A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  Ronnie’s lip twitched, but I didn’t buy it as a smile.

  “Sam, I’ve always considered you a friend and a person everyone in this city could trust. I don’t know what I need right now, but please tell me I’ve done the right thing.”

  Shocker. I now felt terribly sorry for the mayor and didn’t want to minimize his apprehensions.

  “I told you yesterday,” I said, “I was proud of you. I’ll say it again. And more than that, I’ll make sure Stanley and everyone else downstairs knows what you’ve done. I’ll personally speak to every cop in Prospect and tell them that they owe you, and they should make sure they’ve got your back. The cops will do that for me. You know it.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. And thank ya…I hope ya harbor no hard feelins towards me.”

  I offered my most sincere smile. “We’re good, Ronnie. Now and if you ever need anything. Understand?”

  He nodded. “Thank ya, Sam.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, can I suggest something?”

  “O’ course.”

  “Have Trudy organize a small change of command ceremony. I need to pass the colors to Stanley. We don’t have a departmental banner to hand over, so I’ll give him my badge. That work for you?”

  He nodded, like a ‘Bobblehead’ sitting in the back window of an old car. “Yes, sir, it shore does. And now can I ask a small favor?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Can I come ta your goin’ away party?”

  It shouldn’t have, but that touched me. “Of course you can. And bring Trudy. I’ll make sure the boys behave themselves.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bettye stood in my office doorway while I dropped the personal items I’d accumulated in my desk over the last five years into a cardboard box.

  She often does the same thing: Rest one arm on the doorjamb, cock her hip to the side and set her other hand there. I’ve been grateful all these years that she’s a faithful wife, and I have the willpower and ethics of Clark Kent. Bettye Lambert is one good-looking woman.

  “Foxy called me last night,” she said.

  “Uh-oh, secret messages sent to your private line?”

  She smiled at my foolishness. “He says everything is all set. Joe Don Hartung plans on announcin’ his retirement this week. They’d like me there to start the transition in three weeks, then make it official in two more.”

  “Good for you. I guess it’s time to give Ronnie notice.”

  “I guess. Poor man’s gettin’ hit with everything at one time.”

  “Serves him right.”

  “Don’t be mean.”

  “Nuts. He’s lucky I don’t cut his heart out.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t speak like that.”

  I can spot a serious woman a mile away. “Okay. Sorry.”

  She smiled.

  “When are you going to tell him?”

  “Soon as I type up a letter of resignation.”

  “Better touch base with the pension system first.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Call them today. Make sure everything gets squared away. You don’t want to lose any time because of a clerical screw up.”

  “Sure don’t,” she said.

  “Gonna miss this place?”

  She made a face. “I had a little practice already.”

  I shouldn’t have, but, fool that I am, I did. “Gonna miss me?”

  Her eyes clouded and closed for a moment. Then she turned and walked away.

  “You can start hauling in your stuff whenever you want,” I told Stan Rose. “I’m cleaned up and almost outta here.”

  “Got plenty of time for that.”

  I shrugged. “Drive me home tonight, and you can have the car. I feel like driving the Healey for the rest of the month.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Just leave the chief’s spot for me. I don’t want some nitwit putting dings on that car if I park in general pop.”

  He smiled. “No sweat.”

  “I guess Sheryl and the kids are coming to see Big Daddy get his new badge?”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I think we’ve covered all the little stuff. You already knew everything else. Should be a quick and quiet transition.”

  “Yeah. Hey, you gonna visit occasionally?”

  “If the mayor allows me back in the building.”

  “I might need some help or advice.”

  “You’ll do fine. But if you want a second opinion, just whistle.”

  “Thanks. Not gonna be the same without you.”

  “After a week people will be saying, ‘Sam who?’”

  “Probably not.”

  “And don’t forget, beneath all his foolishness, John is a good guy to bounce ideas off.”

  He nodded. “We’ll need to fill the vacancies quick as possible. John will be busy handling the background investigations on the new cops.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “If those investigations get complicated, give me a call, and I’ll help out—on the arm. I don’t want to see John stressed out and Prospect PD be under strength for too long.”

  “Okay. Thanks again.”

  “Yep. Know what I’m gonna do now?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I, but you’re going to do the chief’s work.”

  Our passing the torch ceremony lasted less than thirty minutes.

  The TV stations and newspapers sent crews to cover the event, but everything was so straightforward that they did little more than listen to Ronnie Shields and take their videos and photos.

  I refused to wear a uniform, but Stan showed up wearing his new chief’s outfit. At the appropriate time, with all East Tennessee watching, I handed his wife my old badge. She pinned it on Stanley’s tunic, gave him a big kiss on the lips then turned and kissed me on the cheek. I shook Stanley’s hand, and that was it.

