Two out of Three

M. M. Silva

Description

Private Investigator Meagan Maloney races against the clock in this fast-paced mystery that reaches from Boston to California. When Meagan is hired to track down a missing person and account for a mysterious delivery of fifty thousand dollars, she jumps into her first major project without a safety net. Despite her trip to Los Angeles being bombarded with obstacles at every turn, Meagan returns home confident the case is closed.
However, when a surprising loose end begins to unravel, Meagan is determined to finish what she started. Ignoring the fact that she’s in over her head, she probes into a world of revenge, lies, and murder; not to mention the possible exploitation of a life insurance policy. No stranger to tragedy, Meagan will stop at nothing when her family’s safety is threatened.
With the formidable hacking skills of her neighbor, Doobie, and her attorney sister, Moira, the trio sets out to track down and stop a killer regardless of the consequences. The heart-pounding finale’s shocking revelation will change countless lives forever.

Sujets

• Joint (cannabis)
• Commonwealth Avenue
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 07 octobre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781463442965
• Langue: English

Extrait

Two Out of Three
A Meagan Maloney Mystery
 
 
 
M.M. Silva
 
 
 
 

 
 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
© 2011 by M.M. Silva. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
First published by AuthorHouse 10/26/2011
 
ISBN: 978-1-4634-4295-8 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4634-4297-2 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4634-4296-5 (ebk)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913171
 
 
Printed in the United States of America
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Two Out of Three is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 
Book design by Carl Graves
 
Author picture by John Silva ~ location was Pleasant Valley Country Club in Sutton, MA
Contents
PROLOGUE  
CHAPTER 1  
CHAPTER 2  
CHAPTER 3  
CHAPTER 4  
CHAPTER 5  
CHAPTER 6  
CHAPTER 7  
CHAPTER 8  
CHAPTER 9  
CHAPTER 10  
CHAPTER 11  
CHAPTER 12  
CHAPTER 13  
CHAPTER 14  
CHAPTER 15  
CHAPTER 16  
CHAPTER 17  
CHAPTER 18  
CHAPTER 19  
CHAPTER 20  
CHAPTER 21  
CHAPTER 22  
CHAPTER 23  
CHAPTER 24  
CHAPTER 25  
CHAPTER 26  
CHAPTER 27  
CHAPTER 28  
CHAPTER 29  
CHAPTER 30  
CHAPTER 31  
CHAPTER 32  
CHAPTER 33  
CHAPTER 34  
CHAPTER 35  
CHAPTER 36  
CHAPTER 37  
CHAPTER 38  
CHAPTER 39  
CHAPTER 40  
CHAPTER 41  
CHAPTER 42  
CHAPTER 43  
CHAPTER 44  
CHAPTER 45  
CHAPTER 46  
CHAPTER 47  
CHAPTER 48  
CHAPTER 49  
CHAPTER 50  
CHAPTER 51  
CHAPTER 52  
EPILOGUE  
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
To My Family
 
