by R Weir
Tracking a Shadow
A Jarvis Mann Detective Novel
By
R Weir
Copyright © R Weir 2014
The right of R Weir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Publisher. This book may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior written consent of the Publisher. No responsibility for loss occasioned to any person or corporate body acting or refraining to act as a result of reading material in this book can be accepted by the Publisher, by the Author, or by the employer(s) of the Author. Certain images copyright.
R Weir. Tracking a Shadow.
Cover Design by:
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To my wife and daughter, who have
been with me every step of the way
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 1
It was a hot, hazy Sunday afternoon, and I was getting back from a friend’s garage where I’d spent the day working on my classic ’69 Mustang, though classic might be a slight exaggeration. I’d received a large check from a case I’d recently finished, so I had some money to spend. The engine had been running rather rough in the summer heat, and the gas mileage on the old yellow-and-black thing had been very poor. I tuned her up, changed all the filters and put in fresh motor oil, so she roared like a lioness. Why are cars always considered she’s? Probably because, like women, cars required a lot of attention. Though this little lady never complained about my snoring.
I felt a bit greasy from the day’s work when I returned home. I still lived and worked from the place on West Evans Street below the beauty salon. It seemed their clientele outnumbered mine, though mine usually paid better. Of course, one person a week would outnumber mine. Maybe we could run a joint special together. Get a haircut and a crime solved for one low price! Maybe I should go into marketing.
Stepping down the sloping stairs to my home office, I unlocked the front door. Once inside I remembered I’d turned off my smartphone, and a few months back I’d removed my landline to save money. Even though there was always a concern about missing an important call, those calls came few and far between. I needed to get the car running just right and didn’t want to be disturbed. Besides the cell battery was at less than 20 percent, where it annoyingly was warning me to charge it, but I had no charger with me. Maybe phones were female as well! I found the adapter on my desk and plugged it in while powering it on. The little envelope icon popped up with a cheery chime. Sure enough, someone had called and left a message.
“Damn, a call!” I stated out loud. Sometimes I liked to listen to my own voice as it echoed off the walls. I often wondered if they heard me upstairs. Probably not over the girl-on-girl chatter and 2000-watt hair dryers. Though today they were closed, so only the spiders whose webs seemed to appear everywhere would capture my quips.
Of course it could be a wrong number, with the person calling hanging up once they knew that they’d dialed incorrectly, using those precious cell minutes. Or it could just be someone marketing something, even though I was supposed to be on a no-call list. But I sensed this was potential Private Eye business, as I’d been on kind of a roll with a couple of decent paying jobs over the last few months that didn’t require taking pictures of a cheating spouse, from clients whose checks hadn’t bounced.
The voice on the message was short and to the point, sharp and sexy, from female vocal chords that struck a note with me. It was a sound one hoped would live up to the actual person’s appearance. Does the voice ever match the face?
“Hi, my name is Emily. I’m in need of your services. A friend from church, Dennis Gash, gave me your name and said you’d be able to help me. Please call as soon as possible, it is quite urgent.” She rattled off the digits of her phone number eloquently.
What a voice! I could listen to it endlessly. Something about how she said “I need your services” lifted my spirits. If only calls like that came every day. If only I got one like that once a year! But the voice also sounded concerned, even scared of something. That was the kind of work I did. Solve other people’s problems to the best of my abilities.
She had mentioned Dennis Gash, a young man I helped earlier in the year find a stolen bubble gum card. Until these last two cases it had been one of the higher-paying jobs over the last twelve months. That job’s souvenir was a Willie Mays baseball card placed in the left-hand corner of the autumn mountain picture hanging behind my desk. Something I would treasure always.
Being the master sleuth that I was, I knew what to do next. I reached for the smartphone and dialed her number. Why waste this talent on Madison Avenue!
“Hello.” It was the same voice!
“Hi, this is Jarvis Mann. I’m returning your call.” I tried to sound as cool as I could, but I sounded like a teenager in puberty. For some reason I was always nervous when talking with a prospective client, especially a female one. I had to mute the phone to clear my throat.
She sounded a little nervous as well, but for a different reason. “I’m glad you returned my call. I hope you’re not too busy. I need to hire you to investigate, as I’m scared for my life.”
I couldn’t tell her the only thing keeping me busy on most days was finding ways to avoid the bill collector. “Oh, I think I can fit you in my busy schedule and help you. I have some stuff on my hands right now I need to deal with first, but if you’ll give me your address I’ll be over as soon as possible.”
I wrote down her address on a piece a paper I unearthed from the clutter on my basic pine desk. I told her it would be an hour or so before I’d be over, though she only lived a couple of miles away. The stuff on my hands I had to deal with was the grease from working on my car. The Mustang had become a money pit these days, so I hoped to earn a bit of cash to help pay for other essentials it needed, like gasoline—not to mention groceries and rent to keep me off the street.
