Off the Beaten Path

John Schlarbaum

Description

Private Investigator Steve Cassidy has a knack for finding trouble in the most unusual places. This time around, he gets entangled in a new mystery during a romantic getaway!

On a relaxing weekend trip, Steve and his girlfriend Dawn board The Tour of True Terror sightseeing bus to discover the City of Dannenberg's deadly history. The three-hour excursion highlights crimes from the past century, allowing the anxious tourists an up-close look of each murder scene. Final destination: the stately McDowell Mansion, built in 1902 by the most powerful man of his time as the ultimate status symbol. Decades later, it is now known as the site where great-great-grandson Eric McDowell killed his school teacher wife Lucy in cold blood ... or, so claims Guide Rodney Dutton, the Retired Detective who worked the case six years earlier.

After a violent confrontation outside the mansion between Rodney and Eric's outspoken mother-in-law, Steve offers to review the court transcript and police files. Not one to retreat from a challenge, he soon discovers that the depth of deception involved in this crime will test his skills like no other case has.

Brimming with unforgettable characters, Cassidy's trademark sarcasm and investigative intellect, Off The Beaten Path will leave you twisting in anticipation as its shocking conclusion is methodically revealed.

Sujets

• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 08 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456619855
• Langue: English

Extrait

OFF THE
BEATEN PATH
 
 
A STEVE CASSIDY MYSTERY
 
 
By
 
John Schlarbaum

Copyright 2013
 
All rights reserved.
 
Cover design: Hawksworth Designs© 2013
www.hawksworthdesigns.com
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrievable system, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.
 
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
 
Schlarbaum, John, 1966-, author
Off the beaten path / by John Schlarbaum
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1985-5
 
I. Title. II. Series: Schlarbaum, John, 1966- . Steve
Cassidy mystery.
 
PS8637.C448O34 2013 C813’.6 C2013-904442-6
 
SCANNER PUBLISHING
5060 Tecumseh Road East, Suite #1106
Windsor, Ontario, Canada N8T 1C1
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank those who helped shape this novel from its lump of clay beginnings to its fully sculpted final draft. Your opinions and ideas have made this book better on each and every page.
 
Special thanks to the following individuals who took the time to go above and beyond what was asked of them: Dorothy Schlarbaum, Jennifer Thorne, Jennifer MacLeod, Jessica Jarvis, Tina Bezaire, Julie Deslippe, Jessica Pedlar, Kevin Jarvis, Lori Farmer and Jennifer Hawksworth.
 
Last but definitely not least, I would like to single out Joe Monteleone for his support and making my previous novel A Memorable Murder a reality.
 
 
John Schlarbaum
September, 2013
For Lori
 
“Where do I go? What do I do?”
 
Thank you for always aiming
me toward the right path .
Chapter One
There are few things more depressing than walking through a maze of dirty city streets at 3:00 a.m. seeking a hooker with a heart of gold.
Been there, won that stuffed teddy bear.
Yet here I am on a random Wednesday doing just that.
Before you jump to the easy conclusion that I’ve again fallen on hard times and am looking for love in all the wrong places, let me calm your frayed nerves: I’m working a file.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Marital cases and I have a long and troubled past. They are the worst type of investigations for a number of reasons, most notably the fact that information provided by the distraught client is usually wrong. For example, the subject almost always leaves at a different time than the one given, be it from work, a buddy’s house, the ex’s apartment after visiting the kids and so forth. Then there’s the matter of how much time these files can suck out of one’s life. There’s a television program that specializes in this entertaining field and it kills me when the creepy host proudly states, “On Day 9 our investigator locates the target’s vehicle parked in a visitor’s spot near a friendly female acquaintance’s townhouse.”
Are they serious? If I don’t get results by Day 3, my head is on the chopping block.
Day 9. As if.
My current case has the added element of the potential cheater carrying on a disjointed conversation in his sleep with a prostitute named Mary. Or Kerry. Or Sherri. Apparently this dolt snorted or snored at an inopportune time and the exact name couldn’t be rendered. The second strange aspect of this file is the wife’s claim that hubby handed over a gold heart charm hanging from a necklace. More specifically, her necklace.
“I’m certain he mumbled something about ‘a down payment’ and ‘tonight at The Cougar Trap.’ That can only mean that disgusting Drake Road area in the east end, right?” She paused before adding, “And believe me, I’ve searched everywhere and my necklace is gone!”
I examined my early thirties average everything (height, weight, looks) client and had to make a swift assessment. Should I throw her out due to such flimsy evidence or break it to her that if loverboy was making plans anywhere near The Cougar Trap, her marriage was probably already over?
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
“I’ll do what I can,” I stated, making sure to get her money up front, a business practice private investigators and hookers share, among other seamy traits.
The fact that my girlfriend and I were heading out on a mini-vacation in three days probably played a role in how I answered. A little extra spending cash would come in handy.
And really, how hard could it be to locate a phantom lady of the evening wearing a gold heart charm inscribed “I Luv U” and working mid-week in the roughest area of town?
Wednesday: Hump Day. Sounds about right.
 
