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

by Dallas Gorham

  Chuck leapt across the desk and hit Smoot on the nose again. Blood spattered the desk and Chuck’s suit. The blow knocked Smoot over his chair. It rolled across the linoleum floor and banged against the wall. His face hit the floor.

  Chuck kicked Smoot in the ribs and he skidded across the floor, trailing a bloody streak. Chuck kicked him again in the solar plexus. He rolled away and Chuck kicked him in the kidneys.

  Smoot tried to cover his ribs, his stomach, and his kidneys at the same time—hands and forearms flapping back and forth wildly.

  Chuck stomped on his right hand. He wouldn’t shoot anyone with that hand for a few weeks.

  Chuck leveled a Glock at him while he picked up the Browning. Chuck returned to the desk and opened the other desk drawers. He found a .45 automatic in the top right. “You got any more, Smoot?” He dropped both guns in the sports bag.

  “No, no, no. That’s all. Who the hell are you? What the fuck do you want?”

  “Teddy, Teddy, such language. It demonstrates a lack of breeding, don’t you agree?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Chuck hit him hard with a right cross. “Please, don’t use such language, Smoot. I have tender ears. If you don’t know who I am, why’d you try to pull a gun on me?”

  “I saw you in the bar taking my picture the other day. I knew this weren’t no social call. Who are you?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “What the fu—hell do you want?”

  “If I find another weapon when I search, I’ll hurt you some more. If you lie to me, I’ll hurt you some more. You understand?”

  Smoot wiped his bloody nose on his jacket sleeve and nodded.

  “Assume the position.”

  Smoot struggled to his feet with a groan and leaned his left hand against the wall. His right hung limply. Chuck let that slide.

  Chuck kicked Smoot’s feet apart and further from the wall. He frisked him with his left hand. He pulled Smoot’s cellphone and wallet from his pockets and tossed them on the desk along with a key ring he found.

  “What about the file cabinet? What will I find when I open it?” The file cabinet was locked.

  Smoot’s eyes darted back and forth. He nodded. “Switchblade in the top drawer.”

  “Which key?”

  “The little one.”

  “Sit on the floor and cross your legs.”

  Chuck opened the file cabinet and checked the drawers. He put the switchblade in the sports bag and sat in the office chair.

  Smoot moaned and held his bloody nose. “For godssakes, what the hell do you want?”

  “You are no longer in the blackmail business.”

  “I’m not blackmailing anybody.”

  Chuck walked over and kicked him in the back of the head, not hard. He didn’t want to put Smoot in the hospital; he just wanted his undivided attention. “I told you not to lie, scumbag. Don’t lie to me again. I know all about you.”

  A variety of expressions passed across Smoot’s face as he considered the possibilities of what that meant.

  Chuck opened the file cabinet again and sorted through its contents.

  Smoot raised his hands. “That’s private property. You don’t have a search warrant. You can’t do that.”

  Chuck looked at Smoot and shook his head. “Just your luck. I’m not a cop, and I don’t give a damn about your rights.”

  The top drawer held expense files: office lease, telephone and electric bills, and other administrative stuff. Chuck had a drawer like that in his own office.

  He pulled the cellphone bill file and laid it on the desk.

  Second and third drawers held office supplies. Chuck hit pay dirt in the bottom drawer: a dozen or more folders with no names on them, just lots of paper and notes and a stick drive in each folder.

  Chuck pulled those folders out and laid them on the desk. He pulled the office chair over and looked at a few files. They contained data on Smoot’s blackmail victims.

  Smoot sat on the floor and stared at Chuck.

  Chuck opened the laptop and turned it on. “What’s the password?”

  Smoot told him. He wrote it on the cover of one of the victim folders from the bottom drawer.

  Chuck checked the icons on the desktop and found Smoot’s Internet Cloud backup service. He double-clicked it and waited while it connected. “Login ID for your Cloud backup?”

  Smoot hesitated.

  Chuck looked over at him. “Really, Smoot? I don’t have your undivided attention?”

