Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)

by Dallas Gorham

Flamer e-mailed Chuck the report on Trey Morrison first.

  Trey’s grandfather had earned the family fortune. The old man came to Florida in the last century and developed vast swaths of citrus groves and processing plants, creating hundreds of jobs for the locals and millions of dollars for himself and his investors.

  Junior, Trey’s father, took over the family business and decided that running it was too much work. He sold the groves and processing plants and put the fortune into tax-exempt bonds.

  When Trey went off to Stanford, Junior and Mrs. Junior became world travelers. They went to the San Francisco Bay area for mini-vacations around Christmas and for Trey’s birthday. They would fly into San Francisco, rent a suite at the Saint Francis, and spend a few hours with Trey between trips to Monterrey and the wine country.

  His sophomore year, Trey was charged with statutory rape of a high school girl. The girl and two high school BFFs crashed Trey’s fraternity party, got drunk out of their minds, and invited half the fraternity to help themselves. One girl’s family filed charges and sued the fraternity, Trey, Stanford, and the fraternity dog for all Flamer knew.

  Mr. and Mrs. Junior flew back from Portofino, Italy or the French Riviera or someplace equally yucky and bailed Trey out of jail. Junior settled Trey’s part of the rape directly with the girl and her family out of court. The girl refused to testify against Trey and the rape charge was dropped. Trey managed to squeak by with a Bachelor of Arts in Humanities. It took him seven years. Some people would describe his GPA as a “gentleman’s C.”

  In spite of his inauspicious start, Trey received an internship at a major investment bank in Tampa. Maybe it was because Junior was a customer at the bank.

  Chuck read that part of the report and thought, Naah, it must have been Trey’s sterling academic record.

  Trey wanted to learn how to manage money—specifically his multi-million-dollar trust fund. Within a year, he had made managing that fund his full-time occupation.

  Apparently, Trey had hidden talents. His fortune kept growing until, according to Dun & Bradstreet, it had now reached ginormous proportions.

  After a few years as a playboy, Trey married Allison Throckmorton McIntosh in a lavish society wedding covered by People magazine and various Let’s-All-Watch-the-Beautiful-People TV shows.

  Early in his PI career, Chuck decided that he didn’t necessarily have to like or respect a client to work for them and Chuck did not like or respect Trey Morrison. But he knew that people were complicated and marriages even moreso. His own relationship with Terry demonstrated that.

  The bare facts seldom tell the whole story. If a client were not an active criminal, Chuck would cut them a little slack.

  Chuck didn’t hold Trey’s wealth against him, nor did he blame him for being born a child of privilege. Chuck had served in the Special Forces with numerous wealthy people and children of privilege. Most people would be amazed to know how many sons and daughters of wealthy families join the U.S. Army. Later, Chuck learned that many of his fellow students at the University of Florida were from rich families. For the most part, rich people are just like anybody else. The majority are good folks; a few are jerks.

  What Chuck held against Trey was that he thought with his prick instead of his mind. That, and that he hadn’t taken his wedding vows seriously.

  At least he paid Chuck top dollar.

  #

  Flamer’s e-mail on Smoot’s background had six large attachments, which Chuck read before printing.

  Smoot was not a nice man.

  In order to print all the data, Chuck had to reload his printer twice.

  Chuck liked to read books on an e-reader, but for analyzing data, he preferred paper. He could flip back and forth between pages, put pages side by side, make marginal notes, even spread four or five across his desk at the same time. He taped the most relevant ones on his wall, and started working on a plan.

  Step one of the plan: Call Snoop.

  #

  Snoop sat in Chuck’s client chair, studying the pages spread on the desk and taped on the wall. “Okay, kid. Dazzle me with your brilliance.”

  Chuck stood at the window. “It’s not enough to find out what Smoot has and where he keeps it. I could do that by burgling his office. In the digital age, his backups will have backups. We could find and delete all the dirt he has on Morrison, but it’ll remain hidden in the Cloud where he can recover it in a few minutes from any computer anywhere in the world.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got an answer for that problem, right?”

