Carter Peterson Mystery Series (Volume 1)

by Al Boudreau

  I thought back on the encounter, and Richard was absolutely right. “Okay, fair enough. So, where are you going with this? Your instincts told you his looks and demeanor were off, so you arrived at the conclusion the man we’re dealing with is an imposter?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. And what’s worse … I’m like ninety-nine percent sure of it now,” Richard said.

  “Why? How can you be so sure?”

  “Ugh. I should have gone with my gut.” Richard filled his lungs and exhaled as if he were trying to blow out fifty birthday candles. “Initially, I chose not to overthink it, because months had passed since I’d seen Odell last.” Richard wiped his mouth. “Hold on a sec. I need a glass of water.”

  “I’ll get you some. Keep going,” I said.

  Richard licked his lips. “Well, the clincher for me came when the guy bailed off the second story balcony a few minutes ago.”

  I handed Richard the glass of water and waited for him to take a few sips.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Okay, so I’m standing out there just beyond the edge of our lanai. And I see the guy leap. And his shirt’s flapping as he falls. And I can see his skin. Nearly his entire back.” Richard paused to compose himself.

  I scratched my head. “I’m afraid I’m not getting the gist of where you’re going with this. What’s the deal with the guy’s back?”

  “A little patience, please?” Richard began massaging the base of his neck. “Carter, six months ago I stood and watched Ellis Odell change his shirt right after we played golf. And the guy’s back was covered with tattoos. Some kind of circular symbols. Not just a few, either. We’re talking dozens. He also had a huge scar running right down the middle of his torso, so I asked him about it. Said it was from an operation he’d had a few years back. Something to do with his spine.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I don’t know who this joker is we’ve been dealing with here at the resort, but I can tell you one thing. He ain’t Ellis Odell. This guy’s back was a clean slate. No tattoos. And no scar.”

  I stared at the ceiling and let go a weak whistle. “Yep. I got the gist.” I immediately went to the bedroom and pulled a small tin from my luggage then opened the safe and removed the bottle of whiskey Kaholo delivered to our room.

  Richard stood up as I made my way across the living room with the items. “Grab a couple of rocks glasses out of the cabinet,” I said as I peeled the wax seal away and twisted the stopper from the bottle of Scotch, careful not to touch the glass surface where Kaholo had gripped the vessel.

  I poured three fingers of Scotch in each glass, replaced the stopper, and got to work.

  “Whose prints you dusting for? Odell’s?” Richard asked as I opened the tin and took a seat at the kitchen bar.

  “Nope. There’s a bartender named Kaholo that works here,” I said. “Served us drinks last night. And he delivered this bottle to our room right before you got back.”

  I sprinkled a small amount of baby powder on the area I remembered Kaholo grasping and blew gently to remove the excess. Then, with a circular dabbing motion, I used my brush to carefully whisk away the dust between the ridges of the four full fingerprints that came to light. I pressed a piece of clear tape onto each of the prints, carefully peeled the tape back off, and applied each of them to a small sheet of thick, black craft paper.

  “That ought to do it,” I said.

  “Ridges and whorls,” Richard remarked. “Nicely done.”

  “I’ll overnight these to the mainland. See if Sarah can call in a favor with Bridgeport PD. Maybe we’ll get a hit on them.”

  Richard nodded as he took a belt of whiskey. “Good call,” he said as he placed the glass back on the counter and hung his head in silence. I noticed his breathing was labored. “Carter, I’m feeling terrible. Stressed. Would you mind terribly if I took a quick shower?” he asked while rubbing the scruff on his chin. “Guess I’d better shave, too.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I said as I picked up my glass and downed a few swallows. A comment Richard had made triggered a connection in my mind that shook me up more than his initial revelation had.

  He’d mentioned the tattoos all over Odell’s back. Now, my mind raced back a couple hours to the accident scene, where the luckless pedestrian—allegedly some bully sent by Tukor—lay motionless on the EMT’s backboard.

