Blue (The Carson Trilogy Book 1)

by K NILSSON

  I heard screaming.

  It was me.

  I couldn't wrap my head around what had happened. I didn't know how far down the mountain we'd gone.

  Nature responded with the crushing sound of silence. The arctic air froze my breath. The windshield shattered into a spider web. Disoriented, I could not recollect what I did when everything stilled. I’d suffered a jolt to the head, hard enough to cause my brain to bounce or twist in my skull. Then, the realization we toppled down the mountain registered. Pushing the deflated airbag off me, I turned toward Mom. Bloody and broken, she lay motionless. I pushed her airbag away and touched her.

  "Mom! Mom!"

  She didn't move, didn't twitch, and didn't moan. Blood pooled where her head broke through the side window. The red against blond hair was a shocking contrast, but it didn’t make the crash more real.

  I scrambled out determined to pull Mom from the wreck. I discovered the phone near my foot. I flipped it open to call for help, but the phone had no signal. I screamed her name in time with the thrumming of my heart, and then, I prayed. Garbled sounds came out of her mouth. Words! She was alive!

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, she whispered, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Stay with me. Help is on the way,” I lied.

  “Go get Grandma. She has my things in her attic.”

  “Come with me, Mom,” I pleaded.

  “I can’t see, baby girl,” she choked out, struggling to breathe.

  Something confused her, a head injury. I tried to figure out how to help her, but I didn’t want to miss anything else she’d say. All the while, in between whispered fragments, “will... key... lockbox” and endearments, the sound of animals kept me on alert.

  Bears and coyotes were likely to encircle the Jeep. The smell of blood would attract them. The windows shattered from the crash exposed us to the elements. They would come for her body and mine, but I couldn't let them take her. I stayed to keep the animals away, but if I waited any longer, death would soon find me, too.

  Her breathing stopped an hour ago, the color of her face, was an eerie translucent blue. The temporary solace were thoughts of her hovering, disembodied, over me, her shocked, distraught daughter. I cried until I was too hoarse to breathe. This crash didn't happen. It's a nightmare, right? The Jeep groaned as I got out of the car. I feared it would roll over me.

  I clambered up the hill to the highway. No vehicles were on the road. I wandered until one of the lodges with smoke coming out of the chimney was within sight. There was both relief and despair at seeing the great stone house. Then with all the breath I could muster, I screamed for help.

  A man rushed out as I collapsed in the snow.

  A siren wailed in the distance.

  An ambulance came. The medics pronounced Mom dead, then took me to the hospital. They treated me for a concussion, shock, cuts, scrapes, and bruises. They said I was lucky to be alive.

  Chapter One

  Devyn

  Venice Beach, California

  Present day

  Monday mornings, most people have breakfast, shower, and go to work. But, me? At 6 a.m., I rolled out of bed already dressed in workout clothes: yoga pants and a T-shirt. I pulled my hair up into a messy bun, brushed my teeth, grabbed a coffee, and by 6:45, I was at the gym ready to get my ass handed to me by Ben Rosenberg, my boss. I do this three times a week.

  I met Ben when I was a student at the University of California. He was a guest lecturer for a popular elective course, Private Investigation. The university had guest lecturers all the time as adjuncts to the required classes. His lecture was an adjunct to the computer forensics course of study I was considering. But I couldn’t see myself in a desk job the rest of my life.

  Investigative jobs included finding missing persons, taking part in crime scenes investigations, surveillance, computer forensics, and more. It sounded like the right career choice for me.

  Ben became my mentor when my college advisor reminded me I had to declare my major, a course of study in which to get a degree, by the second year of college. I had Ben’s contact information from the lecture and contacted him. He had a few questions.

  “Why do you want to be a private investigator?”

  It was a question I expected, but instead of reading off my prepared response, I answered from the heart.

  “I got a full-ride scholarship and want to do something good with my life. I was always interested in crime stories, especially missing persons. I followed high-profile kidnappings going as far back as the multi-billionaire’s grandson who arranged to have himself kidnapped and mutilated just to get his hands on the ransom money, only to get found out.”

  “Is that the only reason, because you watched some crime dramas and what, read Nancy Drew mysteries?” he mocked.

  At first I was taken aback by his rude response. But then, he must get calls like mine every day, many times a day.

  “Who is Nancy Drew?” I asked.

  “They were early 1980s girl detective stories,” he replied.

  “To answer your question,” I continued, “I want to make a difference, be part of the solution to crimes against the helpless.”

  “Why don’t you become a police officer?” he asked.

  “I just don’t want to be a cop,” I said.

  “Okay, so what else makes you have this burning desire to be an investigator? Private Investigation is not cops-lite,” he said.

  “My father was my inspiration. He was a Green Beret. He died in the line of duty during Desert Storm.”

  I felt my eyes water, grateful that Ben and I were having a phone conversation and not a face to face. On the other end of the phone, Ben was silent.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but continued. “Look I don’t want to give you the mistaken impression that private investigation is a dream job, full of adventure, and that you could be a female version of James Bond, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. The fact is, the worst part of the job is boredom, the second worst part of the job is boredom, the third worst part of the job is more of the same.”