  “We gotta find something bad to hold over his head. Something so big that the cost to Smoot if we reveal it would far outweigh any benefit he gets from blackmailing Morrison.” Chuck moved to his desk.

  Snoop smiled. “Or we could just kill him.”

  “Don’t even joke about that, Snoop.”

  “Sorry. How about this? Smoot murdered Armando Acevedo as revenge for the sting that put him in prison. We find proof of the murder to hold over his head.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Kelly and Bigs already tried to nail him for the Acevedo killing. Even if we did a better investigation than they could do—which I doubt—I wouldn’t sit on murder evidence. It would eat my guts out to let a murderer go free. Eat yours out too.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “We prove that he’s still blackmailing people. We know he’s blackmailing Trey Morrison. It’s a good bet that there are other victims out there. Smoot won’t want to go back to prison. We put him out of business by holding that proof over his head. And, if we stop his current blackmail schemes, it’s win-win all around.”

  “But he wouldn’t go to jail for the blackmail, Sir Lancelot. Can your high-and-mighty morals live with that?”

  Chuck leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Putting Smoot in prison again might require a trial. At least one of his current victims would have to testify. Whatever he blackmailed them about would be public. So the victims get punished again. These poor schlubs made two mistakes: whatever they did that Smoot’s blackmailing them for, and paying Smoot in the first place. Let’s not punish them again. Yeah, I can live with letting him skate on the new blackmail charges.”

  Chapter 49

  Chuck and Clint were sitting on the balcony when the front door opened. Two knocks and a distant “hello” followed.

  “We’re on the balcony, Snoop.”

  A few seconds later, Snoop joined them.

  “Snoop, may I present my friend Clint Watkins. Clint, I’d like you to meet Snoop Snopolski. He works with me sometimes.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Snopolski? I’m Clint Watkins. Chuck’s told me a lot about you.”

  Chuck was glad Clint remembered his lessons on polite introductions. Clint had worked on his handshake a few times so it wasn’t limp. He had developed more self-confidence, and his handshake had improved as his confidence grew.

  “Are you Chuck’s sidekick, Mr. Snopolski?”

  “Call me Snoop.” He laughed. “No, Chuck is my sidekick. I’m like Batman; he’s Robin.”

  Chuck tapped Snoop on the arm. “You mean, you’re Abbott, and I’m Costello.”

  “No, I’m the Lone Ranger, and you’re Tonto.”

  Clint held up a hand. “I get it. I get it.” He laughed with the two older men.

  Chuck fetched drinks from the fridge and they sat on the balcony.

  Chuck turned to Clint. “Did you finish Rocky?”

  Snoop raised his eyebrows. “Rocky? As in Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed’s 1976 bicentennial fight?”

  “I want to expose Clint to positive role models.”

  “Who’s supposed to be the positive role model, Rocky Balboa the leg breaker?” Snoop picked up a Diet Coke and popped the top.

  Chuck grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper. “Rocky turns his life around, Snoop. Also, Apollo Creed is a good guy. I want Clint to see that Barack Obama isn’t the only black man who speaks good English. I’m having him watch Denzel Washington in A
ntwone Fisher next.”

  “Denzel Washington was a bad guy in Training Day,” said Snoop. “So was John Travolta in Broken Arrow. Just saying.”

  Chuck told Snoop how he’d met Clint and started to fill Snoop in on Clint’s history.

  Clint interrupted. “I already know this stuff, Snoop. I mean, I was there, man. I’m gonna go finish watching Rocky.” He left the two older men alone.

  When Chuck finished, Snoop shook his head. “I never figured you for a bleeding heart, buddy.”

  “Underneath this gruff exterior beats a heart of 24-carat gold.”

  “Humph. You and the Pope. Why’d you really take this kid in?”

  “I’m as surprised as you, Snoop. I figured he might be a witness to the Franco murder. At first, I only wanted to gain his trust. But now…” He shrugged.

  “I know you want kids, Chuck. But most people start with a baby, not a teenager.” Snoop laughed. “How long you gonna let him stay here?”