  Smoot dropped his head and gave Chuck the login and password. He wrote them on the file cover.

  In a few minutes, Chuck deleted all Smoot’s Cloud backups and told the Cloud company to cancel the account. That would at least slow him down if he tried to go back into business.

  An automatic window opened. The company was “oh so sorry” to see Smoot go and wondered if he would be good enough to tell them why he had closed the account. Chuck read the message aloud. “I’ll tell them that Smoot Investigations has gone out of business.”

  Smoot glared at him wordlessly.

  Chuck opened the chat window and asked the backup service to refund the unused portion of the subscription. He didn’t even want Smoot’s name to remain in their records as a creditor, either. “Don’t worry, Smoot, they’ll send you a partial refund.”

  Smoot groaned and started to get up.

  “Don’t. I’ll tell you when to move. Roll over on your stomach. Hands behind you.” Chuck took a plastic tie from his sports bag and fastened Smoot’s hands behind him. “Sit up.”

  When Chuck reached for another plastic tie, Smoot tried to kick him. Chuck backhanded him with a fist. “Not smart, Smoot. Play along and I’ll let you live.”

  Chuck fastened Smoot’s ankles together. “Where’s the other cellphone?”

  Smoot glared at Chuck.

  Chuck pulled out the cellphone bill. “You have two phones. I need them both.”

  “In the glove compartment of the van.”

  “I’ll get it later.”

  Chuck turned the phone on. “What’s the password?”

  Smoot told him and he wrote it down with the other passwords.

  Chuck glanced through Smoot’s contacts list and text messages. Lots of good stuff there for Snoop to analyze.

  Chuck took the keys off the key ring. He went to the office supply drawers and found a pad of scratch paper and a tape dispenser. “What are these keys to?”

  As Smoot told him, he labeled each one and dropped it in the sports bag—all but the van key and the office key. Chuck had the keys to Smoot’s apartment, his office, his car, a cargo van, the file cabinet, and his safe deposit box.

  Chuck unplugged Smoot’s computer and put it and the power cord in the bag.

  He checked the plastic ties. He had tied them tight enough, but not too tight. “I found a pair of scissors in your file cabinet. You can use them to get out of those plastic ties. I’ll put them in the top desk drawer.” He shoved the scissors to the back of the drawer, closed the drawer, and locked it. He left the key in the lock. Chuck wanted to slow Smoot down, not starve him to death. He knew somebody would turn Smoot loose Monday morning if he didn’t cut himself free before then.

  Chuck locked the office door behind him and retrieved Smoot’s other cellphone from his van.

  Chuck threw Smoot’s office and van keys as far as he could across the empty parking lot.

  Ted Smoot’s whole life was open to him.

  It had been a good day for him—the Army way.

  Chapter 53

  Chuck slid a stack of bundled pages across his desk toward Snoop. “The top bunch is a list of people in Smoot’s address book on his computer.”

  “I won’t ask how you got this.”

  “A good fairy dropped them off anonymously.”

  Snoop grunted. “Of course.” He looked at the stapled pages.

  “The second group is a list of the contacts from his smart phone and the log of his c
alls and texts.”

  Snoop picked up the papers. “Same good fairy?”

  “Of course. And the fairy gave me the third bunch, which is a log of calls made from his regular cellphone.” Chuck handed Snoop the last sheets of paper. “It’s not a smart phone; you’ll have to look up the numbers to see who they are. Compare all three lists. Anybody who’s on two or more lists, run a quick-and-dirty background check to see what their relationship to Smoot is. We want to find his current victims. And find out if he has any other legmen. I wouldn’t want to be blindsided by an extra thug I didn’t know about.”

  Snoop butted the papers into alignment on the desktop. “Can I use your laptop?”

  “Take it into the conference room and help yourself. I’ve got some other stuff I need to do in here.” Chuck didn’t tell Snoop about his invasion of Smoot’s office, nor about the victim files he’d found. In case the police ever asked Snoop anything, he wouldn’t have to lie about what he didn’t know.