  Five years earlier, something similar took place when Sheryl Rose pinned on her husband’s new sergeant’s badge. Now, she was almost forty, the time I consider the best years of a woman’s life. She was an attractive girl with a great smile. I’ve always thought she looked like a young Oprah Winfrey during one of her thin periods.

  The two kids, Martin and Coretta, had been small when Stan pinned on his stripes. Now, as their dad became police chief, they were on the threshold of young adulthood.

  And I was again retired. I felt old.

  Foxy Fanwick had announced Joe Don Hartung’s retirement and Bettye’s imminent appointment as interim sheriff a few days earlier, so the reporters had plenty to talk about with her and Stanley. It was only cameraman John Leckmanski and that tall and attractive blonde from WNXX who spoke to me. I was old news.

  * * *

  John Gallagher and I wandered back into the PD lobby while Joey Gillespie and Terri Donnellson looked after the department.

  John dropped into his chair, and I sat in the one next to his desk.

  “You think they’ll let me stay, Boss?”

  “Why would they do otherwise? You and Stan get along fine.”

  “I know, but what about the mayor?”

  “Where could he get someone else to do your job for what he pays you?”

  “I know, and that’s why I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “I was talking to Lonnie Ray. He says private investigators make good money nowadays, and most of their work can be done by computer. He says he’d help me out if I got a PI’s license and set up shop.”

  “He gonna charge you seventy-five bucks an hour?”

  “Gets charged back to the client. He does it for other PIs.”

  I shrugged. “You certainly know how to find a missing person. Following a cheating spouse can’t be too hard.”

  “I know. Wanna go into business together?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You and me.”

  “I’d have to come to work every day?”

  “Maybe not. Maybe just if I catch a big case.�
�

  “Hmm. You mean like an occasional partner?”

  “Sure. That would work.”

  “Like you’d run the business and if I came in and picked up a piece of the pie, I’d get paid?”

  “Yeah. We’d have good credibility with your name on the business.”

  Bettye walked up and stood next to us. “What are you two cookin’ up?”

  I told her John’s plan.

  “Private detectives?”

  “Investigators,” I said, just to be contrary.

  “Whaddaya think, Sarge,” John asked.

  “I don’t know what to say, except maybe the new sheriff might need to hire you gumshoes for something.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds good—Jenkins and Gallagher, consultants to Blount County’s highest ranking law enforcement official.”

  Bettye smiled.

  “Uh, Boss,” John said, “I’d be working more hours. I was thinking about calling us Gallagher and Jenkins.”

  I looked at him as if he had two heads. “Don’t be silly, John. You’ve got to think sound. People will remember Jenkins and Gallagher because it sounds good. Anyone would forget Gallagher and Jenkins. Sound is everything. We’ve got to make that good initial impression.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. Do you think anyone would have read the Maltese Falcon if the two dicks in that book called their business Archer and Spade? Of course not.”

  “I never thought about that.”

  “Trust me, John.”

  Bettye laughed. “Are you two gentlemen ready to head out toward our big luncheon?”

  “I’m ready, Sarge, but after lunch, I’m gonna take half a vacation day, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course, John.”

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  “Good,” she said. “I plan on having a glass or two of wine, so, Mr. Sam Jenkins, private eye, how’d you like to drive me to the Villa Napoli in that sexy sports car of yours?”

  “Love to. Should I put the top down?”

  “Darlin’, do I look like I want my hair blown all over creation?”

  “No, ma’am. You’re the sheriff.”

  * * *

  THE END

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  About the Author

  Wayne Zurl grew up on Long Island and retired after twenty years with the Suffolk County Police Department, one of the largest municipal law enforcement agencies in New York and the nation. For thirteen of those years he served as a section commander, supervising investigators. He is a graduate of SUNY, Empire State College and served on active duty in the US Army during the Vietnam War and later in the reserves. Zurl left New York to live in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee with his wife, Barbara.

  Zurl has won Eric Hoffer and Indie Book Awards, and was named a finalist for a Montaigne Medal and First Horizon Book Award. He has written seven novels and more than twenty novelettes in the Sam Jenkins mystery series.

  www.waynezurlbooks.net

  Also by Wayne Zurl

  A New Prospect

  A Leprechaun’s Lament

  Heroes and Lovers

  Pigeon River Blues

  A Touch of Morning Calm

  A Can of Worms

  Honor Among Thieves

  From New York to the Smokies: A Collection of Sam Jenkins Mysteries

  Murder in Knoxville and Other Sam Jenkins Mysteries

  The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job and Other Sam Jenkins Mysteries

  Graceland on Wheels and More Sam Jenkins Mysteries

  A Bleak Prospect

  Enjoy a preview of Wayne Zurl’s

  * * *

  A New Prospect

  Sam Jenkins never thought about being a fish out of water during the twenty years he spent solving crimes in New York. But things change, and after retiring to Tennessee, he gets that feeling. Jenkins becomes a cop again and is thrown headlong into a murder investigation and a steaming kettle of fish, down-home style.