  “Not permanently. I guess for as long as it takes to teach him how to get along in the real world—the civilized world.”

  Snoop scoffed. “The real world ain’t civilized, kid. If it were, you and I would be out of a job.” Snoop raised an eyebrow. “How does Terry feel about all this?”

  “She’s not too crazy about it.”

  “I could’ve told you she wouldn’t like a third person in the middle of your love affair.”

  Chapter 50

  Sexy Woman smiled when Chuck walked in. He was practically one of the family now. “Good morning, Chuck. Trey is expecting you.”

  “Thanks, Helena.” He waited for her to show him in.

  She pointed over her shoulder. “You can go right in.”

  “I’d rather you show me in like you did last time.”

  She giggled. “You just want to stare at my tush.”

  Chuck bowed. “Guilty as charged.”

  She smiled, rose smoothly from her desk, did the amazing pirouette, and glided toward Trey’s office door. She gave her tush an extra wiggle as she opened the door.

  “You made my day, Helena.”

  She winked and closed the door behind her.

  This time Trey shook Chuck’s hand and led him to his best-friends-only casual conversation grouping on the north side of his office. “Chuck, I Googled you.”

  “That’s okay, I Googled you too.”

  “Happens a lot nowadays.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know about the Special Forces. And the attack on Ghar Mesar in Afghanistan. And the Bronze Star.”

  Chuck waited.

  “So I know you’ve killed a lot of people.”

  “That’s what soldiers do.”

  “I know about the shootouts over the Simonetti case. You killed people there too.”

  “They tried to shoot me. It wasn’t a good time to reason with them.”

  “I know what you’re capable of.”

  “Do you have a point you’re trying to make?”

  Trey steepled his hands. “I agreed with your original plan to handle Smoot because I didn’t know there were other, ah, options available. But after I learned about your background, I think there is a much more, ah, direct way to handle the Smoot, ah, situation.” He lapsed into silence.

  Chuck waited. Trey had asked for this meeting, not him.

  Trey tired of waiting first. “I want you to take direct action against him.”

  “I am taking direct action against him.”

  “No, I mean, ah, action that is, ah, more direct than that. Much more direct.”

  “You want me to kill him.” Chuck stood and took a step toward the door.

  Trey waved his hands as if to ward off evil spirits. “No, no, no. It’s just that…if he disappeared, say, it would be awfully convenient for everyone.” He narrowed his eyes. “I know you own a large cabin cruiser. Capable of going all the way to the Bahamas.”

  He dropped his hands. “People have disappeared off boats and never been heard from again.”

  “Trey, I’m a private investigator, not a hired killer. If you want to solve your problem that way, I’m not your man. If you want, I’ll quit, subtract what you owe me, and refund the rest of your retainer.”

  “No, no. Don’t do that. I thought I’d see what you thought about the idea.”

  “Now you know what I think of it. I’m here to solve your problem, not create a bigger one for you. And, believe me, that would create a much bigger problem.”

  In a miracle of good timing, Helena brought in coffee. Both men turned to watch her leave.

  After she closed the door, they looked at each other and grinned, the tension broken.

  “Just so we’re clear, Trey, I’m going to negotiate with Smoot.” He poured his coffee.

  “What do you offer in a negotiation? I’ve already paid him a shitload of money.”

  Chuck poured Trey’s coffee and set down the carafe. “I can use other incentives short of death. I can get physical with him—to a certain extent—if I have to.”

  Trey smiled at that.

  Chapter 51

  Renate Crowell’s story exposing the corruption among foster parents hit the Press-Journal’s front page with Clint’s former foster parents featured on their perp walk. They had both pulled their jackets up to hide their faces.

  Chuck felt a twinge of pride as he sat at the breakfast table.

  He had read halfway through the article when Renate called. “Congratulations, big-time reporter. Another front page by-line.”

  “You can kiss the hem of my robe later, handsome. I didn’t call to let you dazzle me with your charm.”

  “I thought you called so I could stroke your ego.”