***
 
“Hey honey, if you’re lookin’ for some action you came to the wrong side of the street.”
“And how’s that?” I asked skeptically, approaching an over-the-hill streetwalker. She was quite the vision with her garish make-up, matted mop of brown hair and Daisy Duke short shorts with fishnet stockings, topped off with a stole over her shoulders made of a mink needlessly killed circa 1972. “Let me guess - you’re celibate?”
She shook her head and smiled, revealing gaps in her upper and lower rows of teeth. “Oh no, not this girl. I proudly sell-a-bit here, sell-a-bit there, sell-a-bit anywhere you’d like, sweetie,” she laughed.
Given her outlandishly sad appearance, her laugh wasn’t an unpleasant sound, which caught me off guard, although it really shouldn’t have. After all, she was a human being with real emotions, once an innocent little girl and the glimmer of sunshine in her parents’ eyes. Certain personal characteristics can’t be beaten out of you, regardless of how hard someone (drunken Daddy, pimp, abusive boyfriend) tries.
“Then why am I on the wrong side of the street?”
“Because my dance card is full. I’m just waiting for a taxi to arrive.”
I slowly glanced down the infamous Drake Road and noted we were the only people out at this time of night: no other pedestrians, no barflies stumbling out of the fabled Dark Stallion or Mickey’s Den watering holes, and not a car in sight. It was eerily quiet, too.
“Believe it or not, I wasn’t aiming to hook up, but I am looking for one of your co-workers.”
“To talk or just cuddle?” She stopped and gave me a cool look. “She’s not your sister, is she?”
“Not that I’m aware of, although around here I suppose anything’s possible.” Headlights came into view a few blocks away. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Mary or something similar sounding, would it?”
“For a price it could be,” my near-toothless wonder replied.
Always the businesswoman, I thought.
“Are there any other girls in the immediate vicinity with such a pretty name?” I inquired as I lifted $20 out of my wallet. “I see you as the unofficial Den Mother down here and I want you to know your acquaintance, if she exists, is not in any trouble.”
“Whenever a cop–”
“Ex-cop.”
“Whatever. I’m just sayin’ anytime the likes of you comes a-lookin’, someone is in trouble.” My colourful new best gal pal took the money when her taxi pulled up to the curb. “There’s a fire escape at the back of The Cougar Trap that leads to a second floor apartment. You might want to start searchin’ there.”
I followed her gaze across the boulevard and noted the fire escape bathed in blue neon from the building’s gaudy wraparound flashing sign.
“Can I use you as a reference?”
“Sure thing, babycakes. Tell the twins Truffle Divine says you’re okay.”
The taxi sped away before I could thank my helpful guide but not before I confirmed my client’s lost necklace wasn’t part of this evening’s costume drama.
Knowing that being out alone in this neighbourhood was frowned upon by the police and county coroner, I began to briskly walk to my next and possibly final destination. Unlike many of my P.I. associates, I don’t carry a gun, brass knuckles, nunchucks or pepper spray. I figure if I can’t talk my way out of a situation and am overpowered, these same weapons could easily be used on me, which would be a real shame in my humble opinion.
“What do I have to lose except my life?” I asked myself aloud as I crossed the street.
 
***
 
I cautiously approached The Cougar Trap, a recent addition to The Strip that was known for its seedy nightlife, regardless of the actual time of day. Catering to a specific clientele, it’s a unique enterprise that isn’t a peeler bar, a restaurant or a swinger’s club, yet magically combines aspects of all three.
As for its name, in the late 1960s a “cougar” was easy to spot. She was Mrs. Robinson, the horny older housewife in the classic film The Graduate , who seduced the son of her husband’s business partner. More recently, the ultimate cougar is Stifler’s divorced mom in the American Pie movie series. These days, the definition is a grab-bag term for any unattached woman over 30, usually with a kid or two in tow, who enjoys reliving her golden high school years in the company of younger men.
Climbing the fire escape, I noted two surveillance cameras mounted on the roof; one aimed at the stairs and the other trained on the upper back door. Recalling my science teacher’s assertion that for every action there’s a reaction, I flashed a big stupid grin, waved at both cameras and mouthed, “Hey dude, what’s up?” As if on cue, the stair cam slowly panned upward as its lens zoomed in on my face. Finding no wall buzzer, I gently knocked on the door and waited, knowing that Spielberg and company would eventually make contact.
“What’s your business, pal?” a woman asked in a loud, although friendly, tone.
I haven’t been called pal since my father passed away during my last few months of high school. Then again, I just called her dude , so I guess we’re even on that count.
“I’m searching for a necklace.”
“Does this look like th