  The victim, Cecil Lovejoy, couldn’t have deserved it more. His death was the inexorable result of years misspent and appears to be no great loss, except the prime suspect is Sam’s personal friend.

  Jenkins’ abilities are attacked when Lovejoy’s influential widow urges politicians to reassign the case to state investigators.

  Feeling like “a pork chop at a bar mitzvah” in his new workplace, Sam suspects something isn’t kosher when the family tries to force him out of the picture.

  In true Jenkins style, Sam turns common police practice on its ear to insure an innocent man doesn’t fall prey to an imperfect system and the guilty party receives appropriate justice.

  A NEW PROSPECT takes the reader through a New South resolutely clinging to its past and traditional way of keeping family business strictly within the family.

  Read the first chapter now, then download the book - it’s always FREE!

  * * *

  Prologue

  Financially, Pearl Lovejoy stood on top of the hill. Intellectually and spiritually, she foundered on a reef surrounding her unhappy existence. Had she owned a time machine, she would cheerfully turn back the clock more than forty years, erasing the greatest mistake of her life. Realistically, she couldn’t turn back. She could alter her future, but so far chose not to rock her sinking boat.

  Pearl thought of this failure as she drove a shiny black Lincoln up to the gates of her driveway, tapped in a four-digit code on the keypad to her left, and watched the tall, black iron gates swing inward. She began to drive toward the large home her husband designed to look like a tailored-down version of Mick Jagger’s French chateau.

  Passing the circle by the front entrance, she continued clockwise along winding blacktop bordered by a thick band of flowers until she came to the three garage bays that took up half the lower floor under the main house. She pressed a button on the car’s visor, the overhead door opened, and she drove in.

  Pearl spent that Sunday much like all the other Sundays in her life. That morning she drove to Maryville and picked up her father, retired Sessions Court Judge Minas Tipton. They attended church services, spent another hour at a fellowship gathering at the church and then went to lunch at Aubrey’s Restaurant. She passed the remainder of the day at her daddy’s home.

  Pearl’s watch showed 4 p.m. Her husband’s SUV and his vintage Rolls Royce sat in the garage. He was home—somewhere in the big house, but she didn’t care where nor what he did with his time.

  For the first weekend of June, the weather seemed warmer than usual. She started up the stairs to the second floor intending to go to her bedroom and change into cooler, more comfortable clothes. Pearl disliked Sunday nights. Jodie, her housekeeper, had the day off. If Pearl ate at all, she would have to make something herself—for herself; her husband could do whatever he wanted.

  Sunday nights weren’t all that displeased Pearl. For a long time, she had complained to her father and daughter of being terribly unhappy, but no one seemed able to resolve her m
arital problems.

  At sixty-two, Pearl Lovejoy looked painfully thin. She no longer felt even remotely attractive, although people used to call her pretty. She worried about her appearance and spent hours each week having her nails done and her blonde hair styled and colored.

  Walking toward her bedroom, she passed one of the guest rooms. The door stood partially open. She thought that odd. During the summer, she made sure Jodie kept all the interior doors open wide to let the air circulate. Pearl looked inside. The bedclothes lay in disarray, the room recently used. She stepped closer. Picking up one of the pillows, she sniffed the lace-edged case. An unmistakable smell of perfume lingered on the fabric.

  Pearl turned and stormed out of the guest room, down the hall toward her husband’s bedroom and his office.

  “Cecil, you no-account son-of-a-bitch, where are you?” she shouted, but heard no response.

  She looked through the doorway into her husband’s bedroom, saw it empty and slammed the door for a desired effect. Rage building inside her, she continued to his office.

  “Damn you, Cecil, you had a woman here in my house. Damn you to hell!”

  At the end of the hall, she reached the doorway to his office. Pearl saw him sitting at his desk, partially obscured behind a computer screen, his sallow face hidden from view. A digital camera with an attached cable sat on the desktop. The cable disappeared over the side of the work surface. She waited, seething with anger. Cecil ignored her. That only enhanced her rage.

  “Have you nothing to say, Cecil Lovejoy? How in hell could you…?”