Two Guys Detective Agency (humorous mystery series--book 1)

by Stephanie Bond

  Oakley drew his hand over his mouth. “The captain thought it would be best.”

  She inhaled sharply as betrayal stabbed her. How could Sullivan not have told her the truth? And how could Oakley have kept his secret? Humiliation rolled over her that Oakley knew Sullivan had kept her in the dark about the reason for his career change. What must he think of their marriage?

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Linda, don’t hold this against Sully.”

  “Or you?”

  He pressed his lips together, but didn’t say whatever was playing through his mind.

  “Goodbye, Oakley.”

  “I’ll be in touch about Octavia.”

  “If you find out something, call her,” she said pointedly, then turned and left.

  Outside she gulped for air, feeling like the rug had been pulled out from under her—again. How dare Sullivan exclude her from information that affected her livelihood. How many other things about her husband did she not know?

  As she went about her vending rounds, Linda tried to shake the resentment that had sprung up in her heart toward Sullivan...he was gone now and nothing else should matter.

  But it did. It mattered that she’d fashioned her life around his, to be his loving, supportive partner, and in return he’d disrespected her so thoroughly. Sullivan had always been dismissive of her trivia games and puzzles and the prizes she’d won. Patronizing, now that she thought about it. He wouldn’t have believed she was capable of tackling the open cases he’d left behind...much less closing them.

  While she was stocking the vending machines in the building where she and Octavia had run into Dunk Duncan, she recalled him saying he was there to meet with an assistant D.A. After the last bag of Ruffles had been refilled, she checked the building directory and found the D.A.’s offices. Then she scanned individual names. Klo had mentioned the A.D.A.’s last name in a conversation, but she couldn’t remember it.

  But she recognized it when she saw it—Houston. B.L. Houston, 4th floor.

  She took the stairs to the fourth floor, then stuck the box of chips inventory under a draped table in the hallway, and slid the telltale lanyard into a pocket. She found the correct office, then explained to the secretary that she was there to see A.D.A. Houston about the Foxtrot case.

  The reaction was impossible to miss. The secretary excused herself, then returned to lead Linda into an office where an attractive black woman was Skyping a meeting while eating a cup of Greek yogurt, obviously her lunch. She held up a finger to indicate she was wrapping up and to have a seat in the chair in front of her desk.

  Linda sat nervously, more than a little intimidated by the sheer number of leather-bound tomes on the woman’s bookshelves, the framed diplomas on the wall, and the stacks of paper on the work tables. All of it was so much more exciting than her life.

  A tone sounded and Linda looked up to see the woman walking toward her, hand extended.

  “Hello, I’m A.D.A. Beverly Houston.”

  “Linda Guy. Er, Smith.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Guy-Smith. I understand you want to talk about Foxtrot?”

  “My late husband Sullivan Smith was a private investigator, and it’s my understanding he was working on the Foxtrot case for you.”

  Her gaze flicked over Linda’s capri pants, T-shirt, and Keds sneakers. “No offense, but what does that have to do with you?”

  “I took over his open cases, and I thought I might be of assistance on this case as well. It does concern the murder of jockey Rocky Huff, yes?”

  As soon as the awkward pause was underway, she regretted saying anything...regretted coming here...regretted getting out of bed this morning.

  The woman clasped her manicured hands in front of her. “Are you an investigator, Mrs. Smith?”

  And just like that, she’d lost the courtesy of the hyphenated last name. “No. But I’ve been able to close Sullivan’s other cases—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’m very busy, and you’re in way over your head here. The D.A.’s office works only with professional investigators. And to be frank, I only gave this assignment to Mr. Smith as a favor to Detective Hall, who said his friend needed the work.”

  Linda’s cheeks flamed.

  A.D.A. Houston picked up a notebook and scanned what was written there. “According to my records, we’re waiting for Mr. Smith’s case notes to be sent to our office.”

  “Yes, we’re working on that now.”

  “Very good, we’ll expect to receive them at your earliest convenience.” The woman extended her hand for another shake, this one a clear dismissal. “And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes,” Linda said, pushing to her feet.

  By the time she’d walked to the door, A.D.A. Houston was already on the phone, taking another meeting. Linda slunk out, tingling with humiliation, then backtracked to the hallway and slid the ugly vending lanyard over her head.

  “This is your job now,” she murmured to herself.

  But the box of inventory wasn’t under the table—someone had swiped it.

  Great—there went her profits for the day.

  The irony of getting ripped off outside the D.A.’s office wasn’t lost on her. In a way, though, it seemed fitting.

  It was a good reminder of her role in the overall scheme of things.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  OCTAVIA SPREAD HER mail on the kitchen table, dread churning in her stomach. When had little sealed envelopes become such a source of anxiety?

  When the news they contained had become so unwelcome: Past due bills, lien notices, and offers to help facilitate bankruptcy, no doubt triggered by her recent credit tumble.

  Her phone rang, sending her pulse higher. As always, she hoped it was Richard, but the name on the ID screen was Detective Oakley Hall.