  Could the strange pattern of discoloration I thought I’d seen on the man’s back have been a field of tattoos?

  Chapter 7

  I’d never been much of a believer in coincidence, so I felt compelled to treat the back-full-of-tattoos connection as a clue. A clue to a situation I could barely wrap my head around. What if the victim at the accident scene turned out to be Ellis Odell?

  The real Ellis Odell.

  I popped up out of the armchair and went to grab my laptop. My first logical step was to find some recent images of Odell back in California, then decide for myself.

  Within minutes I was scrolling through several social media accounts belonging to Ellis Odell, oral surgeon. There were dozens of pictures of him, his daughter Amber, and his wife Terri. A few photos also included a brother named Curtis. The downside was that each and every one had been posted before Odell became an addict close to six years prior.

  However, the images made a direct then-and-now comparison possible.

  I scrutinized the most recent images—especially those that featured close-ups of his face—and began feeling nauseous. Though their features were eerily similar in many ways, my final assessment was grim. The individual captured in the photos before me, and the guy who’d introduced himself to me as Ellis Odell, were two different people.

  Had Richard not shared his own suspicions about the man who claimed to be Odell, I might not have been so quick to draw such a conclusion, but coupled with the body art parallel, too many signs pointed to our potential client being an imposter. Which introduced another troubling issue. If there was no new client, there was no new case.

  Which meant no income.

  I couldn’t help but feel as though we should cut our losses and head back to New Hampshire, but if there really was a child missing, I wanted to help locate her.

  I went and opened the safe, removed the GPS device, and repeated the dusting process I’d used on the whiskey bottle. Within minutes I had a collection of imposter Odell’s prints to add to the ones belonging to Kaholo, which I’d soon be sending off to Sarah.

  “More prints?” Richard asked, coming back into the room.

  “Yep. And I found some old photos of Odell online. I think your gut is right. We haven’t been dealing with the real Ellis Odell.” I spun the computer screen around so Richard could see the images.

  “He looks a lot younger in these pics.” Richard scrutinized the photos for a minute. “So, you’re feeling confident that the guy we met is a different person than the guy in these photos? I personally don’t think it’s him, but I’d be hard-pressed to say, with one hundred percent certainty, that it’s not. I just don’t want to feel like I swayed your opinion with what I said earlier, that’s all.”

  I looked again. “They share similar features, but I’d stake my reputation they’re two different men.”

  “Yeah, well … we have nothing else to go on. Let’s keep our fingers crossed those prints you lifted will give us something definitive.”

  “One can only hope. In the meantime, I think I’d better pay the police a visit.”

  “You mean with the prints?” Richard asked.

  “Not necessarily. I haven’t made up my mind how much I’m going to share with them yet. But your comments about Odell have me on edge.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the accident victim they pulled out from under a delivery truck earlier—the guy our potential imposter told us was Tukor’s bully—had the same three tattoos on his arm. And what appeared to be a lot of tattoos on his back.”

  “Wait. You got close enough to see that kind of detail?”

 
; “I wasn’t right on top of the scene, but I could definitely see some sort of body art on the victim’s back.”

  “Get out! You’re thinking the guy who got hit is the real Ellis Odell?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Geez, Carter. This is bad. Yeah, you’re absolutely right, we need to go to the cops with this.” Richard hesitated then asked, “What about all that cash?”

  I knew what Richard was leading up to. “We can’t touch that money unless we want to end up in prison. That money is evidence.”

  “Yeah, I know, but … well, I guess what I’m asking is, how are we going to get paid?”

  “There’s a good chance we’re not,” I replied. “Unless this whole cluster takes a turn toward some miracle outcome, safe to say we’ve been had.”

  Richard’s expression turned sour. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  Chapter 8

  You’ve reached the administrative division of the Honolulu Police Department. All administrative assistants are busy … I ended the call.

  “Shouldn’t we just call 911?” Richard asked.