  “Listen, big guy, if I ever get you to stroke me, it better not be just my ego. This is business. I want to interview the kid for a follow-up story on the effect this corruption has on the children it’s supposed to help.”

  “I’ll ask, but I can’t promise anything.”

  #

  Clint finished reading Renate’s article on his foster parents. He set it down on the breakfast table. He looked uncomfortable. “You asking me to do it, Chuck?”

  Chuck knew that Clint needed to learn to make decisions to become a functioning adult. Decision making takes practice, starting with little ones. This was a decision that couldn’t hurt him either way. Good one to practice on.

  Chuck sipped his coffee. “Your decision, Clint. I don’t want you to do it; I don’t not want you to do it. Even if I had an opinion, it’s your call.”

  He thought about it. “I’ll meet the bi—lady. But I don’t promise nothing.”

  “You don’t promise anything.”

  “Right. I don’t promise anything.” He grinned.

  Progress, Chuck thought. Maybe someday he’ll learn to pronounce “ask.”

  #

  Renate agreed to meet Chuck and Clint at the Day and Night Diner, Clint’s favorite restaurant. Maybe Clint saw Veraleesa as a surrogate mother. He could do a lot worse, thought Chuck.

  As Chuck and Clint exited the Avanti, Chuck recognized Renate’s flaming red hair through the picture windows at the front of the diner. The familiar doorbell dinged as they walked in.

  Chuck gestured toward the booth and Clint took the lead.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Clint Watkins.”

  Renate shook his hand. She usually wore designer jeans. Today’s jeans were purple, accented with hot pink running shoes, and topped with a bright yellow polo shirt. Her ubiquitous reading glasses hung on a gold chain around her neck.

  As the two men slid into the bench across from her, she glanced at Chuck and raised an eyebrow.

  Clint saw it. “Chuck’s been teaching me proper manners. And he takes me to Port City Preparatory School for regular remedial tutoring.” He pronounced remedial carefully. “He feels my education has been lacking.” He nudged Chuck with his elbow and grinned.

  Chuck shrugged and smiled at Renate.

  Veraleesa steppe
d up, order pad in hand. “Welcome to the diner, ma’am. Hey guys, nice to see you again. What can I get y’all?”

  Chuck ordered last and pointed at Renate. “And she’s paying.”

  Veraleesa laughed heartily.

  “How do you like it at Port City Prep?” asked Renate.

  “It’s okay, I guess.”

  Renate interviewed Clint while they ate. Chuck celebrated with a second piece of pecan pie.

  Chapter 52

  Snoop staked out Smoot Investigations from the food court tables for two days. Most of the time, Smoot was alone in his office. His errand-boy thug visited both mornings and afternoons, but didn’t stay long. Snoop reported that after the thug left, Chuck could count on catching Smoot alone.

  “Is he armed?”

  “Convicted felon, Chuck. Can’t legally own or carry a gun.”

  “That’s not what I asked, Snoop. There are lots of unhappy people out there in addition to Trey Morrison who would like his scalp.”

  “It’s too far for me to tell from the food court. I’d be armed if I were in his business.”

  “Me too.”

  #

  Chuck waited at the food court until Smoot’s errand-boy left. It was after three o’clock on a Saturday. Odds were, Chuck would find him alone the rest of the day.

  He walked through the entrance to Smoot’s office and closed the door quietly. He was in luck; the dead-bolt lock didn’t require a key from the inside. He locked the door and walked back to Smoot’s office carrying the sports bag he’d brought with him.

  Smoot looked up from his desk and frowned. “Didn’t hear you come in. I’m Ted Smoot.” He stood and extended his right hand across his desk, as if to shake hands. Mr. Congenial Businessman. His left hand snaked toward his desk drawer and began to pull it open.

  Chuck grabbed Smoot’s right wrist with his left hand, jerked Smoot toward him, and pounded the blackmailer’s nose with a hard right.

  Smoot managed to open the desk drawer and pull out a Browning .380 with his left hand. Unfortunately, he grabbed the barrel instead of the grip. Chuck hacked his wrist with the edge of his hand and the gun hit the floor.