Done Rubbed Out: Reightman & Bailey Book One

by Jeffery Craig

  Done Rubbed Out

  Reightman & Bailey Book One

  Jeffery Craig

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to individuals living or dead is entirely coincidental and the product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover design by LaLima Design

  Cover images© Artophoto|Dreamstime and ©Bortn66|Dreamstime

  Author Photo by Clayton P. King

  Done Rubbed Out. Copyright © 2016 by Jeffery Craig Schwalk. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electron or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or digital reproduction or by any information, storage or retrieval system or process without the direct written permission from the author. For further information, please contact the author at Jeffery Craig, 2903 River Dr., Columbia, SC 29201.

  ISBN: 9780977486629

  This eBook Version distributed by Kindle Direct Publishing

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016905144

  Books By Jeffery Craig

  Done Rubbed Out: Reightman & Bailey Book One

  Hard Job: Reightman & Bailey Book Two*

  Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three*

  *Forthcoming

  To CPK, my partner in crime

  Table of Contents

  Books By Jeffery Craig

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  One Night In August

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Coming Soon

  One Night In August

  THE FIRST THING Toby Bailey remembered thinking when he turned on the lights and stepped into the larger of the two treatment rooms was, “Oh shit!” Nothing else. No other reaction. Just one, simple, two word expletive phrase. The second thing he remembered thinking was that he’d never get all the blood out of the new Italian white suede loafers, on which he’d blown his non-existent shoe budget for the next several months.

  The blood in question pooled in large, sticky puddles on the neutral bamboo floors, embellished by random, lurid accent spatters on the matte light café mocha walls and the strategically placed lush tropical plants. It wasn’t a good look for the room which had previously been his favorite in the Time Out Spa.

  Toby stood in place; one hand still slapped against the brushed chrome switch plate, and took in the gore. Three glistening puddles of diminishing size were linked by bloody streams, leading his gaze to a massage table and the body arranged on top of a pile of blood soaked, sky blue sheets. The only sound was the gentle, but steady rhythm of blood dripping from the table’s edge to join the rest on the floor. He didn’t even hear himself breathe. He eventually realized he was, in fact, holding his breath.

  He inhaled, and then exhaled. “Jeez-us!” he exclaimed, catching the metallic smell of blood, bodily fluids, and something else. Fear maybe. He’d read somewhere that fear had an actual smell.

  Toby considered rushing to the body on the table. After all, his shoes were beyond help. However, he stayed frozen in place. There was no need to rush. He could tell from where he stood the dead man on the table was already beyond help – ruined, just like the white suede on his feet.

  “Stop thinking about the shoes, Toby!” he told himself. “Focus!”

  Even from across the room, he could easily identify the body. Geraldo Guzman – or Geri, as he liked to be called – was laid out in well-toned, naked splendor, with a shock of black hair falling against his now ivory cheek and jaw. His green eyes stared directly at Toby, vacant and empty, and light reflected off the single diamond stud in his left ear and the silver Star of David hanging from the thick chain on his neck. He looked peaceful, if you ignored the stark, angry gashes scattered across his body, the slowly trickling blood, and the open eyes.

  The third thing Toby remembered thinking was he’d better call the police.

  He took a deep breath, and carefully bracing himself against the doorframe, lifted first his right foot, and then his left, out of his ridiculously expensive footwear. He turned carefully to make his way to the phone by the reception desk in the front room, shocked and disturbed by what he’d discovered. He hadn’t yet allowed himself to remember the worst thing of all. He hadn’t let himself remember the feeling of grief.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HOMICIDE DETECTIVE MELBA Reightman was tired, disheveled, and more than a little cranky, and to make matters worse, her blouse was stuck to her skin from a combination of the August heat and her own out of whack internal system. Summer in the South was sometimes hard to take.

  She’d driven herself home after a long hellish Wednesday, and had been looking forward to catching up on the mindless, but entertaining slew of shows she recorded for just such opportunities. She felt she was deserving of a do-nothing night after the day she’d just finished. It had been a long week already and there were still days to go. Digging through piles of paper work, spending way to many hours on the phone with city paper-pushers and unreliable witnesses, and trying to wrap up the string of burglaries which had finally been solved when the perp accidently locked himself in a master bathroom and had been unable to extract himself before the police arrived. She was officially the senior member of the Homicide team, but it had been a slow several weeks in her line of work. Even though it was the State Capitol, the city didn’t have many homicides, other than occasional incidents related to domestic violence, bar brawls and robberies. Those were usually pretty cut and dried, and frankly, weren’t much of a challenge. She should be grateful, but sometimes she wished for more excitement. When her mind wandered down those paths, she sternly reminded herself murder was never a good thing, and tried to be grateful for the relatively peaceful nature of the city. These days, budget cuts had depleted the ranks, and she was often assigned wherever there was an urgent need for someone to pitch in and pick up the slack. Not that she minded. It kept her from dwelling on other things, mostly things dealing with her personal life – a personal life totally in the toilet, which depressed her more than she’d ever anticipated.