  An hour later, Snoop opened a manila folder on Chuck’s desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here’s the names and contact info on two probable blackmail victims. You may recognize one of the names.”

  Chuck glanced at the names and whistled. “Is this the famous one?”

  Snoop grinned. “Maybe he’ll give you the secret to how he cooks his ribs.”

  Chapter 54

  Hank’s Bar & Grill & Bodacious Ribs was a “must visit” in the guidebooks. Tourists came by the busload. In a prime spot on the waterfront overlooking the cruise port across the ship channel, the place coined money like the U.S. Mint.

  Hank Hickham, the owner, was a Port City legend. Chuck had Googled the colorful restaurateur before he made his approach, but that didn’t prepare him for meeting the man himself. Sixty years old, partially bald and grey, Hank stood five-foot-nine and weighed over three hundred pounds, but he bounded to his feet like an Olympic gymnast doing a handspring. He hustled around his desk with his hand extended, a big grin on his face.

  “Everybody calls me Hank.” He pumped Chuck’s hand like a Texas oil well, while he led his visitor across the expansive office to a coffee table with leather chairs grouped around it. The view was impressive. “You hungry, Chuck? I’ll hustle us up a mid-afternoon snack.”

  “Just coffee, Hank. A little cream, no sugar.” He hadn’t expected the red carpet treatment from his famous host. Chuck had shown up without an appointment and had given Hank’s receptionist his business card and an envelope containing a letter addressed to Hickham. That envelope lay unopened on the desk.

  Hank punched the intercom. “Would y’all please bring us some coffee for two and, uh, a few of them big Danish pastries? Thanks.” He sat down across from the young detective. “What can I do for you?”

  “You didn’t open my letter.”

  Hank leaned back and laughed. His laugh was as big and friendly as he was. “You don’t need no letter of introduction, son. Hell, I musta read every story ’bout you and that orphan girl in the Press-Journal. I admire how you saved that little gal and had that shootout. I’m a fan.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The pleasure’s mine. Something I always wanted to ask: Was you afraid?”

  “Which time?”

  “When that sniper shot at you from the parking garage.”

  “Sure. Anytime somebody points a gun at me, I’d be a fool not to be afraid. But that doesn’t change anything; I still have to handle the danger. In that case, I handled it by running like hell.”

  Hank laughed and slapped his massive thighs. “I know better than that, son; I read the paper. Still, your way makes a better punch line—you ‘ran like hell.’” He stopped laughing as a man in a waiter’s uniform carried in a loaded restaurant tray and placed it on the coffee table. “Thanks,” he said and handed Chuck a cup. “So what’s on your mind, son?”

  Chuck waited for the server to leave. “I’m here to talk about Ted Smoot.”

  “Who?”

  “Ted Smoot. The guy you paid five thousand dollars a month for the last four months. And last month he raised you to six thousand.” Chuck tasted his coffee. Man, that’s good.

  “You know ’bout that Smoot weasel?”

  Chuck grinned. “I’m a private investigator. It’s what I do. The good news is: I’m here to help.”

  Hank offered the dish of pastries to Chuck and raised an eyebrow. When Chuck waved it away, the fat man picked a Danish before setting the plate down. “How you think you can help me?”

  “I have another client who’s one of Smoot’s victims. That person hired me to stop him.”

  “The only way to stop that chickenshit bastard is with a bullet between his eyes.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “What else can you do?” Hank bit off a giant chunk of pastry.

  “You’re not the only person he’s blackmailing.” Chuck explained his plan to hold proof of Smoot’s new crimes over his head.

  “That’s all well and good, Chuck, but to put Smoot in jail again, the facts of the blackmail would have to come out.” He took another bite of Danish, washed it down with coffee.

  “Probably.”

  “I’m sure as hell not gonna hang out my dirty laundry. Hell, that’s why I paid the bastard in the first place. I’ll tell you what: I’ll make my own deal with you to get Smoot off my back.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Get Smoot off my back and everybody else’s back at the same time. You get my drift?”