  Now I knew he was trying to blow me off, discourage me, and I didn’t understand why. It’s not as if I asked for a job, or money, or anything like that.

  “Tenacity and Initiative are my first and last names. I am trustworthy. Take my word for it. As for friendly, I can be friendly, until I'm not. If I'm caught in a conundrum, I will pull out the creativity card. I have a keen eye for detail and excellent people skills. And before you can say no, consider this: I’ll be a private investigator with or without your help. All I want is a little direction.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I think I’d be good at it.” I finished, stopping the brewing condescending tirade.

  He was still silent, and I wondered if he was even there.

  “Sorry I took up your time,” I blurted.

  Click.

  It took all the self-control I had not to say anything snarky. My cell phone chimed at once after and I saw it was him calling back.

  “Hello?”

  “I suggest you major in criminology and minor in computer forensics,” he said quietly.

  There was silence between us. I thanked him and ended the call.

  Computer forensics. That course of study wasn’t on my radar. A degree in computer forensics can help private investigators learn how to uncover this information, even if it has been encrypted. Most degrees in computer forensics are four-year degrees and they need intensive computer science and programming coursework. The next semester, I took a computer forensics class and a basic criminology course. Something propelled me into going down this path.

  I followed Ben’s advice and reminded him every time we crossed paths, to the point that he’d mouth my words back at me when we waved to each other across the campus hallways. That small success ignited my campaign to get an internship with him.

  I must have worn Ben down because he relented and let me intern with him while I f
inished my degree. My internship began with doing surveillance, hunkering down in my car watching people, taking photographs, and gathering evidence of potential fraud.

  After graduating from school, I had a job waiting for me and working for Ben was a dream come true. These assignments are everything I dreamed about, but they’re also everything I feared. Now not only is Ben still my mentor and trainer but my boss, too.

  The private gym was a gray rectangular building, a former car repair garage that the new owner had gutted and renovated. The side entrance, sliding doors that ride parallel tracks, are too upscale to imagine them ever a garage. The concrete floors are surfaced with high-density rubber. The built-in car lifts were re-purposed for monkey bars, boxing bags, and gymnastics rings. Free weights were organized along the walls. The only light in the space is sunlight, streaming from the storefront windows.

  “Good morning Devyn. How are you this fine morning? You slept well, yes?”

  Ben speaks with a British accent, but, I think he is a former member of the Mossad or Israeli army. I've tried to find out, even outright asked him, but he said, “if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Typical cliché, delivered with dry humor. One reason I think he is Mossad is his expertise in Krav Maga, a self-defense and physical training developed by the Israeli army in the 1940s.

  “I’m okay. As good as expected,” I grouched.

  “Let’s begin,” he ordered.

  I faced bared teeth. Guttural sounds came from his throat. Though there were only two of us, the room filled with noises of more people, feet kicking and chest thumps, signals of aggression and menace.

  Six feet of distance was between us, enough room to dance for dominance. We circled each other, ducking, side shuffling, and looking for openings to attack. A misplaced glance revealed an opportunity; a pause signaled a sign of weakness.

  Survival depended on an opportunity to break through the sphere of protection while avoiding self-destruction.

  Ben was compact and sinewy. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. Before we began this advanced level of sparring, I had my doubts about the training—what it was he promised versus what was being delivered. The cost-benefit analysis he sold me wasn’t balancing out as I thought. He said we were also going flying, jumping out of airplanes with parachutes. What happened to that?

  I widened my stance, forearms spread, palms up and whined, “This isn’t what I signed up for, Ben.”

  He grinned.

  It’s not the first time I’ve complained about the intensity and necessity of this close-up, nose-to-nose fighting.

  "Come on, Devyn. Practice more hand-to-hand combat. I've been easy on you. Now you must knuckle down. This is the fun part."

  "How so?"

  "It will be one of the few times you can kick my ass."

  How could I pass that up? I wanted to knock the silver devil on his ass again. I call him that because his hair is white as snow, his eyes are a light grey-blue, and his beard is the color of salt and pepper—more salt than pepper. He’s a man with a young handsome face that’s at odds with the coloring of his hair. The effect is head turning.

  Was he laughing at me?

  "Ben! Was last week’s sparring a fake-out? Because if it was, you cheated me out of giving you a sharp backhand to the balls."

  Ben covered his mouth to hide his grin.

  "I'm so very grateful. It would have ruined my whole weekend," he joked.

  Without warning, he knocked me off balance with a roundhouse kick. I fell backward in a landing position he had me practice.

  I got my footing right away. My fists clenched at my sides.

  "That's not fair."

  "Life's not fair."

  He didn't need to remind me. I glared at the asshole.

  "Thank you," he quipped, reading my mind.

  Son of a bitch.

  He attacked again without giving away a clue. I bounced back up, legs spread and balanced on the balls of my feet.

  Ben grinned. "Good. Your abdominal muscles controlled your landing. I want to make sure it wasn't a fluke."