  “What, and spook this Odell imposter more than we already have? Last thing we need is half a dozen cruisers skidding in here, lights and sirens cranked to the max. And that bartender, Kaholo. We don’t know what his role in all of this is yet, but he’s got to be on high alert, too, if he’s in cahoots with our missing BS artist.”

  “No, you’re right. What about heading into the city, then? Let’s go to the police in person.”

  I checked the time. 5:35 p.m. “Driving around the island during rush hour isn’t a great plan, either. According to the in-flight magazine I read on the plane, Honolulu just made it onto the top five list of worst cities for traffic congestion in the United States.”

  Richard threw his hands in the air. “Sorry, Carter. Just trying to help. I know you’re really uptight with me … and you have every reason to be. But I didn’t mess this whole deal up on purpose. I don’t know what to do aside from offering a sincere apology. I’m truly sorry I screwed this up. I really am.”

  “Yeah … I know.” I let go a sigh. “I’m sorry, too. We share the blame. Look, we’ve been friends for a long time, so let’s say we treat this conversation as a reset. Move forward, and figure out who and what we’re up against. As a team.”

  “Sounds good,” Richard replied. “Uh, speaking of team, what are we going to do about Andrew?”

  “Well, he’s on his way here, so I don’t think we have much in the way of options. He may just have to turn around and head back home.”

  Richard nodded, a weak smile appearing on his face. “You know … there is a bright side.”

  I raised an eyebrow skeptically. “By all means, let’s hear it.”

  “Think about how much money you could save by having Andrew hand-carry those fingerprints back to Bridgeport. Postage is expensive these days, you know?”

  I shook my head and began to chuckle. Maybe it was my need for some sort of stress relief. Or just the timing and absurdity of Richard’s corny, off-the-wall sense of humor. Whatever the reason, the two of us ended up howling like a pair of grade-school kids watching an underclassman getting a wedgie.

  I settled down after a few minutes. “I feel better. Guess I really needed that.”

  “No doubt. I’m pretty sure my sense of humor is the only reason I’m not dead,” Richard said. “I don’t deal with stress very well.”

  I reached in my back pocket and pulled out my notebook. “I hear you. Unfortunately, we need to get back to business. I’m going to make a call to a whiz-kid I met recently. See if he knows whether or not GPS trackers can actually be implanted under the skin.”

  Richard nodded and looked over at the tracking device I’d just dusted for prints. “Okay for me to handle this contraption now?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Go ahead. Maybe you can figure out how it works, because I sure don’t know.”

  I located the phone number for Shin Sahoto, MIT graduate and friend of Sarah’s son Brian. “Hey, Shin. Carter Peterson here. Sorry to call you so late, but I need your help.” I put the phone on speaker and set it on the coffee table.

  “Hey, Carter. No worries. What’s going on?”

  “I have a few questions about GPS trackers. Do you happen to know if anyone has developed one small enough to be implanted under human skin yet?”

  “Um, yeah. I don’t think they’ve ironed-out all the kinks, but they’re close. The technology isn’t available to the general public, but PLDs have actually been around since 2003.”

  “PLDs?”

  “Personal Location Devices. At first they were pretty massive. Like pacemaker big. Over the past dozen years they’ve managed to get them miniaturized to a tenth of that size, from what I’ve heard. One of my professors was involved with their development for a while.”

  “Any idea how well they work?” I asked.

  “Killer. They’ve always run on an induction-based power-recharging system, like a pacemaker. But the stumbling block was always the size. Has to do with the antenna. The earlier devices had terrible range, but somewhere along the line they improved the antenna technology. Probably due to some new composite. Rumor has it the latest PLDs can be tracked from anywhere, to anywhere. No place to hide. I think they’re still trying to figure out how to get the human body to accept the devices long-term, but for short periods of time they’re a viable technology. Someone’s bound to figure out the glitches soon.”

  “Huh.” I thought about the implications for a beat. “You said the general public can’t get them, right?”