PROLOGUE  
I t was well after midnight, and the waves were crashing along the shore of the Santa Barbara coastline. The storm that had been building pressure all evening was finally unleashing its wrath, but the house high on the cliff was protected from the deafening water below.
Despite the torrential thunder and lightning, the man alone in the bed was sleeping soundly. He had chosen this location for safety, but he would soon learn that he wasn’t safe. He would never understand why, not even as he took his last breath.
Something undefined suddenly jerked him into consciousness, his heart pounding as he opened his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he could see the storm raging outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The branches in the trees were swaying in a fast, rickety cadence, and the shadows danced around the room like ghouls. He took a few deep breaths, telling himself that he was simply on edge and to stop acting childish. There were no monsters, it was just some wind and rain.
However, in the next flash of lightning, he saw a silhouette in the bedroom doorway. Was that possible? The man blinked several times, hoping that his eyes were playing tricks on him. But the figure remained, unmoving and ominous. The man realized he wasn’t being childish after all, and the terror that swept through him was overpowering. He started to tremble.
From the darkened doorway, the figure switched on the bedroom light. The man in bed squinted in the room’s sudden brightness and automatically raised his hands to cover his face.
When nothing happened, he cautiously peered at the person in the raincoat, and his eyes grew wide. “What are you doing here?”
“Two out of three,” the killer replied and fired.
CHAPTER 1  
SATURDAY, MARCH 1 ST
I ’m an addict. I’ve heard that the first step in overcoming a problem is to admit to it, so I’ve done that much. However, I like being an addict, so what’s to overcome? I wonder if admitting to the issue and then ignoring it is worse than never admitting to it in the first place. Hmmmm.
To be honest, I’m making this sound a good deal worse than it is. My addiction is not crack cocaine, alcohol, or any type of weird sexual perversion. It’s nothing overly nefarious or scandalous. It’s simply caffeine . Specifically, a certain overpriced caramel latte that has whipped something-or-other at the top and smells like warm heaven. My daily love affair with this concoction begins around eight o’clock in the morning, at one of those national chains located in the heart of downtown Boston.
My name is Meagan Maloney, and I’m a Beantown girl through and through. I’ve got the accent, the attitude, the parking tickets, and the road rage to prove it. In my defense, a map of Boston city streets looks like a handful of toothpicks that have been dropped to the floor. I defy anyone to stay sane on those roads. I’m a Red Sox fan, a Patriots fan, and I order chowdah and lobstah without the r’s, like any native New Englander.
I grew up on the south side of Boston along with a bazillion other Irish families. Our family was a little strange, though. Instead of having a ton of kids like all of the other nice Irish families, my mom and pop had only two—my younger sister, Moira, and me. I think that they decided on no more children about the time that I was three years old. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.
Moira and I are grown now, and we live together in a pretty great apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. I can thank her for the swanky address, as she’s a bigshot corporate attorney who also happens to be drop-dead gorgeous. I’d hate her if she wasn’t my sister. She’s the apple of Pop’s eye, my mom thinks that she hung the moon, and even I have to admit she’s pretty special.
But back to my addiction, which is really the staging for the whole story. Hand-in-hand with my addictive personality, I have an overactive imagination, and I sometimes obsess over things. And people. Well, one person, to be accurate. I don’t obsess over him in a stalker way, but in a wow-I-would-like-to-get-to-know-him type of way. But I’ve never done anything about it. The part of my life where I used to act on my little crushes has been put on hold for quite some time. I’ll get to that later.
Anyway, this obsession of mine has about a six-foot-four-inch frame, wavy black hair, deep brown eyes and preppy, square, designer glasses with dark frames. He gets coffee nearly every morning around eight fifteen, and I swoon from my table and then generally drool in my coffee. On occasion, he’ll sit down to glance at a newspaper, but he’s usually in and out. Sadly, it’s often the highlight of my day.
A few days ago the highlight became a blockbuster hit, as my mini-obsession headed right for my table, looking like he was on a mission. I turned my head to see if he was meeting someone sitting behind me, but there was no one else. Gulp .
“Hi, my name is David Fontana. Do you mind if I sit down for a minute?” He smiled and held out his hand.
I nearly fell out of my chair. After a quick handshake, I gestured to the chair across from me and managed, “Um, sure. I’m Meagan.” I couldn’t remember my last name.
“Yes, I know. The people at the counter said you’re a private investigator.”
My balloon somewhat burst. He hadn’t come over to propose marriage or invite me to Paris for the weekend. It was a business encounter. But actually, that was fine. It was good to know that my business cards and word-of-mouth campaign were still working. Clearly my peeps at the coffee shop were taking care of me.
“That’s right, I am. Are you in the market?”
“Well, I think so,” he sighed. “I need to find a missing person.”
I cocked my head and waited for him to continue. I’ve generally found that if I shut up, the other person talks. Even if he didn’t talk, I was fully prepared to just sit and look at him for, let’s say, ten, twelve hours, so I was all set.
“If I hire you, is what we talk about confidential?”
“Like attorney-client privilege?” I asked, and he nodded. “Not exactly. I mean, I won’t run to the police if someone ran a red light, but if it’s something hinky or illegal, then that’s different. I’d be obligated to tell the authorities.”
He seemed concerned, and I didn’t want him to saunter out of my life with his hair, his eyes, and his glasses. On the other hand, I wasn’t going to help him with money laundering if that’s what it came to, either. I did have some standards, thank you very much.
“At this point, David, we’re just talking. If you hire me and I find something shady going on, you’ve got my word that I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Fair enough?”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s fair.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, “So what do we do now?”
Several completely inappropriate suggestions came to mind. “Tell me what you know, and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay,” he said, looking down and stirring his coffee. “I got this Fed Ex delivery late yesterday afternoon, and i