  After letting herself into the bland, nondescript two bedroom/two bath condo acquired after her recent acrimonious divorce from Stan, her ass of a cheating husband, she turned down the thermostat to do battle with her cursed state of menopause and slumped against the door, savoring the cool air wafting from the vent. As the air washed across her over-heated body, Melba surveyed her domain. Boring and cluttered with still unpacked boxes and junk mail, its worn carpet and bedraggled mini-blinds were a far cry from the comfortable suburban house where she’d clung to her role of wife and mother for far too long. After her daughter moved out to attend college, she’d thrown herself into her work, putting up with long hours, the good ol’ boy network, and mind numbing interdepartmental bull crap until finally making detective. One month later, she found out she was soon to be a grandmother.

  Her daughter Abby had married young – too young in Melba’s mind. But head over heels in love and dismissing Melba’s concerns, Abby had walked down the aisle with Stan by her side, and started her married life.

  After the bir
th of one child less than a year into the marriage and another eighteen months later, Abby had arrived home from a frantic milk and cereal run to discover that her no account husband had moved out of the rundown house they’d shared since their marriage. Melba bit her tongue to keep from saying what she thought about the situation as daughter, with kids in tow, returned to the family home. Abby divorced the deadbeat for abandonment, pulled herself together and enrolled in community college. Now five years later, she was relocated to the upstate where she was happily employed with a growing technology firm.

  After her daughter’s move, the suburban house lost its appeal. Melba had been surprised to find that she missed the grandkids with their noise and mess, and nonstop animated musicals playing on any device available. She loved those grandbabies. She’d thrown herself back into her work, putting in extra time even when she didn’t have to, just to feel engaged and useful. God knows she didn’t feel useful at home. Stan was immersed in his own career as an executive at a local accounting firm, with his golf game, and with whatever sport was televised and streamed onto the fifty-four inch state-of-the-art widescreen parked in the place of honor in the den. He barely even noticed when she came home and she only knew that he still lived there from the dirty dishes in the sink, empty beer or wine bottles lined up on the kitchen counter, and overflowing trash bins. She’d faithfully load the dishwasher, stack the empties in the recycling bin, and haul out the trash. She convinced herself everything was normal and just the way things were at this stage of game. She sometimes wondered how they had fallen into the rut they found themselves in, but she simply carried on, trying to avoid any semblance of self-pity. After all, things could always be worse.

  On Valentine’s Day this year she’d received the obligatory dozen roses with an attached white card imprinted with the generic message “For someone very special to me on this special day.” Handwritten underneath the printing was a sappy message totally uncharacteristic of Stan, and obviously in his secretary’s handwriting. Melba consoled herself with the thought that at least someone had sent her flowers, even though she recognized the bouquet as the “$39.99 for a dozen” special from a local florist located a block from Stan’s office.

  Three days later, she stopped by the house unexpectedly to drop off some of Stan’s dry cleaning and discovered him on the super-sized leather couch in the den with his Dockers around his ankles, straining and heaving on top of Gina, the aforementioned secretary. Melba later rationalized it must have been shock which caused her to start singing the lyrics to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” at the top of her lungs. She choked with laughter at the look on Stan’s face, and took great satisfaction in watching a mortified Gina scramble to retrieve her lavender lace push up bra from beneath the coffee table. Melba especially enjoyed the sight of the bleached blonde bimbo banging her head of over processed hair as she flailed about under the table searching for her matching panties.

  Melba calmly draped Stan’s freshly cleaned and pressed shirts and khakis on a bar stool by the breakfast bar, placed an empty wine bottle in the blue recycling bin and hefted her heavy big purse onto her shoulder. She made her way to the side door that opened into the garage, and turned to launch a parting shot: “I guess there was more than one $39.99 special in town this week, Stan! Thanks for the flowers, Gina.” Melba savored the look of concentration on Girl Friday’s face as she tried to figure out the hidden meaning in the words. Melba howled all the way downtown, knowing the dumb-as-a-rock piece of trash tramp probably never figured it out.

  Once at her desk, she quickly googled “Divorce Attorneys” and called the first one she found. Not quite twenty-four hours later, she collected the few things she wanted to keep and moved into this slightly run-down rental. She didn’t like it much, but tried to live by the adage “be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” At least she didn’t have to wash anyone’s grubby dishes but her own.

  Melba shuffled her way around a few as yet unpacked boxes, and un-holstered and stored her revolver in the gun safe in her closet. She unclipped her badge, took off her shoes, removed her sticking polyester blouse, and changed into a loose and comfy t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. She gave her shoulder length hair a few licks with a brush, noting the increasing number of silver strands in her dark, unruly curls. Finally, she slipped her swollen middle-aged feet into her favorite pair of fuzzy slippers, and poured herself a glass of boxed zinfandel. Melba sunk down gratefully onto her sagging, secondhand couch and sighed in relief.