  She connected the call. “This is Octavia.” Linda walked into the kitchen for a coffee refill.

  “Hello, Detective Hall calling.”

  “Yes, Detective Hall, do you have news for me?”

  Standing at the coffeemaker with her back to the table, Linda’s head turned.

  “I do...but it’s not quite what I expected.”

  She could tell from the tone of his voice it wasn’t good news. She steeled herself. “I’m listening.”

  “A representative of the Jefferson County D.A.’s office called me this morning. They’re familiar with Richard Habersham, all right, but he hasn’t been taken into protective custody. They’re issuing a warrant for his arrest.”

  She couldn’t pull air into her lungs. “What...for?”

  “Conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Murder?” It was so absurd, Octavia actually relaxed. “That’s insane.”

  Linda turned around, her eyes wide.

  “The story is a little murky, but Habersham is accused of leaking confidential information about one of his clients that resulted in the man being stabbed to death.”

  She closed her eyes. If Richard had done what they were accusing him of, his life was over. A few weeks ago she would’ve said her husband was incapable of that kind of treachery...but now she really didn’t know.

  “And I take it Richard knew a warrant was imminent?”

  “Yes.”

  She pushed her hand into her hair. “So he’s a fugitive?”

  “He will be by noon today unless he turns himself in. There’s a bolo on his car, and the Greenwald woman’s, too. She could be charged with aiding and abetting.”

  Small comfort for Patsy’s betrayal.

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything else.”

  “Okay...thanks.” She disconnected the call, then looked at Linda and shook her head.

  “What’s going on?”

  She relayed the news, still in shock.

  “You had no idea?”

  “None.” She gave a little laugh. “You think you know someone.”

  Linda nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  Jarrod y
elled for Linda to come and help him with something in his room. She pushed away from the counter and squeezed Octavia’s shoulder when she walked by. “Oakley is right—the police will find him.”

  But when? She felt as if her entire life was on hold until Richard reappeared.

  That’s what you get for molding your life around someone else.

  Her mind whirled in all directions. A stack of folded Louisville Courier-Journal newspapers sat on the end of the table, mocking her. Richard’s arrest would just be something else their friends and neighbors could read about in the papers, along with their home foreclosure and most likely, forthcoming bankruptcy.

  The picture of a college beauty queen on the front page caught her eye. She unfolded the paper and stared at the pretty woman’s Vaseline smile and tiny waist nipped in under her evening gown by Ace bandages. Those were the days, she thought with longing, when she had a crown on her head and the world at her feet.

  Now she was sitting at a grubby table nursing a headache with a hound lying on her feet.

  She became engrossed in the story of the young coed who had survived flesh-eating bacteria and started a foundation to refurbish prosthetics for the poor. She was impressed at the woman’s ingenuity. In the theater of pageantry, surviving a disease and doing something for the poor was an almost unbeatable combination. The only reason she’d beat out that do-gooder epileptic Deena Freeman for Miss Kentucky was because the woman had a wardrobe malfunction during her dance routine that had offended the conservative judges.

  Darn, if only someone hadn’t stolen the double-sided tape from Deena’s toiletry bag.

  Octavia turned to the back of the paper to read the rest of the story, scanning for judges’ names she recognized, and finding a few. She nibbled at her thumbnail. It was looking more and more as if she were going to have to get a job, dammit, at least in the interim. Maybe she should get back into pageanting.

  She started to close the newspaper when a name in another section jumped out at her: Carla Buczkowski....her maid.

  Police were called to a home on Ocala Avenue where they found the body of Carla Buczkowski, dead of a gunshot wound in an apparent home invasion. The police have no suspects.

  She gasped into her hand—Carla, dead? How senseless. She couldn’t imagine what the woman would’ve had that was worth killing her over, but people would steal anything these days. She was furious and hurt at the thought that she and Richard might’ve been having an affair, but she hadn’t wanted her dead.

  Although the voicemail message she’d left the day she’d called Carla from the Waffle House hadn’t been exactly friendly.

  Octavia checked the date of the article, then checked her phone for outgoing calls. Her throat constricted. Carla’s body had been found the day she’d called her.

  Had the woman been lying on the floor dying, while her phone rang and Octavia ranted to her voicemail?

  When she reread the brief piece, a memory stirred. Ocala Avenue...where had she seen that street name recently?

  Then it hit her—on Richard’s background report, one of the parking tickets he’d received was on Ocala Avenue. So he had been to Carla’s home.

  And Richard had bought a handgun.

  Her throat constricted. But that made no sense—why would Richard kill Carla? What did she have that—?

  The evidence envelope.

  Had Carla been killed because of it—by Richard or by someone else?

  And if so, before she died, had she revealed that she’d given it to Octavia?

  Her mind reeled, but she calmed herself enough to remember that the thug had shown up at Linda’s house after Carla had been killed—if he’d had anything to do with Carla’s death and if she’d told him Octavia had the envelope, he wouldn’t have let a glitter storm stop him.

  Which took her back to Richard. But if Richard had killed Carla, and if Carla had told him she’d given the envelope to her, Richard knew where to find her...and he hadn’t shown up.