It took some extra-hard scrubbing but I was able to remove all the black grime. Showered and shaved, I was clean and dry and smelling of aftershave. I figured my normal getup of blue jeans and a T-shirt would be a letdown for her. She would be expecting a gumshoe extraordinaire, so I tried to dress the part, though that would be challenging with a limited wardrobe. So I did the best with what I had to work with. Dark slacks, black-and-yellow-striped polo s
hirt and freshly polished black wing-tipped shoes adorned my athletic frame. This was my spiffiest meet-a-client outfit, straight from Target and Famous Footwear. The one that made women’s hearts melt. Well, at least I wished it did.
The drive over didn’t take too long. I hit every green light as I headed east on Evans, until I came to her street. This Denver neighborhood was a step up from mine. Clean, well kept homes, nearly all of which were a red or tan brick. Urban renewal had invaded the area, with a sprinkle of newer buildings mixing with the old. I found the address and parked on the street. Her home was similar to the rest on her block but was the nicest of them all. It sat on a huge corner lot. A beige brick with dark-green trim adorned the two-storey home, a luxury for an area that was ranch-dominated. A huge cottonwood tree graced the front yard, white puffs of seeds blowing in the wind. The lawn was nitrate-enhanced green and newly trimmed. I got out and strolled the cracked, uneven concrete walk to the front door and rang the doorbell. The chimes even sounded classy.
Now, anytime you hear a voice for the first time, you imagine what the person looks like. I’m not certain why we humans do this, but it seems to be natural for us curious creatures. Sometimes you are right on target, and other times you’re not even close. Usually when it’s a woman’s voice I’m pretty far off the mark. Normally when I think they’re beautiful they’re rather ugly, and when I think they’re ugly they are gorgeous.
Since I thought Emily sounded like a fox, I assumed the worst. What I got landed somewhere in between. Not a Sports Illustrated swimsuit babe, but certainly not ugly. She was simple, maybe a little bit plain, and possibly would be described as the girl next door, though more likely the woman next door, for she appeared to be in her mid-to-late thirties, her long, straight brownish-blonde hair parted in the middle and swept back out of her deep-set blue eyes. Her body was nicely built, though I’m certain she thought her hips were too wide. Don’t all women think that! Dressed for the hot summer day, she wore cutoff blue-jean shorts designed to reveal her shapely, tanned legs and a bright-orange T-shirt with a Broncos logo on the front, just tight enough to show off her ample bosom. Her face, devoid of make-up, smiled warmly and invited me in. After looking her over some more I decided a little bit plain had been overly harsh, as she had a natural beauty to her.
As I stepped in the door a brown-and-white beagle gazed at me square in the eye with a hint of anger and flash of teeth. I was amazed it hadn’t barked and wasn’t sure what to think. He was a small- to medium-sized animal, but with dogs that didn’t matter. When they sink their teeth into you, you’ll know it. Now, firing off a gun would get their attention but would not make a good impression on my possible client. Besides I’d left my 9MM locked away in the car glove box only for emergencies. Didn’t seem like I needed to be heavily armed for the meet and greet.
Emily took charge, speaking to the pet firmly. “Opus, stop it! This nice gentleman is here to help me. Sorry, I’m dog-sitting this week for my neighbor, who is out of town. He doesn’t like strangers much: very territorial. Likes to bark a lot as well, and I’m surprised he didn’t yelp at you. I always know when the postal carrier is delivering mail, as he barks endlessly.” She paused to compose herself. “Sorry about the rant. Please make yourself comfortable.”
I found a seat on a plush sofa in the living room. Looking around, I took in the surroundings while keeping one eye on Opus and the other on Emily, who had taken a chair opposite me. Sounds pretty hard to do, yet I did it. All part of the skill set needed for a P.I. I always noticed minute details, like the doilies on the tables, the bright and clean appearance of the bleach-white carpet, and the various pictures that covered the walls, including one of a famous woman whose name escaped me. I also was buoyed by the “nice” comment she had made. One always grabbed for the little things when you often slept alone at night. But I digress. This was a possible client, and I needed to treat her that way. Hitting on her would likely not lead to a job. Opus might not like it either, being territorial.
“Care for something to drink, Mr. Mann?” she asked while smiling with pearly-white teeth.
“No thank you. Please call me Jarvis. May I call you Emily? I don’t recall you leaving a last name on the message.”
“White, Emily White. And yes, please call me Emily. That is an interesting name, Jarvis. You don’t hear it often.”
