American PI

by Jude Hardin

  I thought about it some more. I supposed it could have gone down a hundred different ways. It was possible that Everett had simply handed over a set of keys to a professional car thief in exchange for a satchel full of cash. Or maybe he’d bartered with the airplane pilot. Maybe he’d offered the high-end convertible in exchange for a hop to Mexico. That would have been a pretty nice paycheck for any crooked flyboy, especially for only one day’s work.

  The case of Everett’s missing BMW would probably remain unresolved, and considering everything else that had happened, I was okay with that.

  But there was another automobile on my mind.

  Everett had taken me hostage, and he’d planned on forcing me to drive him to the airstrip in Patterson’s car. That obviously hadn’t happened, and Everett obviously hadn’t taken the car himself.

  I knew this because I still had the key.

  So there must have been a third person, and this person—whoever it was—had provided transportation for Everett to get away from the PEAK house before the cops came.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key and looked at it. There was a fancy little L embedded into the rubber grip, and there was a gold Lexus parked in the gravel lot behind the PEAK house.

  I got out and walked over to the car and tried the key, just to be sure. It worked.

  I walked back to the Caprice, sat and stared at the back of the house some more.

  Thought some more.

  And then it came to me.

  I started the car and drove out to the highway and whipped into the first twenty-four-hour store I saw, a pharmacy just south of Woof-A-Burger. There was a payphone out front. I jammed some coins into it and punched in the number for FBI Special Agent Richard Sinclair, and he answered on the first ring.

  “This is Nicholas Colt,” I said. “I just thought of something.”

  “What is it, Colt?”

  He sounded sleepy. Understandable at four o’clock in the morning.

  “I think Bradley Harbaugh was in on it,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Everett’s father. Not his biological father, but the man who raised him. He’s an attorney.”

  “Okay. I know who Bradley Harbaugh is. But what makes you think—”

  “Pre-nups,” I said. “Prenuptial agreements. Do you know who Bradley’s married to?”

  I heard some papers rustling.

  “I have her name here somewhere,” Sinclair said.

  “Jill Drake,” I said. “A little over a hundred years ago, her great-great grandfather started a company called Drake Foods. When her mother died two years ago, Jill inherited a fortune. Some of the reports I’ve read estimate her net worth at over a hundred million dollars. With that kind of money on the line, I can almost guarantee you there was a prenuptial agreement when Jill and Bradley got hitched twenty-some years ago. Her family would have insisted on it. If things ever went wrong with the marriage—which things have a habit of doing—there was no way an in-law was going to walk away with a big fat share of the company.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So Jill filed for divorce a couple of months ago. August fifteenth, to be exact. If there’s a pre-nup—which I’m sure there is—then Bradley is screwed. He won’t get any part of that hundred million.”

  “He’s an attorney. I’m sure he’ll do okay on his own.”

  “Okay isn’t the same as mega-rich,” I said. “He was probably planning on retiring soon and sailing up and down the coast in a super-yacht or something. Now he’ll be forced to keep working for a measly hundred grand a year, or whatever it is he makes, and he’ll grow old in a one bedroom condo with a couple of cats and a big screen TV like the rest of us.”

  “So you think he orchestrated this whole thing for the twenty million?”

  “I’m almost sure of it. Think about how complex the scheme was. Could two nineteen-year-old fraternity guys have put all that together? Would they even have known how? Would they have had the connections they needed to establish an offshore bank account? To get safely out of the country on an illegal flight? I don’t think so. It’s highly unlikely. But Bradley Harbaugh did have the connections. He’s a defense attorney. High profile. He deals with criminals on a daily basis. He was the only person in this whole tangled web with the savvy and the motivation to pull this thing off.”

  “But I talked to him earlier,” Sinclair said. “He was at home.”

  “Of course he was at home. He needed to be there to play the game while everyone still thought Everett had been kidnapped. He needed to go through the phone surveillance with you guys, and he needed to talk to the media and all that. His own little dog and pony show. But now that the money has been transferred, he can catch a flight and meet up with his son in Mexico. From there, they’ll go to the Philippines together. Or wherever. They might have changed that part by now.”

  “It’s an interesting theory.”

  “I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure that’s the way it went down. It’s all pretty ingenious when you think about it. The money was supposed to have been split three ways, but now it’s just Everett and Bradley. Father and son. I’m sure they’re heartbroken that John Patterson won’t be joining them after all.”

  “You might be on to something,” Sinclair said. “I’m going to put a team together, and we’ll make a trip over to the Harbaugh residence.”

  “You better do it soon,” I said. “I doubt if he’ll be home much longer.”

  After we hung up, I walked into the pharmacy and bought a universal phone charger and a bottle of headache tablets and a soda. I swallowed four of the pills, plugged my cell into the rental car’s cigarette lighter, and headed for Lake Barkley.

  I called Laurie on the way, got voice mail. I told her to meet me at Kelly’s Pool Hall in Hallows Cove at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  My Airstream was cleaner than it had been in years. The company I hired had done a great job. My laptop was ruined, and the tires on my Jimmy were still flat, but otherwise life was suddenly back to normal. As normal as it gets for me, anyway.