  So either Carla’s death had nothing to do with the envelope...or she hadn’t revealed that she’d given it to Octavia.

  And besides, Richard was obviously a lot of things—a liar and a bad money manager and a terrible lover and yes, probably a whoremonger—but he wasn’t a killer.

  She didn’t think.

  Still...she needed to take precautions with the envelope until he could be located.

  If she went to the police with what she knew, she would incriminate Richard in another murder.

  But neither did she want to leave the envelope in Linda’s house.

  An unpleasant alternative came to mind. She made a face, but went to the den to unearth the purse where the padded envelope was mixed in with miscellaneous old mail.

  “Sis,” she called, “mind if I borrow the van for a quick errand?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  She drove to the strip mall and wedged the van into the packed parking lot. Apparently Saturdays were busy for all the businesses, except for the investigation agency. She shook her head at the pathetic little sign and the dark windows. Sullivan might’ve been good at his job, but the man had no salesmanship.

  The pawn shop, no surprise, was hopping with people looking to unload some piece of garbage and pick up a different piece of garbage to take home. Grim was helping a customer near the back counter where, she remembered, he kept the “good stuff.”

  She sidled her way through the crowd trying not to touch anyone. When she approached the counter, she scanned the jewelry display, expecting to see her beloved emerald ring. The fact that she didn’t see it only disheartened her more—he’d probably already sold it.

  Grim noticed her and excused himself from a customer, then walked over. “This is a nice surprise.”

  She swallowed a retort, mindful of her chore. “I need a favor.”

  His black eyebrows rose a fraction. “Okay. Name it.”

  She pulled the envelope out of her bag. “I need you to store this for me somewhere safe, no questions asked.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  He studied her for a few seconds, then held out his hand, palm up. “Okay.”

  She put the envelope in his hand, then forced out the words, “Thank you.”

  “You’re wel—”

  But she was already threading her way back through the crowd. When she left the seedy little store, however, Octavia conceded the impossible had just happened.

  She hated him a little less.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  KLO GAVE LINDA a sad smile. “I left everything in Sullivan’s office the way it was, just tidied a bit when I looked for the missing file.”

  “You still haven’t found it?”

  “No. At this point, I’m thinking it’s lost. Or maybe Sullivan had already sent it to the D.A.’s office and it got misplaced over there.”

  “Maybe,” Linda agreed.

  “Anyway, yell if you need me.”

  Linda nodded toward Octavia who had parked herself behind a desktop computer, then lowered her voice. “You sure you don’t mind my sister being here?”

  “I don’t mind. But if I knew what she was doing, I might be able to help.”

  “I’ll let you know if I want your help,” Octavia said without looking up.

  Klo straightened, then huffed back to her own corner.

  Looking heavenward, Linda put her hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath.

  She pushed open the door and experienced an immediate sense of loss. The small office seemed to be in motion—books lay open on Sullivan’s oak desk and the chair was scooted back, as if Sullivan had left in a hurry.

  Which he had, she acknowledged, with a fresh, deep pang.

  The leased desktop computer was sitting with cords wrapped around it, waiting to be picked up at month-end, only a week away. Then the agency would be closed for good.

  Klo had stacked empty cardboard boxes in the corner for her to use. She started at th
e bookshelf, pulling framed family photographs of the children at various ages, and one of Sullivan’s parents.

  She’d gotten a card from his mother Marabella, with apologies and excuses for not attending her son’s funeral, and a check inside for twenty-five dollars with strict instructions that it be used “for the children.”

  Her children were being deprived of grandparents from both sides. She’d promised herself, though, that when the children were out of school for the summer, she would arrange for them to visit with their paternal grandmother somehow.

  It wasn’t as if their maternal grandparents were going to be available anytime soon.

  She picked a few autographed novels from the shelf to add to the box. Most of the materials were industry related—his multitude of manuals from the police academy, and from the coursework he’d taken to become a registered private investigator. There were volumes on weapons, crime scene investigation, Kentucky statutes and constitutional law. Sullivan had prided himself on being a good investigator, and his book collection backed up the fact that he was thorough. But she suspected his quiet and sometimes morose personality kept him from attracting as much new business as he needed to truly thrive.

  Still, his library was impressive and was probably valuable to someone. She made a mental note to tell Octavia to call Dunk Duncan to see if he wanted it—as far as she was concerned, he could have the books for the cost of hauling them away. She’d rather they be put to good use.

  She walked around his desk and stopped to stare at the floor. A sob welled in her chest. This was where Stone had found him, collapsed. It was agonizing to think of how long he’d lain there, helpless. A small dark stain on the carpet could’ve been anything—or there for years—but it struck her as ominous. She had to look away.

  The best part of the office was the window behind the desk, but someone had pulled the curtain closed. She pushed it back to allow natural light to flow into the room.

  That was better.

  A picture of her and Sullivan sat on the window ledge. Her heart crowded her throat as she picked it up and blew off the dust. They had both been in college—it had been taken early in their relationship. She removed the back from the frame and unfolded the picture.