PART ONE

 

The Brat Vanishes

 

Chapter 1

 

The tall, gorgeous blonde every private eye wants to see waiting in front of his office door was not there when I arrived at ten that morning.

Even so, I didn't let it get me down. You have to learn to deal with disappointments in any profession. Most of the time, while you're waiting for the beautiful babe to sashay into your office, a short, fat man smelling of Old Spice and cigarettes will come in instead. Or a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a baritone voice and an abrupt, masculine manner--as in one of my last cases. It doesn't matter if the client is male or female--as long as they have money to spend.

I poured water, measured out the coffee, and turned on the coffeemaker. While it brewed, I sat behind my desk, swiveled my chair around, and watched Orange Avenue's morning rush-hour. Orlando has been my home since I was a kid. Despite the heat, the hurricanes, the traffic, and enough clueless tourists wandering around to cast your own zombie movie, I can't think of any other place I'd rather be. Like every other place, it displays its own unique personality. Summer mornings are all the same--bright, cloudless skies, eighty degrees at seven A.M., and ninety a couple of hours later. It seldom rains in the mornings. This event takes place in the afternoons, around lunchtime, and lasts about twenty minutes--unless, of course, a Cat-2 hurricane has decided to tear up the area.

This morning, Orange Avenue demonstrated nothing out of the norm. Across the street, the bank, tire shop, tune-up shop, and Smilin' Susie's, my favorite breakfast place, all bustled with demanding customers. However, the small parking lot facing our strip mall was nearly deserted. It was too early for the liquor store, tee shirt shop, and Chinese restaurant. And, of course, much too early for anyone needing the professional services of a crackerjack private eye.

The coffeemaker gurgled, telling me it was ready. I poured a cup and added one sugar cube. I'm very spartan about my coffee. I'm spartan in many other ways, too--except with women, of course, and Jack Daniel's, which I keep in my desk drawer for emergencies and medicinal purposes. I also use it for stress, contemplation, depression, euphoria, boredom, and other assorted situations that require a quick boost of energy, stimulation, confidence, and much-needed courage. I usually go through a couple of bottles a week.

I sat down and had my first sip of coffee. It hit the spot, so I had another. Then I went back to watching the busy parking lot fronting Smilin' Susie's. I wondered if I should rush across the street for one of their excellent sweet rolls. I'd had breakfast in my apartment, but Smilin' Susie's made sweet rolls to die for. Sometimes they were impossible to resist--even for no-nonsense, spartan guys like me.

The phone rang.

"Deacon Investigations." I decided to sound formal. I had no idea why. I hate formality. It makes me nauseous. I promised myself as a kid that I'd never be formal. But right now I was bored, and decided to try something new. "Professional," I said to the phone. "Discreet. No job too dangerous or too insignificant. Visa and MasterCard are accepted."

Then it dawned on me that a prospective client who hated formality might be on the other end of the line. Maybe one of those good ol' boys from St. Cloud who owned a ranch and wanted to hire me to find his old lady. If so, I'd probably just pissed away a sizeable chunk of cash. But it was too late to take it back, so I held my breath and hoped the caller would think they'd dialed the wrong number and hang up.

Silence.

"Anyone there?" I asked.

"I was wondering if I should say anything." It was Phil, my lovely ex-wife. "I wasn't sure I'd dialed the right number. I recognized your voice, but--"

"My answering machine confused you, obviously."

"That was a machine? Wow. It sounded so real. . ."

"It was me." I hated leading her on.

"But you just said--"

"I lied."

"But why the professional touch all of a sudden? Don't you usually just say, hey there?"

"Actually, I was trying out my phone etiquette."

"Your what?"

"Figure of speech."

"I see." A pause. "Are you feeling okay?"

"What makes you ask?"

"I haven't forgotten your frightening little episode just a few weeks ago."

"Which one?"

"You were hearing voices."

Phil was referring to the case I was working on when my dead buddy Mike first popped up in my life. Mike is the spirit of a young woman who died during one of my very first cases five years earlier. It wasn't my fault she'd died, but she'd still be alive if I'd been strong enough to pull her up before she fell from the balcony.

