Sunrise Destiny
¤
Mark Terence Chapman
Other than for review purposes, no portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and coincidental. Any resemblance between persons living and dead, establishments, events, or location is entirely coincidental.
Sunrise Destiny
Empty Sea Intergalactic Enterprises by arrangement with the author
Second edition, publication September 2014
Please help keep authors writing. Do not copy or reproduce this book.
Cover Artist: Aos Si Design Website: aossipublishing.com/designs.
For more information about the author and his other works, please visit markterencechapman.com, or his blog at tesserene.blogspot.com.
Sunrise Destiny
Copyright © 2006-2014 by Mark Terence Chapman
ASIN: B00NK0T0XK
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To all the hard-working PIs out there, who keep us safe from philandering husbands. And to the streetwalkers, who keep us safe from, well, whatever it is they keep us safe from….
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
DID YOU ENJOY THIS BOOK?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FREE CHAPTER FROM THE MARS IMPERATIVE
CHAPTER 3
Prologue
A dark figure emerged from the cool water of the bay. It was a cloudless night, warm, muggy, and black as pitch. A moment later a second figure followed the first. Water sheeted from the pair, hardly seeming to register their presence. They crept up the rocky shore, past a grassy strip to the street beyond.
The intruders chose this spot for two reasons: the burned-out streetlight made this stretch of road nearly as dark as the bay, and from observation they knew their intended victim always walked past this spot on her way to the bus stop a block away.
The duo hunkered behind an abandoned car. There was no traffic to worry about. There never was at this time of night—not on this street of warehouses and dockyards. Their wait would be short. She passed this spot at nearly the same time each night, and that time was only moments away.
They tensed at the sound of leather scuffing the pavement nearby. Seconds later, a bright flare, quickly extinguished, marked the match she used to light a cigarette. Only yards now until she was within reach, only seconds to go. The glow from the cigarette tip might as well have been a neon sign blaring, “Here I am! Take me!” Two more paces. One.
They pounced. She fell.
It was over before she had time to register their presence. One gripped her legs, the other her arms, as they struggled to carry her across the sand and back to the bay. They laid her out in shallow water near the shore. A ripple made her arm bob as if in benediction. Then a dark hand touched her face, almost seeming to caress it, leaving a momentary scintillation in its wake.
Each figure took an arm as they pulled her out into the bay, looking for all the world like two tugs towing a barge. Twenty yards out, they submerged, dragging her with them to the inky depths below.
PART ONE
“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.” — Sherlock Holmes
Chapter One
June 14th began like most days, with me sitting in the corner booth of Carl’s Diner drinking the swill that passes for coffee. I scanned the day’s flimsy. No, I’m not an ambulance-chaser, but I have been known to find clients in the headlines.
My name’s Donatello Sunrise and I’m a private detective. Not the uptown, shake-hands-with-the-mayor, attend-charity-events, high-class P.I. type, but the fast-talking, gin-swilling, skirt-chasing, pound-the-pavement, work-for-a-living gumshoe kind. If you need compromising holos of your cheating spouse, or you’re being blackmailed by the sleaze next door, I’m your man. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a job that needs doing, and I’m damned good at it.
Maybe someone’s daughter is missing and the cops—big surprise—are clueless. And maybe I call and offer to help find daddy’s little girl—for a nominal fee, of course. Hey, I’m not proud of it, but it’s a living, and sometimes I actually find the kid; so it’s a win-win.
On this particular Tuesday, nothing jumped out at me as the 48-point headlines crawled across the flimsy. The mayor was stumping for re-election—so what else was new? The electronic ink on the plastic flimsy swirled and reformed to reflect the latest news. A woman had disappeared near a bus stop by the bay. Foul play was suspected. Same old same-old. I rolled up the flimsy and stuck it in my jacket pocket.
Then I finished my third cup of coffee and tossed some bills on the table for Marge. I started to get up to leave, when a cloud blocked the bright sunlight streaming in through the window across the aisle. Except it wasn’t a cloud.
A ham hock of a hand slammed me back down into my seat and held me there by my shoulder. I looked up...and up...and up at an Everest of a man. He sneered the way a bully does when he’s about to pound a kid into the playground dirt. Across the table from me, a dapper and much less imposing man slid onto the bench seat.
“Long time no see, Sunrise.”
His sneer matched that of the other goon. This didn’t look to be a social meeting.
“Not long enough, Weasel.”
“Always with the wisecracks, eh, Sunrise? And it’s Weisel. You’ll do well to remember that. My friend here,” he nodded at the man-mountain, “don’t take kindly to punks that insult me. Do ya, Tiny?”
The ham hock turned into a vise; steel fingers dug deep into my shoulder blade. I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out. Weasel nodded sharply and the pressure ceased. Maybe Weasel didn’t like the nickname, but his hatchet face and beady eyes invited the comparison.