  I took a shower and climbed into bed and slept for seven hours straight. When I woke up, I made a pot of coffee and walked outside and sat at the picnic table for a while. I’d already stopped wearing the sling for my arm.

  Laurie had left a message on my phone. She said she would meet me at Kelly’s at two, and that she had a surprise for me. A surprise! I couldn’t wait.

  There was also a message from Agent Sinclair. He said that Bradley Harbaugh had been arrested, and that I would most likely be called upon to give a deposition in the next couple of weeks. In other words, he wanted me to stay around town for a while. He said to give him a call first thing Monday morning.

  It was Saturday, October 25. Everett’s twentieth birthday. I hoped he was having a great time, wherever he was. He should have a great time on his birthday. Everyone should. Cake and all that. And he should enjoy his freedom while he could, because I doubted that it was going to last long. I had a feeling the FBI would catch up with him, eventually, once they bled some information out of his father. And I hoped they did catch up with him. Everett had conspired to steal twenty million dollars from Jill Drake-Harbaugh. His own mother. He deserved to be caught.

  It all boiled down to greed, really. And the sad thing about it—the ironic thing—was that Everett would have inherited the money eventually anyway. But he couldn’t wait. He had to have it now, and he had to get his mom back for keeping the big secret all these years, for not telling him that he’d been conceived in a sperm bank.

  I imagined Bradley Harbaugh had played a huge part in fanning those emotional flames, knowing that Everett was his ticket to big time wealth. Bradley was the smooth talker, the con man, the wheeler dealer, the brains of the outfit. Everett had been taken for a ride, but he was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions, and he deserved to be punished for what he’d done, right along with his dad and John P
atterson. I hoped the FBI would catch him. The sooner the better.

  Actually, Everett probably wasn’t having a very good time for his birthday, even with all that money at his disposal. He was probably in panic mode by now, wondering why he hadn’t heard from his father.

  I sat there at the picnic table thinking about it all, sipping my coffee and enjoying the beautiful autumn day. I was about to go inside for a second cup when I saw Dylan Crawford climbing up the hill with a rod and reel in one hand and a cricket cage in the other. His new friend was walking beside him, the big yellow dog he’d named Bud. They finally made it up to my place, both of them panting a bit from the effort.

  “Catch anything?” I said.

  “Not even a bite.”

  I lit a cigarette.

  “Your dog’s looking better,” I said.

  “I’m trying to teach him how to catch a Frisbee.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “He’ll catch it, but he won’t bring it back to me. He just drops it on the ground.”

  “He’ll learn,” I said.

  Dylan ran his fingers through Bud’s golden fur. “Why don’t you come on down and do some fishing with us?” he said.

  “Can’t. I have a date.”

  “With a girl?”

  “Yes, with a girl. Anything wrong with that?”

  “I guess not. All right, I’ll see you later.”

  “See you, Dylan.”

  They turned around and started back down the hill.

  A boy and a dog and a fishing pole, I thought.

  What crisp clear October afternoons were made for.

  I drank two more cups of coffee, and then went inside and took a shower and got dressed and headed on over to Kelly’s. It’s a pool hall, but they have a couple of televisions, and I knew it would be a good place to watch the game. Laurie was already at the bar sipping on a frozen margarita when I walked in.

  I kissed her. “Good to see you,” I said.

  “You too. How did it go last night?”

  “Long story.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I called in sick for tonight. So you can tell me all about it.”

  “You don’t look sick,” I said.

  “I’m not. Trust me.”

  “Won’t the manager be mad about having to cover for you?”

  “He’ll get over it,” she said. “So why did you want me to meet you here?”

  “I thought we could watch the game together.”

  “What game?” she said.

  “Game six of the World Series.”

  “Baseball?”

  “Yes, baseball. It’s what crisp clear October afternoons were made for. Along with boys and dogs and fishing poles, of course.”

  She laughed. “Okay. I’ll watch the game with you. You want a drink?”

  “In a minute. Where’s the surprise you promised me?”

  “At my place. You’ll just have to come on over later if you want to see it.”

  “I guess I could do that,” I said. “You’re not going to give me a hint or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  We had some drinks and some food and watched baseball on TV, and I told Laurie about everything that had happened in Gainesville yesterday. She said my story was much more interesting than the game, but she didn’t know what she was talking about. The Marlins ended up winning, taking the trophy home for the second time in franchise history. My team won. They were the champions of the world!

  Laurie didn’t drink nearly as much as I did, so she insisted that I leave the Caprice at Kelly’s. I agreed that it would be a good idea. She drove us to her apartment, and she made me close my eyes when she turned into the parking lot.

  She braked to a stop.

  “Can I open them now?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I opened my eyes. Laurie had pulled alongside the spot where my Jimmy was parked. Through the passenger’s side window of her car, I could see that the tires weren’t flat anymore.

  “You bought me new tires?” I said.

  “Yes! Brand new ones. Aren’t they great?”

  “This is the nicest present anyone has ever given to me. I think I’m going to cry.”

  But I didn’t. I kissed her and hugged her and kissed her some more until some lady in a Kia started honking her horn to get by. Laurie found a parking place, and we walked on up to her apartment.