  “Hank, I’m not a hired killer. And, even if I were, the ‘dirty laundry,’ as you call it, wouldn’t disappear, even if Smoot did. He uses another thug to collect payments from victims. That guy could access the same information. Removing Smoot wouldn’t change that.”

  “But it might make the other guy think twice.”

  Chuck expected Hank to laugh after that line, but he didn’t crack a smile. He was dead serious.

  “Tell me what he’s got on you,” said Chuck.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I only read Smoot’s cash transactions file. Whatever he’s got on you is none of my business unless you want me to know.”

  “How’d you get his cash file?”

  “Professional secret.”

  “Well I’m sure as hell not gonna tell you my secrets.”

  “For me to help you, Hank, I need to know what I’m up against. If your secret doesn’t involve a current or ongoing criminal act, it would come under my confidential client relationship—if you were my client.”

  “It’s something I did ’bout forty years ago.”

  “Okay. Pay me a dollar so you’ll be my client, tell me what it is, and I’ll give you a dollar’s worth of advice. Then we’ll go from there. Fair enough?”

  “No. You get what you pay for, and I want better advice than that. I’ll pay you one thousand dollars.” He crossed to his desk, pulled a checkbook from a drawer, and wrote a check.

  Chuck stuck the check in his pocket. “What did you do?”

  “I robbed a bank.”

  “Where?”

  “A small town in South Carolina.”

  “Anybody killed or wounded?” asked Chuck.

  “Nope. I got away clean as a skinned grape.”

  “How do you think Smoot found out about it?”

  Hank shrugged. “Maybe he traced the money I used to pay it back?”

  “Pay what back?” Chuck asked.

  “The bank. A few years ago my conscience got to bothering me something awful. It was about the time I set up those trust funds for my kids. So I paid back the money I stole—anonymously, I thought. It made all the newspapers in South Carolina.”

  Chuck laughed. “What did you do, send along a letter of apology?”

  “Practically. There was this church across the street from the bank. It was still in the same place when I went back all those years later. I went into the church and confessed to the preacher what I done. I give him the money in cash so he could give it
to the bank with my apology.”

  Chuck grinned. “The newspapers must’ve loved a story like that.”

  “They did.” Hank lifted the plate with the remaining pastry and offered it to Chuck.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Hank shrugged and took the remaining pastry.

  “The good news is that after so many years, the statute of limitations has expired,” Chuck said. “You’re home free, Hank.”

  Hank shook his head. “I know that. That ain’t the problem, son. What I’m really worried ’bout is my liquor license. You know what would happen to my business if I lost my liquor license?”

  “I know that you can’t run a tourist restaurant without a liquor license, and a felon can’t have a liquor license. But, Hank, the statute has run. You’re no longer a felon. The county can’t take your license.”

  “But think of the politics, Chuck.” He rapped the table for emphasis. “The goddamn politics would kill me.”

  “Politics is beyond my area of expertise. You want your check back?”

  “Keep it.” He waved a hand dismissively as he rose and stood in front of the window. “Consider this a therapy session. If my past came out, them scaredy-cats on the liquor board would suspend my license while they considered the issue long enough to get their pictures in the paper. They’d hold hearings and issue statements to get on the TV news. They’d appoint investigators, gather public comments…” He sighed. “All that crap.”

  He rapped the table again. “It would be a goddamn three-ring circus that’d take a year before I re-opened, even after I won.”

  Chuck nodded. “I see what you mean.”

  “It’s no secret that I make over a hundred grand a month here, more in the busy season. You may think that I’m scared of losing a million dollars while we’re closed, but that don’t scare me none.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Hank sighed. “I got more money than Hall’s has cough drops, and my kids and grandkids is well took care of in case anything happens to me or the business. Hell, I could shut down tomorrow and it wouldn’t affect my living standard or theirs by so much as a bowl of chili.” He raised a finger. “I don’t say the money ain’t important; money’s always important. It’s just that I don’t need it no more.” He leaned toward Chuck. “I’ll tell you what scares the crap out of me.”