  After catching up on the first recorded episode of the popular new miniseries featuring her favorite British sleuth and flipping through the mail piled high on the coffee table, she poured herself another glass of wine and started thinking about dinner. She stood in front of the refrigerator enjoying the cold blast of air while debating between a frozen pizza, and a slightly old, but still probably digestible takeout carton of leftover sesame noodles. She was in the process of putting the noodles in the microwave when her phone rang. Melba glanced at the Caller ID and knew it wasn’t good news.

  “Detective Reightman?”

  “Speaking.” She glanced at the time display on the microwave and noticed it was just after 9:30 PM. She sighed and walked over to the couch to retrieve her just-poured drink.

  As Melba listened to the dispatcher, she set her wine down on the counter next to a framed picture of her daughter and grandchildren. She considered the full glass for a moment, but decided she couldn’t take a single sip more with the night she feared was ahead of her. If she took another sip she might decide to just stay home in her loose t-shirt and faded blue sweats. She spied the envelope from the power company peeking out from under her purse and sadly acknowledged staying home wouldn’t keep the bills paid. She listened to the voice on the line while searching for a notepad and ballpoint pen from her overflowing bag perched on the breakfast bar.

  “1217 Capital Street – downtown,” she repeated back to dispatch as she wrote down the address. “Got it,” she confirmed and ended the call. Melba took another look at the glass on the counter and sighed with pure regret as she poured the wine down the sink, watching the pinkish liquid swirl down the drain. Her plans for the evening had certainly changed for the worse. Besides, boxed wine didn’t keep for very long once it was poured. “What a waste,” she said sadly, while shaking her head and gathering up her things. She thought about changing clothes and decided she just didn’t care. Reconsidering, she pulled on the jacket she’d removed just two hours earlier. It was hot, but she appreciated the pockets. She picked up the huge purse which served double duty as her catchall security blanket and went out the door. She was getting too damned old for this routine. Maybe she needed to find some other way to make a living. “Yeah, right! Who else would hire a short, fifty-three year old female cop with a broken internal thermostat and a sometimes iffy temper?”

  Twenty minutes later Detective Melba Reightman pulled up at the address she’d been given and hauled herself and her big stuffed bag out of the car. She fanned her face with one hand, longing for an end to summer and its unrelenting humidity. Her whacky hormones just added to her discomfort.

  “Not a bad area of town,” she observed, and then looked more carefully. She revised her opinion. “But, it’s not great either.” This block was too eclectic and quirky to fit in with the rest of the downtown district.

  The Time Out Spa was situated on the outer edge of the downtown boundary, which was currently undergoing a renaissance of sorts. Situated slightly off center on a block that had seen better days, but still had a certain funky appeal, the spa was bordered on the left by a bookstore with a collection of crystals and sun catchers in the front window. Sharing window space with the honest-to-god rainbow colored unicorn figurine was a diverse selection of books with catchy titles. Birth NEW Color Into Your Life and Healing Poems of the Elven Bards were her personal favorites among several other equally mystifying selections.

  Reightman almost snorted, but co
ntrolled herself. Far be it for her to judge what people wanted to read. It took all kinds to keep the big wheel turnin’.

  To the right of the spa was a vintage clothing store christened with the name “Passed Around” stenciled in loud psychedelic colors on the front window. After briefly considering the merchandise on display, Reightman decided it was probably a totally appropriate name for the business. On the corner of the block was a coffee small cafe called “Earth Fruits,” which claimed in brightly lit neon to have “Best Vegan” – whatever that meant. “You’re really out of touch, Reightman.”

  Across the street were two empty store fronts with ‘For Rent or Lease’ signs. Wedged between them was a Martial Arts studio, flanked on one side by a shop called “Green Dragon” which, according to the signage, sold Chinese medicinal herbs and teas and had – surprisingly – a hand lettered sign in the lower corner of the front window which read “Affordable Legal Services.” Located on the far corner of the block was a small parking lot, advertising “Convenient Downtown Parking ONLY $7!”

  The only other items of interest were the dozens of campaign posters squeezed and poked into every available piece of public right-of-way in an effort to gain the support of yet undecided voters. “Don’t you just love local elections? Full of promises and heartbreak at every turn.” This time, she didn’t even try to control her snort.

  All the shops on both sides of the street were currently closed for business, and their dusty windows reflected the red and blue lights of the police cruisers now at the scene. There was no sign of the coroner’s wagon yet, although a lone ambulance occupied the handicapped space near the spa entrance. A few late night joggers and folks returning from various bars and restaurants in the area had gathered across the street and were talking among themselves – speculating about all the excitement. There was no sign of the news stations yet, which was odd. Usually, they were on the scene faster than flies on honey.