  She poured me a beer and got herself one, and we sat on the couch with Edgar the cat between us.

  “You’ve had a rough time the past few days, haven’t you?” she said.

  “You could say that.”

  “Anyway, it’ll make a great story for your grandkids someday.”

  “I guess so. But the story’s really not about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s about a young lady named Stephanie Vowels who lost her life because some people got greedy.”

  “And those people are going to pay for their crimes, largely because of your actions. I disagree that it’s not about you, Nicholas Colt. I think it’s very much about you, about your courage and determination, your loyalty and intelligence. You’re a star, and I think this is only the beginning.”

  I leaned over and kissed her. One thing led to another, and we ended up tearing each other’s clothes off again on the way to the bedroom. We made love, and then we talked. I told her some more of my deepest darkest secrets, and she told me some of hers.

  We rested for a while, and then we went at it again. And again. She held me tight and I told her that I loved her, and we sauced the white Fiesta like it had never been sauced before.

  Thanks so much for reading AMERICAN P.I.

  The series includes these other full-length novels: LADY 52 (co-authored with J.A Konrath), POCKET-47, CROSSCUT, SNUFF TAG 9, KEY DEATH, BLOOD TATTOO, SYCAMORE BLUFF, THE REACHER FILES: FUGITIVE, and THE BLOOD NOTEBOOKS.

  And now, for the first time, 4 NICHOLAS COLT NOVELS have been published together in a box set at a special low price.

  All of my books are lendable, so feel free to share them with a friend at no additional cost.

  All reviews are much appreciated!

  If you would like to read the first three chapters of LADY 52, please turn the page.

  DEL CHIVO

  MONDAY, 2:12 P.M. COLOMBIA TIME

  Lunch at the Mendoza mansion had been spectacular, possibly one of the top five meals of Sergio Del Chivo's life. Foie gras, veal, octopus, lobster. More fresh fruits and vegetables than Del Chivo had ever seen on one table anywhere. And the chocolate! Alejandro Mendoza, leader of the South American drug cartel known as Los Bastardos Deseables, knew how to live, and Del Chivo wanted to live that way, too. And he would, someday.

  He vowed that he would.

  After lunch, Señor Mendoza invited Sergio into his private office. The room smelled of leather and tobacco and wood polish, the kind made from citrus oils. Mendoza was perched on a giant leather throne behind a very large cherry desk, and Del Chivo sat across from him in a pleated wing chair. There were no windows. The mahogany paneling seemed to insulate the room from the rest of the world, although Del Chivo knew that the two men with automatic rifles standing directly outside the door could hear everything being said.

  "You're probably wondering why I asked you here today." Mendoza had a deep, rich voice, like a Latin James Earl Jones.

  "It is a great honor, señor. And a privilege. Thank you. Thank you very much."

  "Your English is excellent, by the way."

  "Thank you."

  Mendoza leaned forward and selected a cigar from the box on his desk. He rolled it in his thick fingers. "You've expressed interest in moving up in the organization, and I think it's time. You've shown initiative, and loyalty, and a strong work ethic. I need someone in San Salvador. I would like for you to be my lieutenant there."

  "I don't know what to say, señor. This is more than I ever could have hoped for. I come from El Salvador, but I've been her
e in Colombia for many years, and I love it. Of course I would be very happy to take this position."

  "It comes with a price. Every time I promote one of my men, there is a…" Mendoza gave the cigar a long sniff. "A rite of passage. It won't be easy, but the reward will be great. I have confidence that you can achieve this task, that you will pass my little test with flying colors."

  "Whatever it is you ask of me, I will do my best, señor."

  "That's exactly the right attitude, Sergio. This is why you were picked for promotion. I see great things in your future."

  "Thank you, señor. Now what is it that I can do for you?"

  Mendoza bit the end of the cigar and spit it into the cuspidor next to his desk. Then he removed a gold lighter from his jacket pocket and began to heat the other end.

  "Smoke, Sergio?"

  "No thank you, señor."

  "A drink? I have an excellent Calvados."

  "You have worked hard to become a rich and powerful man, Señor Mendoza. You have earned the right to smoke and drink. I have not, yet."

  Mendoza seemed pleased by the answer. He sucked on the cigar and got it going, blowing out a long stream of fragrant smoke.

  "Have you ever been to the United States, Sergio?"

  Sergio was careful to keep his face neutral, but the memory washed over him.

  Los Estados Unidos.

  The mere mention of that horrible place made Del Chivo's stomach turn. Sixteen years ago, his family had been tortured and killed by the Treasury Police in El Salvador, an organization that existed largely because of funds and weapons distributed by the Central Intelligence Agency. In essence, the United States had murdered Sergio's mother, and his father, and his sister. Sergio had been a teenager at the time, and he could still hear his father's screams as the ruthless policemen castrated him with a butcher knife.

  "No," Del Chivo said. "I have never been there."

  Mendoza set his cigar on an X shaped gold stand next to his phone, and poured himself a snifter of Boulard VSOP.

  "I am going to send you to the city of Chicago. You have heard of this place?"