“Tough guy, eh, Sunrise?”
I fixed him with an acid glare and thought of all the things I’d like to do to the little rodent. He was the brains of the duo, which wasn’t saying much.
“Run outta wisecracks? That’s okay, you can think up some more on the way.” He nodded to Tiny, who yanked me out of the booth by my jacket collar.
“On the way? To where?” I had a pretty good idea.
“To see the boss. He wants to have a chat.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
* * * *
Outside, Tiny shoved me into the backseat of a black sedan, and climbed in after me. I dove for the far door, only to find myself face-to-face with the business end of a Glock 9mm. Weasel gestured me back to the middle of the seat and got in beside me. With an armed weasel on one side and a Grand Teton o
n the other, I felt like a sardine in a can—and just as dead.
“Go,” Weasel called to the driver.
The acceleration of the powerful engine shoved me back into the shape-conforming seat. That didn’t do anything to help my feeling of being trapped. I could think of only one reason for this meeting, and it didn’t bode well for me. Scar and I had history, and not the good kind.
The next twelve minutes were the longest of my life. I thought of, and discarded, several ideas for escape. I should have known that pawning my piece would come back to bite me on the ass.
When we arrived in front of Mama Rosa’s Italian Ristorante, Tiny pulled me from the car. Weasel jabbed his gun into my side—just in case I’d forgotten he had it. He rapped twice and then once more on the glass door and someone unlocked it from inside.
The chairs were stacked upside down on the red and white tablecloths covering the tables. An aroma of tomato sauce and garlic wafted from the direction of the kitchen. I’d eaten there before and knew just how good the food was. But this time all the smell did was make my guts clench.
I took a quick look around, hoping to see something that might help me out of this jam. No such luck. The place was unoccupied, except for the goon who opened the door, another standing beside a booth in the back, and a gray-haired man sitting in the booth. Weasel, by way of jabbing me in the spine with the gun, gestured toward the booth.
Once again, Tiny “helped” me sit. I decided to go on the offensive.
“Look, Scar, about the sixteen large I owe you—” A starburst of pain interrupted me. I used my tongue to see if Tiny’s fist had loosened any teeth.
“Da boss don’ like dat name.”
Of course not; it reminded him of that oh-so-subtle crease snaking from his left ear all the way down his jaw.
My ears rang from Tiny’s love tap. Still, I nearly laughed at the girlish voice coming out of that mountainside. Nearly. I’m not quite that stupid. Tiny’s mental capacity might closely match his nickname, but he looked like he could rip my arms off and bludgeon me to death with them.
“Mr. Scarpacci has a business proposition for you.” This time the speaker was Weasel.
That got my attention. If Scar was looking to do business, he probably wasn’t going to kill me. At least not yet. Still, I wouldn’t trust Scar as far as I could throw Tiny, and that ain’t far.
“I’m listening.”
Scar had the kind of voice I would love to have myself: a rich baritone, a politician’s voice. When he spoke softly, as now, it was liquid. It was easy to be mesmerized by his languid words and miss the hidden threats. He was a smooth-talking devil. In his younger days he was known as a lady-killer. Literally.
“I’m not gonna beat around the bush, Sunrise. I need you to locate an item for me.”
That was unexpected.
“Why me? You must have plenty of muscle working for you who could do that.”
He shrugged. “You’re the type that always has to help people in trouble. You found Cookie Martin’s wife and you kept it on the QT. The bum who took her...well, let’s just say he won’t be takin’ nobody else.”
Scar grinned. It was the kind of grin a Great White would be proud of—lots of teeth and not much humor.
“Besides, you have more incentive to succeed. You find what I’m lookin’ for and I cut your marker in half. You don’t, and,” his eyes narrowed to slits, “I collect in full. With extreme prejudice, as they say in the spy holos.”
Ice crystals formed in my veins, but I wasn’t about to back down. Scarpacci only respected strength.
“I know how you feel about me, Scarpacci.”
His eyes hardened into diamond chips.
Tiny’s fingers threatened to crush my collarbone. “That’s Mister Scarpacci!” he shouted in his ridiculously high-pitched voice.
Scar’s eyes never left mine, but he waved Tiny off. The insane pain in my shoulder eased to mere torture.
I continued. “Look, I know you don’t like me much. You wouldn’t be offering me this deal unless you really needed me. And I’m guessing that what you want found must be very valuable to you.”
A twitch in Scar’s right cheek confirmed my suspicion.
“And that I don’t have any choice about accepting this case.” Scar nodded minutely, still holding my gaze.
