Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4)

by Terri L. Austin

  I spent the next three hours sorting through court documents, cat memes, and Twitter rants. I hadn’t heard a word from Andre and could only assume he was still on Ted Benson’s trail. Without me.

  At six, I decided to call it a day. I stood and stretched my arms in the air; I had just let out a loud yawn when the main door opened and a handsome man with Eurasian features stepped into the office. Snapping my mouth shut, I lowered my arms and tugged on the hem of my blouse. “Hello.”

  His glance darted around the room, taking in the sparse, neutral office furniture and the watercolor painting of a mountain left by the previous tenant. “Hey. I’m looking for Andre Thomas.”

  Could it be? Was this a potential client? And here I stood, all unsupervised. I mentally high-fived myself, but outwardly I remained composed. “You’re in the right place. Come on in. I’m Rose Strickland, Andre’s partner.” Extra points for me, because I said “partner” with a straight face. “How can I help you?”

  He walked further into the office and thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His scarlet t-shirt drew tight across his chest and featured the silhouette of a kickboxer. “I’m not really sure. I have a friend who…you know what?” He unpocketed his hands and began backing toward the door. “Now that I’m here, I feel stupid. I’m probably blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I should go.”

  I’d only been fishing once in my life. My maternal grandfather forced me to spear slimy, wriggling worms onto a hook, and that was it for me. Still, I’ll never forget the sensation of getting a nibble, my line snapping taut, of reeling in my catch. I’d caught an Ozark crawdaddy rather than a fish. But this guy standing in front of me was a prized trout, and I wasn’t going to let him get away. I’d take down his particulars, giving Andre the lowdown tomorrow. I’d show Hardass how capable and responsible I could be.

  In an effort to keep my new client from leaving, I threw out a disarming smile. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me about your friend. And maybe your name?”

  He stopped moving and a sheepish expression crossed his face. “Sorry. I’m Kai Adams. I own the dojo on Ash. Nice to meet you, Rose.”

  “Nice to meet you. Why don’t we go into the other office?” I hiked a thumb over my shoulder and walked toward Andre’s door. When I glanced back and saw that Kai was following, a little rush of triumph raced through me.

  I strode into Andre’s space like I had every right to be there. Snatching a pad of paper and pen from his desk, I gestured to one of the visitor’s chairs. Instead of taking Andre’s seat, I parked next to Kai. He still seemed a little skittish. Hopefully, the informality would put him at ease.

  “Can I get you something to drink? A bottle of water?”

  “No, thanks.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You know, this was probably a mistake.”

  I lightly placed my hand on his wrist to keep him from bolting. “I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Adams.”

  “Please, call me Kai.”

  “Kai. You tell me what’s troubling you, and I’ll tell you if we can help. If not, no harm, no foul, right?”

  “Yeah, all right.” He nervously rubbed his palms along his thighs a few times, then sat up straight. “This might sound really paranoid, but I think something happened to my friend, Rob. I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, and I’m starting to panic.”

  I looked him over. Kai Adams’ toned, compact body conveyed strength. Despite the worry lines creasing his forehead, he radiated confidence. I had a feeling he didn’t panic easily. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  He nodded, and after shifting once more, settled into a more comfortable position. “As I said, I run a dojo. I’ve known Rob Huggins for four years. Not only is he one of my best instructors, I’m his sparring partner. The guy’s a rock. If he’s going to be out, he always lets me know. But for the last two days he hasn’t shown up for work.”

  “I’ll just assume you called him several times and checked his house.”

  “Yeah. I also called his ex-fiancée and the gym where he works out. No one’s seen or heard from him. One of my students is a cop. I talked to him about it, and he said there wasn’t much the police could do. He suggested I come here.”

  “He was right. The police aren’t helpful in cases like these. They lack the resources to look for an adult who might have left on his own.” I could attest to that. When my friend, Axton, went missing, the police hadn’t done diddly. I went looking for him myself, and the journey took me down a strange path that changed my life forever.

  “Rob is one of the most self-disciplined, regimented people I know,” Kai said. “If he couldn’t make it into work, he’d have called me.”

  I leaned toward him. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing by coming here. Sometimes you have to trust your gut. I can look into this for you.” Whoa. I could look into this for him? Without consciously realizing it, I’d just axed Andre out of the equation. I mulled it over for a second. Nope, I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. Instead, I felt like I’d just landed a champion fish.

  Kai rolled his lips inward. After a moment, his eyes found mine. “This is going to sound crass, but I don’t have a lot of money. Even if Rob is missing, I’m not sure if I can afford to hire you.”

  With that admission, Kai stopped being a trout and my compassion took over. When Ax disappeared several months ago, I was Kai. Helpless, desperate. Poor. Well, I was still poor. My free time was limited these days, but I wanted to help him find his friend. If I could show Hardass that I was ready to be let off the leash at the same time, I’d call it a win. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll dig around, ask a few questions. If I find any evidence, we’ll work out a plan. Something you can afford.” And then I’d inform Andre that I’d taken a case behind his back. No harm, no foul.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now, tell me everything you know about Rob. And I mean everything.”