  I returned his attack with jumping kicks, and at one point, kicked his jaw with the heel of my foot. He staggered, dazed at the blow. His eyes rolled back in his head, throwing me a false hint. Then he tried a full nelson, both his arms under my armpits and his hands behind my neck, but I flipped him over my body knocking the breath out of him when he fell onto his back with a thud. He didn't move. In hand-to-hand combat, no one can afford to doubt themselves. The instinct to survive kicks in like adrenalin. I didn't know if he was playing possum or not. I went overboard a little.

  "You all right?"

  Ben was finished practicing for the day and so was I. He didn’t speak but beckoned with his hand, flexing it for a bottle of water. I got us two out of the fridge and offered him one. But I stood six feet away. I'm not going down for a simple act of concern.

  He leaned toward me, grabbed the water, and gulped it down without stopping to take a breath. There was no eye contact on his part. I looked away to hide my grin.

  "Did you bring any of your mother's chicken soup?"

  He jutted his chin toward the fridge. Okay. So, he can’t talk now.

  Ben brought me lunch every time we practiced. He said it was his privilege and responsibility to feed such a dedicated employee. It was when he said those things I wasn’t sure he was blowing smoke up my skirt as Grandma used to say. But, I reveled in the progress I've made from when I began as an intern until now, a licensed private investigator.

  “I'm jumping in the shower,” he said walking toward the locker room.

  I couldn’t wait to go home and soak in the tub. My body was sore from practice. When he returned, his wet hair gleamed. He’d put on his black-rim glasses and signature turtleneck with short sleeves. Ben’s the only man I had ever seen who wore a black turtleneck as a standard uniform. He had the look of a stern professor.

  We sat at the little card table and folding chairs the gym kept in the office and ate in companionable silence, the endorphins from the exercise dissipating away with every bite of the delicious goodness.

  Ben took a manila envelope out of his messenger bag and tossed it on the table. It was thick with papers. I didn’t want to appear eager to inspect the envelope's contents because every time I was excited about a new case, he’d cast a shadow on it. I diverted my attention to the last few spoonfuls of soup left in the bowl. The envelope might have details of a new PI case, one I could execute by myself.

  He crooked his eyebrow and jutted his chin toward the envelope.

  "Now?"

  He nodded.

  I rubbed my hands over my thighs and spread the metal fastener.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "What?"

  "I don't think you are ready."

  Ben, who has been my supervisor and trainer for the past three years and has given me assignments and the confidence to succeed in my task, doubted me. Doubt was like oil. Once a drop gets on your shirt, you can't wash it out.

  He looked at the floor. At that, I made a quick business of slitting the edge open and pulled out the stack of notes, photos, and memorandums.

  Chapter Two

  Devyn

  Pacific Palisades, CA

  Rosenberg Investigations

  Subject: New Case

  Type of Case: Find Missing Person Kai Lin

  Summary:

  Find missing person, Chinese national Kai Lin.

  Kai Lin, a Chinese national, was in the US on a special visa, a green card, allowing him to stay in here for a specified amount of time or until his working relationship with his employer, Tech-Key, had ended.

  Nathan Miller, CEO of Tech-Key stated that on April 27, 2017, Kai Lin didn’t show up for work, didn't call, or communicate in any way with his employer or co-workers. The company sent emails and letters encouraging him to contact his employer. Mr. Miller assumed he left the company and disappeared. He had no reason to suspect foul play. M
iller didn't report Kai's disappearance until Kai's parents convinced Miller that he had to be a victim of foul play. Kai Lin’s Chinese family hired Rosenberg Investigations to find him.

  Kai was the Lin’s only child due to China’s one-child policy in 1992. Cultural mores dictate he take care of his parents when they got old. He was a beloved son, especially because the government forced the parents to agree to have one child. Officers in the father’s factory came to his home day after day, harassing the couple, and would not stop until they agreed to abort the second pregnancy. The government forced his mother into doing it at four months.

  The Lins allowed their son to go to the US to study computer science and get hired by an employer who would sponsor him for a green card. Kai did this, and upon graduation, Tech-Key sponsored him for a green card. When it was time for his parents to come over, Kai disappeared. They could not reach him. It was unlike their son to abandon all communication with his parents.

  The envelope had a Tech-Key company id for Kai, photos of his parents, contact information for his family and employer including bank records, credit card bills, and driver’s registration.

  Kai’s id photo revealed a young Asian male with hopeful eyes and a tight smile. His skinny neck contrasted against the loose collar of his shirt. The jacket was a mass of wrinkles and folds. This id depicted a young man who swallowed his anxiety and took a leap of faith to settle in another country and live a life different from what he’d ever known. I knew that feeling.

  When my mother died, I had to pick up the pieces and make a new life, a life without her. There would be no more new memories. But Kai still had memories to make.

  He’d been away from his family while completing his degree on a student visa, and another two years on a green card, the most coveted American document a foreign national has in their possession.

  The framed photo of his parents came from his employer. Kai had it on his desk. I could imagine him working, looking at them, thinking about the sacrifices they made for him. I had photos of my parents, both gone too young, all over my apartment. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t see their image, think of them, miss them.