“That being the case, half won’t cut it. If I find what you’ve lost, we’re quits. You cancel my debt—all of it.” Scar’s jaw tightened, followed by Tiny’s grip. We were back up to drawn-and-quartered pain. I winced and gritted my teeth, but I couldn’t back down. This was high-stakes poker; whoever blinked first, lost.
Ten seconds stretched into thirty, thirty into forty-five, forty-five into forever. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine, tickling all the way. My back muscles twitched in protest.
“Very well,” Scar said. “But if I tear up your marker, you leave town—for good. I never want to see your ugly mug around here again.”
I considered his offer. What did I really have keeping me here? A crummy room in a crummy part of town, some acquaintances I laughingly called friends, a few ladies I spent time with once in a while. Nothing I couldn’t get elsewhere. In fact, a change was probably just what I needed. I’d gone stale here.
“Deal.”
Tiny let up. With the return of blood, the pins and needles attacked in full force. I resisted the urge to massage the shoulder; that would just make it hurt worse and I’d look like a namby-pamby to boot.
“I’ll need a couple of days to make arrangements afterwards.”
A quick nod from Scar.
I pursed my lips, sensing more than he was telling. “This item you want me to find. Is it a something or a someone?”
Did I detect a hint of a smile on Scar’s lips? His eyes narrowed with calculation.
“You’re not quite as dumb as you look, Sunrise.”
“So I’ve heard. So who is it you want me to find?”
He hesitated, as if it was some big secret he was reluctant to reveal. That piqued my interest.
“My daughter. My Sara.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. I told him what he wanted to hear.
“I’ll get right on it.”
“I know you will. And to make sure you do, Tiny and Weasel here will keep an eye on you.”
Babysitters. Great. Just what I needed.
* * * *
Scar didn’t exactly make it easy for me to help him. He knew Sara was missing, but not what happened to her. She’d been gone a week now. Most people would have contacted the cops after a day or two, but not Scar. Mob bosses generally aren’t too cozy with the cops—at least not the ones they hadn’t bought. So he used his own resources to try to find her. No go.
Had she been kidnapped? Did she run off with a boyfriend? Was she dead in a downtown alley with her throat cut? Or floating in a cloud of blue-green smoke in a neurostim den somewhere?
I ruled out kidnapping immediately; Scar hadn’t received a ransom demand. There was always the possibility of a snatch for revenge, but he hadn’t received any other demands either—nor any body parts by overnight express. Scar said Sara wasn’t seeing anyone steadily, and therefore running off with a boyfriend was out of the question. I had my doubts about that. Surely, daddy’s little girl didn’t tell him everything. Still, a steady boyfriend probably would be hard to hide from the thousand eyes of an organized crime boss. That left the last two possibilities. Had her body been found, Scar’s spies at the police station would have reported in by now. As for drugs, Scar insisted “she don’t mess with that stuff.”
Which left me back at square one. With every possibility seemingly eliminated, everything was back on the table. I couldn’t rule anything out.
To make my life even more difficult, I couldn’t just go around flashing Sara Scarpacci’s pix everywhere and asking if anyone had seen her. No, Scar wanted to keep this on the QT. He didn’t want it to get around that a Mob boss had misplaced
a daughter. So I had to be ultradiscreet.
Good thing my middle name’s Discretion. Really. Donatello (for the renaissance painter, not the ninja turtle) Discretion Sunrise. What can I say? My parents had some peculiar ideas when it came to kids’ names.
The one thing I knew I’d miss when I blew this burg was my contacts. Over the years, I’d established working relationships with the dregs of society—pimps, loan sharks, hookers, pushers, enforcers, dirty cops, you name it. If they were scum, I was probably friendly with them. Birds of a feather, and all that.
So why associate with undesirables instead of cops and DAs? Simple. When something nasty happens in the seamier parts of town, the scum are the first to know.
I started my search for Sara Scarpacci with one of my most reliable canaries. Her street name was Lola. Even I didn’t know her real name. She’d been working the same corner for four years—practically a lifetime in her business. It said a lot about her that in all that time she’d managed to keep out of the system.
Of course, I’d had a little something to do with that, once or twice. We had a close working relationship. I scratched her back and on occasion she scratched my...uh...front.
The sun had just gone to bed for the night, so Lola would be on duty. This particular evening, she was dressed in a fashionable tan leopard unitard accented with magenta boa, and pink stiletto heels. Her bottle-blonde ‘fro had green ribbons woven through it. The streetlight overhead made the edges of the ribbons glow and shimmer as she moved.
I looked both ways before crossing to her corner. I wasn’t worried about traffic, I was watching for undercover cops. Getting nicked for solicitation wasn’t part of the plan.
Two shadowy figures ducked into a coffee shop down the street.
“¡Hola, Lola! You’re looking mighty tasty tonight.” This was a prearranged signal that it wasn’t safe to talk freely.
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