  Kai swallowed and glanced down at his worn tennis shoes. “This is confidential, right?”

  “Of course.” Probably.

  “Rob’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong, but he’s into some questionable stuff.”

  My antennae practically vibrated. “Go on.”

  “Maybe he just went away for a few days. He’ll turn up like nothing happened. If he comes back…when he comes back, I don’t want to be the person who got him into trouble.”

  “What if he didn’t leave on his own, Kai?”

  I saw the doubt in his brown eyes. Still, he hesitated.

  “Look,” I continued, “unless it directly affects my investigation, I’ll do everything I can to keep his secret. What is he doing that’s so questionable?” If it involved drugs or kids, I’d go straight to the police. Confidential only covered so much in my book.

  “He’s a fighter—mixed martial arts. There’s this underground fighting ring. It’s pretty hush-hush.”

  That didn’t sound too awful. Brutal, yes, but not horrible. “Who runs it?”

  “I’m not sure. Rob doesn’t talk about it, but I think Will Carlucci might be mixed up in it somehow.”

  I paused and frowned, trying to place the name. Then it came to me. “The car guy, right? The one who used to dress like a cowboy?”

  “That’s him.”

  Will Carlucci owned several dealerships in town. A few years ago when he only sold Hondas, Carlucci used to pop up in cheesy late-night commercials. When he started selling swankier cars, the commercials stopped. “You think he’s running a fight club?”

  Kai shrugged. “Rob does odd jobs for Carlucci—those are his words. He’s never gone into specifics, but one day Rob drove up to the dojo in a brand new Escalade. Had all the bells and whistles.”

  “What makes you think he didn’t lease it or something?”

  Kai let out
a laugh. “You don’t know anything about fighting, do you? It’s an expensive sport. Gym fees, equipment, special food and supplements. I don’t pay Rob much of a salary. He teaches a few kids’ classes in return for a membership to the dojo and a couple hundred bucks a month. No way could he afford a car like that.”

  “So you think Carlucci gave it to him as some kind of payment?”

  “All I know is once a month, Rob fights. Sometimes he comes to work looking like hell, covered in bruises, his face completely swollen. At first it scared the kids, but now they’re used to it. I don’t know if he wins or loses. Either way, he drives a pretty nice car for a guy who does odd jobs.”

  “You mentioned an ex-fiancée?”

  “Sofia Morales. Maybe she knows more about the club than I do. They had a baby about six months ago, but they run hot and cold. And right now, it’s freezing. I guess she moved back to her parents’ place.”

  I wrote down her name along with Carlucci’s. “You said they’re on and off. I guess they argue a lot?”

  “Wow.” Kai whistled. “That’s an understatement. Rob might not talk about the fight club, but he’s always giving me an earful about his baby mama drama. Sofia wanted to get married soon—a big wedding—which he couldn’t afford. She wanted Rob to quit fighting and get a regular job. They have a pattern. They argue, she leaves, and they usually make up a few days later. This time, it looks like she means it. That tore him up, you know?”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Four or five weeks, maybe. Before their latest split, Sofia barged into the dojo and interrupted Rob’s class. She had the baby in her arms and was screaming about a bounced check. The baby was crying, the kids in the class were terrified. I had Rob take Sofia into the office, and finished the class myself. I told him if it happened again, I’d have to cut him loose. That kind of behavior isn’t professional. Anyway, the next day they’d broken up for good.”

  I made notes and tapped my pen against my thigh. I had a missing fighter, a broken relationship, money troubles, and an underground fighting ring. It was entirely possible Rob Huggins bugged out on his stressful life. Just packed it in and split. But Andre was always telling me to consider all the possibilities and not jump to conclusions, so I decided to keep an open mind.

  And as for this fight club…if anyone would know about illegal shenanigans in this town, it would be my boyfriend, Sullivan. He was a criminal, after all. His vice tended toward gambling, but he knew the big players. Maybe he could steer me in the right direction.

  I glanced at Kai once more. “Is there anybody who’d want to hurt Rob? Does he have any enemies?”

  He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “No, man. I can’t think of anyone. Lately, I could tell something was on his mind. I figured it had to do with Sofia.”

  “You said he belongs to a gym?”

  “Buster Madison’s place, on Fifth and Dogwood. If you go down there, be careful. The neighborhood is sketchy.”

  “Thanks. Hey, do you have a picture of Rob?”

  Kai dug his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and showed it to me. “Our kids won a competition in January. Rob was really proud of them.”

  Rob Huggins stood in the center of five kids, their little fists lifted in a striking pose. He towered over them, and the tank top he wore showcased his massive tree trunk arms. With buzzed hair and meaty features, Rob wasn’t particularly attractive. If it hadn’t been for those ginormous muscles, he wouldn’t have left an impression.

  “Can you send me this picture?” I gave Kai my phone number and sat in thought as he texted.

  “What about Rob’s parents?”

  “They live in Nebraska or Iowa. Someplace like that.” Kai tucked his phone away. “He’s never mentioned any brothers or sisters.”

  I rattled my brain for more details, but came up blank. “I think this is all I need to get started. I’ll be in touch as soon as I find anything.” We both stood and shook hands.