“Most think I should be part of someone’s household staff with that name. I’ve taken my fair share of ribbing through the years. It was my grandfather’s middle name. I like that it is different and sets me apart from everyone else.”
“I love it. It’s very masculine.”
I smiled as I savored the masculine comment. What man wouldn’t! If she was trying to butter me up, it was working.
“What is the problem you need my help with?” I asked, getting straight to the point. I never was good at small talk. Those statements like “Boy, it’s been so hot lately” always seemed corny to me. Rarely was I invited to parties for that reason alone.
“I have an issue where I think someone may be stalking me, and it’s starting to scare me.” A tremor shook her voice.
“Tell me about it?”
She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Well, I started noticing this a month or so ago. Certain nagging things, like the sense someone was following me: first a car and then a person always seemingly behind me when shopping. The feeling someone’s been in the house. Items not where they should be when I returned home. Finding the door unlocked when I’m certain I locked it. Calls on my home phone and cell, with no one speaking on the other side when I answered, the numbers always blocked. Lots of little things like that.”
“Do you ever see them? Can you give me a description? What about a make, color and model of the car you’ve seen?”
“Well, that is part of the problem, and I’m not the best at descriptive details. From what I’ve seen he’s male, but seems like a different person each time. Anywhere from 6 foot to 6’3” with dark hair, clothed in various outfits, from jeans and a T-shirt, to dark slacks with a light-colored polo shirt. Much like you’re dressed now. The vehicles have been anything from a dark four-door sedan to a large SUV to even a motorcycle. I get glimpses, but it’s always something a little different and nothing I can pinpoint exactly. He seems extremely elusive and sly—a shadow in the background.”
This all sounded strange to me. I hoped she wasn’t some kook searching for attention. I would need more to go on and tried not to seem too perplexed by what she told me. I needed the job and liked what I was looking at.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, reading my thoughts, “crazy woman seeing things. That is what the police told me as well. They thought they were talking to a nut job, though they didn’t say it in so many words. But I’ve been down this road before with someone else, and I don’t care to go down it again.”
“So you are saying...” I asked.
“Yes. This is not the first time I’ve been stalked!” she said with a chill in her voice. This potential case had just gotten more interesting.
Chapter 2
Emily got up from her chair. “I need something to drink. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Bottled water would be fine if you have any,” I replied.
She left the room for a few minutes. Opus—the name reminded me of the comic strip Bloom County, one of my favorites—followed her out and back in again when she returned, hoping for a treat. He was in luck, as he carried out of the room a biscuit, sat down and devoured it. She handed me the water while taking a sip of her own, and sat down. She was trying to compose herself before beginning her story.
“It was around five years ago,” Emily began. “I was finishing up a rocky marriage to a man whom I once adored. He was sweet, loving and beautiful: all a girl could hope for. But then he changed into this controlling, jealous, crazy man who didn’t allow me to breathe. Anyone I talked with or interacted with, whether it was friends or co-workers
, he’d swear I was having an affair with them. It didn’t matter if they were male or female. I couldn’t have any type of prolonged conversation without him launching into a jealous rage. We’d been married going on three years, and the last two were hell. I had to get out and move away. But he wouldn’t let me. I was trapped. No family to help, and the few friends I had left were scared of him. But I had to find a way.”
“So what did you do?” It was an obvious question to ask.
“Fortunately, there were no children to tie me down. So I packed up everything I could take with me one day and left. Really, it was a month of preparation before I moved to the other side of town. We lived in Westminster at the time, and I had substantial money put away he didn’t know about. I decided to move down here. I found an apartment and a lawyer to help me escape. I had to get out from under his control to take back my life. Those that I worked with helped shield me from him as best they could. Once the divorce papers were served I thought he finally understood and would get it through his thick head. My lawyer made it very clear to him and his lawyer that he was to stay away. But then it started.”
Emily stopped to take a breath. You could see reliving this was hard for her, and that many sleepless nights had been spent dealing with the drama that was her former married life. I kept my mouth shut and listened intently. It was one of my best traits.
“First it was phone calls begging me to come back, that he couldn’t live without me. I was adamant that I wouldn’t and that he should get on with his life. Finally, I stopped taking them, but the phone rang and rang at all hours every day, so I changed numbers. Then he began following me everywhere, to work and back home again. If I went out to shop he was there. Off in the distance but where I could see him. If I tried to approach him to tell him to leave me alone he would walk, run or drive away, only to return later. He must have taken time off from work for several weeks, as he wouldn’t stop. His harassment wasn’t verbally or physically threatening me but menacing, to show I would never be free. I couldn’t sleep for fear he was going to snap. Be one of those ex-husbands that walks in, shoots his ex-wife and then kills himself.