  “Right. I know I’ve never seen one up close, and I’ve been around a lot of leading-edge technologies. I wouldn’t be too surprised if our government ended up buying out the whole enchilada. Technology, design specs, patents, manufacturers, the works. You might score a tracker if you knew the right people, I suppose. But I’m thinking it would take some kind of serious bank account. All for what might still be an imperfect technology.”

  “Thanks, Shin. You’ve bailed me out again. I owe you.”

  “Sure, no prob, Mr. Peterson.”

  I ended the call and looked at Richard. “Well, what do you make of that?”

  “Can’t say I’m too surprised,” Richard said as he fumbled with the GPS console. “Especially the part about the government wanting to take over the tech. This Shin kid. Sounds like he’s on the ball. Where’d you find him?”

  “Long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”

  “Okay. I just wish the kid were here right now to help me figure this contraption out.”

  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “Getting back to the tracker, or PLD as he called it. Do you suppose there’s a possibility this Odell imposter is working on the development of the technology? Maybe some real-world testing?”

  Richard shrugged. “Sounds like a long-shot, but I don’t suppose we can rule it out.”

  I pulled out my notebook and jotted down some highlights from our conversation. “I’m going to pay a visit to the kid I bribed to get fake Odell’s room number. Maybe we can get some video stills to add to the fingerprint collection we’ve got going.”

  “Good call. I’ll be here trying to figure out the launch codes,” Richard said in jest as he held the tracker high in the air.

  * * *

  What are the odds? I wondered as I leapt behind a stone-faced pillar, halfway between Ko Ahiku Tower 1 and the reception pavilion. Timing is everything in the private investigation biz. Get it wrong and it can end your case. Or your life.

  However, at the moment it looked like timing might work in my favor if I played it right. As luck would have it, I spotted my bribe-taking desk clerk Kainalu engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation with suspect bartender Kaholo.

  Then the circumstances changed. Just as I’d ducked out of the duo’s sight, the elevator-filling family of six from earlier reappeared, the four kids making a ruckus about how they r
ecognized me from before.

  I held my pointer finger up to my lips and gave them the shhh song and dance, my back pressed tight up against the rough volcanic stone surface. The exercise in futility got me double the noise from the little darlings and dirty looks from their parents.

  I’d always fantasized about having the ability to become invisible on demand, but never wished for it more than right now.

  To my extreme displeasure the family circus continued their act all the way to the tower, leaving me horribly exposed, and vulnerable to losing my edge. I was too far away to hear the conversation between the two Hawaiian resort employees. In fact, I couldn’t hear their voices at all.

  I needed to backtrack.

  I took out my phone to use as a prop for some fake texting, then proceeded to retreat toward the tower, doing my best to maintain a direction where the pillar provided a visual barrier between the employees and my path.

  “Mr. Peterson,” a voice called out.

  I pretended not to hear. A series of rapid footfalls behind me told me my attempt at becoming invisible had failed miserably.

  Then I remembered the surveillance cameras.

  “Mr. Peterson,” Kaholo said. “Glad I spotted you on the monitor playing hide-and-seek with those keikis.”

  “With the what?” I asked, distracted by my cell phone screen. I had an incoming text from Richard.

  “Oh, sorry. The kids. I saw you messing with them. Anyway, you asked me to let Mr. Odell know you were looking for him. Well, I did that, and he asked me to deliver a message. Made me promise to get it to you.”

  I dropped my cell phone into the pocket of my shorts. “How long ago? Where?”

  “He popped into The Surf Rider around 4:15. Seemed to be in a real hurry.”

  “Okay. Well, what’s the message?”

  “Oh, uh … I don’t know. I didn’t read it.” Kaholo opened his fist to reveal a tightly folded wad of notebook paper. “I knocked on your door not too long ago, but no one answered. So I was going to leave it with Kainalu at the front desk. That’s when I spotted you.”