  Kai walked to the door, but before crossing the threshold he turned back. “Rose, do you think he’s all right?”

  “Even though it’s out of character, he might have gone off for a few days.”

  I calmly trailed Kai to the door, but the moment he left I rushed back to my computer. Andre had access to special PI databases, but since they were expensive, he only subscribed to the bare minimum—phone numbers, addresses, criminal records, and DMV stats. That’s where social media came in handy. People post all sorts of personal information I wouldn’t otherwise be able to legally obtain. Thank you, interwebz.

  I looked up Rob’s address. He leased his condo from Carlucci Enterprises, and his car was also registered with the company. Seemed that Kai might be correct. There was no reason why Will Carlucci would finance Rob’s life, not unless he gained something from it. I definitely needed to find out more about this secret fight club.

  Next, I checked out Rob’s ex. Twenty-six-year-old Sofia Morales had never been arrested, but she’d racked up three speeding tickets in the last two years. The only property she owned was a used generic SUV—not a pimped-out ride like Rob’s Escalade. She worked at a cosmetics store at the mall. From her glammed-up driver’s license photo, it showed. Lots of wavy hair, red lips, and spiky lashes. That kind of look took time and effort. I was lucky to swipe on a coat of lip gloss every morning.

  Kai had said Sofia was living with her parents, so I searched for them and noted the address. They owned a house in southern Huntingford, near the Glendale border. Not the safest area in the city. I’d definitely have my stun gun handy when I went to interview her.

  After Sofia, I plugged in gym owner Buster Madison. At fifty-two, Buster looked exactly like what he was—an aging middleweight boxer who’d taken a few too many hits to the schnoz. According to Wikipedia, he turned pro in the eighties, but after two years of mostly losses he called it quits and started training fighters in his own gym. The second ex-Mrs. Buster divorced him in ’91, and he’d been single ever since. He lived in a raised ranch house in a middle class neighborhood. All in all, he seemed like a perfectly normal guy. Nothing about him stood out, unless you counted his cauliflower ears.

  Then I came to William Anthony Carlucci, who resided in a fifteen thousand square-foot house in one of the ritziest parts of town. Divorced and remarried. He owned eight car dealerships. According to his website, he donated generously to charity, sat on the Children’s Hospital board, and was an active member of the community. He was also a member of the Huntingford Golf and Country Club. The same club my parents belonged to.

  I could always ask my mom to introduce me to Carlucci, but she’d exact a high price. The cost? She’d chip a few layers off my pride and self-respect. As always, Barbara Strickland would be my last resort.

  I studied the photo of Carlucci from a local newspaper article. He was hearty and attractive, if you were into men with overly tanned skin and blinding white teeth. His thick dark hair was on the poufy side, and his lips were more smirk than smile. His wife, Jennifer—fifteen years his junior—was aggressively blond. And he had a twenty-one-year-old daughter named Candi.

  Yep. Candi Carlucci. She could totally clean up in the porn industry with a name like that.

  Armed with a bit of info, I left the office with a spring in my step. After all the drudgework Andre had been assigning me, I finally had a real case. A secret case that I’d have to squeeze in between two jobs and the occasional hookup with Sullivan. But I wasn’t complaining.

  Chapter 3

  Huntingford is a town divided. Up north, the wealthy live in their mega mansions and hire maids to clean them. On the south side, collars are true blue and the worker bees learn to make do early in life. Social momentum isn’t much of a factor here. It’s been my experience that for the most part, people accept their preordained roles and stay there. I should know, because I brok
e that rule.

  As a child, I grew up in the swanky part of town. Born to wealthy parents, I was treated to deportment classes—which, according to my mother, never took—attended a private school, and wore only designer labels.

  Then almost six years ago, my parents and I had a blowout over my life choices. I thought I should have some, they felt otherwise. So I moved out, started serving up short stacks, and never looked back.

  I’m the black sheep of our little Strickland clan. That’s the role I’ve come to accept.

  The farther south I drove, the smaller the houses became. Brick fences gave way to chain-link; stucco turned to clapboard. Close to the Huntingford-Glendale border, I sped over graffiti-tagged bridges and past strip malls containing payday loan outlets and liquor stores. Patchy yards surrounded grungy houses, but occasionally a well-maintained neighborhood sprouted like a mushroom.

  It was in one of these enclaves that I found Maria and Juan Morales’ white fifties ranch. The lawn, while tiny, was thick and lush. A late-model Mustang sat in the drive. New rims. Custom wheels. I noticed a red and white decal in the corner of the rear windshield. Maybe this was Mr. Morales’ baby. I assumed it belonged to a man, not because I was sexist, but because I played the odds. That Mustang was all testosterone and testicles.

  As I trotted to the front door, I glanced up and down the street. A group of kids played a few houses away, and a group of women huddled near them. When the ladies spotted me, they stopped talking. I waved, but no one returned the greeting.

  I stepped onto the porch and rang the bell. A moment later, a young man in his late teens or early twenties answered. Ah, so this was the Mustang owner. Since he was shirtless, I got a good look at his torso—nice muscles, but not excessive. And he came equipped with an attitude, scowling at me through the screen door.