But she came back and appeared in the men's room of Kelsey's Bar just before I was hit on the back of the head. Naturally, I thought her appearance had something to do with the blow, and it scared me. And being the foolish idiot I've been most of my adult life, I told Phil about it. In hindsight, I don't know why I did something that stupid. Like most women, Phil has a terrific memory. Women by their very nature never forget the stuff you want them to forget. The remedy for this, of course, is not to tell them anything.

"Still there?" Apparently she thought I'd hung up.

I figured I'd try the casual approach again. It hadn't worked yet, but I was still hopeful. "Now I vaguely remember."

"Don't forget your head injury as well."

"Of course."

"How is it, by the way?"

"My head? Or the injury?"

"I'd have to say one is directly connected to the other."

"We're all fine and just peachy keen. I'm presently sitting in my luxurious office, watching my statuesque Swedish secretary sort some of my latest files." I don't have a secretary, but I decided to give her something to think about. Phil has done entirely too well since our divorce. She runs her own company, has a great office, great employees, a terrific Winter Park apartment, and a great shoe collection. Some women do nasty things to the men they divorce.

"You . . . have a secretary?"

By her tone, you would've thought I'd just told her someone had asked me to act as a sperm donor for some scientific experiment. "Stranger things have happened, you know."

"I'm sorry. It just struck me as . . . well, you've never mentioned her before."

"I didn't feel the need."

"I didn't think you could afford a secretary."

"How do you think my clients pay me?"

"I didn't mean it that way. . ."

"What did you mean?"

"I'm still trying to digest the Swede thing."

"What's wrong with a tall, statuesque Swedish babe?"

"They're usually very demanding, aren't they?"

"She enjoys many perks, working for me."

"Perks?"

"A luxurious office. Flex time. Four RAD days a week--as long as a generous amount of skin is displayed. Good bonuses as well as an excellent match with a 401K fund and--"

"I've obviously been misjudging you."

"How?"

"By thinking you can't afford all this."

"Some private eyes make good money."

"I didn't realize you were one of them."

Now she was being insulting. "Because I don't drive around in a Cadillac? Wear flashy clothes? Speak fluent French in those ritzy restaurants I'm not allowed in?"

"I didn't call to argue with you, Ralph."

"Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised. And I'm sorry if I've offended you in any way."

I hated when she suddenly pulled back and made me feel like a jerk. I could never understand how a woman could yank a guy right out of his good mood and get him totally riled without even breaking a sweat. "Well, if you must know, I can't afford a tall, statuesque Swede."

"I know."

That remark really pissed me off. Whenever she did that, I had to throw in a zinger. "I had one ... once."

"A tall, statuesque Swede?"

"A secretary."

"What happened?"

"It didn't work out."

"I understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, knowing you as I do, I'd say you probably didn't hire her for the right reasons."

"What reasons are you talking about?"

"Could she type?"

Enough was enough. "Oh, hell, Phil. Why the call?"

"I wanted to find out what you're doing today."

"Really?" I couldn't help grinning.

"Really. And stop smirking."

That's another of the many irritating things about talking to a woman you once lived with for fifteen years--she can tell when you're smiling by the sound of your voice. "I'm just maintaining a pleasant expression."

"You're smirking. Don't deny it. But don't get too excited. Believe it or not, this is a business call."

"Business call?"

"I'd like to hire you."

I couldn't possibly have heard her right. It sounded like she'd said she wanted to hire me. "Huh?" was all I could manage to say.

"I'd like you to do a personal favor for me."

So much for the misunderstanding. I could tell by her tone that this had nothing to do with my professional expertise. Phil hated my profession. My being a private eye had been the source of our biggest arguments and the main reason for our divorce. She loathed my erratic hours, the sporadic pay, and the countless trips she'd made to the Emergency Ward to see if I was still alive. She went ballistic when I came home with a black eye, split lip, or bruised ribs--and when I didn't show up for an anniversary or birthday.

Phil has always been one of those high-maintenance babes.

"This has nothing to do with my private snooping business, does it?"

"Not exactly."

"What, exactly?"

"One of my biggest clients has a daughter coming to Orlando this afternoon."

