddy, and no one wants to see him look bad with the election right around the corner. The police don’t seem to have time to investigate and prove the crime, so I need to prove it myself. Bucky should be in prison, not on the supervisors’ board.”

  Jackie said, “You mean we have to prove the fraud for you.”

  Skinner cocked his head and smiled his charming smile that I’m sure melted many a cowgirl’s hearts. “Well, yes.”

  That smile, the slightly crooked teeth, the wrinkles around his eyes, the realness, was what sealed the deal. “Fine.” I told him our fees, and the upfront retainer.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll pay the retainer in cash. With this case, I’m afraid to even write a check at this point. My wife made me take everything out of all of our accounts, in case somehow Bucky was somehow able to access those, too.”

  I didn’t see a ring on his finger. No tan line. Huh, he was married. Never would have guessed it. “She may be right. Maybe a very smart move, but only if you have a very safe place for your money.”

  Skinner threw back his head and laughed. “Ma’am, my wife can shoot like a sniper, and I’d say our money couldn’t be safer if it was in Fort Knox.”

  He pulled a package out of his worn leather briefcase and counted out the bills.

  My curiosity got the better of me. “So what exactly did happen?”

  Again, Skinner flipped a page for me. It was a letter from a local bank. I’d say which one, but that’s sort of privileged information.

  “I had no idea what was going on until I got the congratulations letter from the bank.”

  The letter congratulated him on his new purchase, his $200,000 purchase. “Yeah, congrats. Or not.”

  “I contacted the finance manager for the Fitzduring Trailer Company, a Mister…”

  I looked at the folder, “Mr. Josh Taylor.”

  “Yes. He said he called the number on the credit application and asked for me. A man who identified himself as Skinner Mathis answered and verified all of the details needed to process the application.”

  Jackie asked, “How would Bucky have this information?”

  “Bucky and I traveled a lot of miles together. We had a lot of conversations. I don’t even begin to know the things I told thatass…, excuse me, man over the years. I had no idea he’d be cataloging it to use later to commit fraud.” Skinner leaned back in his chair, defeated.

  Jackie came around the desk, looking at me as she did. “Girl, you ever screw me like that, I won’t be looking for a P.I., I’ll be looking for my Glock.” She sat next to Skinner. “So what do you want us to do?”

  “The trailer hasn’t been delivered. It was a custom made contract. The work was halted when I contacted the finance manager. But since it had been started, I’m liable for the contract. I’m not paying $200,000 for a contract I didn’t enter into.”

  I looked through the file. I still didn’t get it. “How exactly was it that Bucky was going to have this trailer delivered? I mean, how was he going to get away with it?”

  “Oh, you and I don’t have the devious mind he has. He’d have a scheme on the other end, and his precious wife would be in on it with him. They’re screwing a poor woman out of a nice barrel racing horse as we speak.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. How was he going to have the trailer delivered?”

  “He wasn’t. He was supposed to pick it up.”

  While Jackie sat across from me, I pulled up my handy-dandy P.I. software and ran a check on Skinner Mathis. Just how innocent was Skinner?

  “In all the miles you and Bucky traveled together, he never brought you in on any of his
scams?” Jackie sounded intrigued, but I knew she was baiting him.

  “Funny thing, he didn’t seem like a scam artist at the time. He came across as a good guy. It wasn’t until I went into business with him that I realized he was cheating people, committing fraud, and outright stealing.”

  “Mr. Mathis, you aren’t exactly a saint yourself. I see here you were arrested last month on theft charges. Learned a little something from Mr. Cox, did you? Or maybe not, since you got caught.”

  Skinner jumped to his feet. “No! That’s just it. Bucky is the one who had me arrested. He claimed I stole his trophy saddle from when we team roped together. I swear to you that’s my saddle. It’s my saddle and now he has it. He was able to convince the police that it was his. He has his saddle, the header’s saddle. Mine was the heeler’s saddle, and that greedy bast...excuse me, that jerk, he wanted it all, he’s always wanted it all.”

  Skinner deflated. I had no idea what the difference was between a header’s saddle and a heeler’s saddle, and I really didn’t care. But I guess if we were going to take on this man’s case, I was going to learn a lot of things about horses, trailers, rodeo, and whatnot that I didn’t think I’d ever know.

  “So a header doesn’t need a heeler’s saddle?” The words sounded stupid just leaving my mouth.

  “They are trophy saddles,” he said. “Like in bowling, when you win a trophy? In rodeo, they give buckles and saddles and such. There really isn’t a difference in the saddles, it’s just that in team roping, it’s a team and the header…”

  Cortnie walked into the office, also clad from head to toe in black. Cortnie was my surveillance guru, and one of the best finds since opening my agency, well, other than Charles, of course. “That’s the guy who ropes the head of the steer, then dallies and turns him off, so the heeler can rope the heels, therefore, called the heeler.” She stepped forward and jabbed her hand toward Skinner’s belly. “Skinner Mathis, wow, nice to meet you. I’ve been a fan since I was a kid.”