A client's daughter. Worse, a rich client's daughter. I didn't like the sound of this. I'd probably have to be polite and on my best behavior--two things that always made me queasy. I sincerely hoped I wasn't right. If I was, it was my duty to make this as unpleasant for Phil as possible. "That's nice, Phil. I'm glad some of your clients have chosen to bring others into this wonderful city--"

"I need someone . . . to pick her up . . . at the airport."

"Go on."

"That's it."

She couldn't be serious. "Let me get this straight. You want me to pick up your client's daughter at the airport?"

"Yes. . ."

"In other words, you'd like to me drive to the airport, find your client's daughter, and escort her to my car. You'd like me to do this instead of having a professional limo service--a company that does this sort of thing as a business--tend to it. And you've shot down the cab idea because--"

"Ralph, please don't make this any more difficult than it is. I'm in a bind right now."

"Okay, say I do this for you. What do I do with her once I pick her up?"

"Take her to Lee Vista Center."

"And then?"

"You can drive back to your office and do whatever you do."

I stared out at the Orange Avenue traffic while my coffee grew cold. I didn't reply because everything I wanted to say would hurt her feelings. All I could think of was my cold coffee. I wanted to dump what was left of it and replace it with a couple of strong jolts of Jack's. I couldn't believe this. My ex-wife wanted me to provide taxi service for some spoiled rich kid.

"I know what you're thinking," Phil said.

My silence had obviously made her uncomfortable.

"I doubt it, but give it a shot, anyway."

"You're thinking of some subtle way of getting out of this so you won't hurt my feelings."

"You're half right."

"Which half?"

"I don't want to hurt your feelings."

"What about the subtlety part?"

"That's never been one of my stronger qualities."

"I'll pay you."

"That doesn't make this any easier."

"Are you working on something right now?"

"Not exactly. . ."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Baby, I ain't no chauffeur."

"I'm not asking you to be a chauffeur. I'm only asking you to--"

"Be a chauffeur."

"It'll probably take you less than an hour. I'll pay your hourly rate, plus gas--"

"Do you have any idea what my hourly rate is?"

"Reasonably. We did live together for fifteen years."

"What's my hourly rate, then?"

"I vaguely remember something around two-fifty a day, but that wouldn't apply here, would it?"

"That two-fifty goes for any sort of job, Phil. It pays for my time, the use of my car--"

"You'd charge me two hundred and fifty dollars for a simple errand?"

"I didn't say that. I only told you what my going rate is."

"Then what will you charge me?"

"Nothing."

"I can't ask you to take time out of your schedule and not recompense you for it."

"I said I'd do it for free. Don't piss me off and make me change my mind."

"But at least let me pay for your gas. . ."

"Don't worry about it."

"Ralph, you don't have to do this unless you really want to. I'll understand. It's just that this is happening at a very inconvenient time and no one else is available."

"Why can't the daughter take a cab? Or a limo?"

"Her mother asked me to handle this for them."

"What's wrong with her father?"

"He's in France right now."

"And when will he be back?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. His birthday is tomorrow. They haven't seen their daughter in nearly a year. She's been away at college in California and just graduated a few days ago. We all thought it would be great if we could arrange a surprise birthday party and have his daughter show up as the surprise guest."

"Is she gonna pop out of a cake?"

Phil didn't respond.

"Just thought I'd add a little levity to the moment."

"Do you really want to know why I'm asking you?"

"Sure. Let's go with that while I'm still on the line."

"Her mother was very insistent that we protect her."

"From what?"

"Strange people. Foreigners. Locals. Young, horny guys. Old perverts. Scammers. Ex-cons. Druggies. People living here under the Witness Protection Program."

"That more or less includes just about everyone, including me and you."

I heard her sigh. "Jackie's been very carefully brought up and sheltered all her life. We all know how dangerous Orlando can be. Especially you."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm asking you because I trust you more than anyone else."

That really did it. Now she was making me feel guilty. Phil was a champion at things like that. I always thought it was the Catholic in her.

"Well? Do you want to or not?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I don't want this to be free. I'll pay you whatever you want to charge me."

I didn't want to argue any more. "We'll talk about that later, all right?"

"Ralph?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Your voice always gets that throaty quality when you grovel."

"Ralph?"

"Yeah?"

"Quit being cute."

"You really want me to do that?"

"I know you won't."

"Why ask, then?"

"Force of habit."