Chapter 1 - Not an Accident

Meet the first rank of pawns and players in this chess match.

Chapter 1

Not An Accident

August - Bloomington, Indiana

The man in the black hooded poncho stood beside his minivan and trained binoculars on a stretch of Old Route 37 across the wide valley. A light rain slicked the deserted pavement which snaked around rolling hills through uninhabited countryside. He smiled at the perfection of the setup.

A combination of nerves and exhilaration set his heart thumping as he checked his watch. Almost one a.m.; two minutes to go until Scot Cunningham died. He touched the button on his phone headset and heard one ringback.

"Reinhold."

He gritted his teeth. "You’re supposed to be Alpha and I’m Beta. No names, remember?"

"Sorry. You see it yet?"

"No." Resolute calm displaced the constant anxiety he had lived with over the last few weeks since his discovery. But tonight, if the plan worked, he would be on track to freedom.

"Just remember to wait for the signal," Reinhold instructed.

"I know."

"You gotta hit it just right, because�""

"I know, I know! If you’re so worried about it, why aren’t you out here instead of me?"

Reinhold sighed. "Okay, okay. It’s just that I never killed anyone before."

"You think I have?" He caught a twinkle of light behind a distant stand of trees. "Wait. I think I see it."

He raised the binoculars again and followed the progress of an old Chevy Impala as it climbed a steep grade across the valley. Ahead at the summit, he knew the road made a tight curve where a joke of a guardrail offered no actual protection from a headlong plunge over rough ground.

"We’re in action," he reported, and another surge of adrenaline swept through him as he lowered his field glasses. He stuck his left hand under his poncho and brought out the remote control box, and his right hand appeared to be a mile away as it extended the short antenna. He positioned his left thumb over the button.

The Chevy accelerated as it neared the curve. He let his thumb rest lightly on the button and held his breath. When the car’s dome light came on, he pressed the button and a small flash bloomed near the right front tire. He heard the engine roar as the car accelerated, smashed through the flimsy barrier, and plummeted down through brush and scrawny trees until it hit a rock near the bottom of the hill. After a moment, the gas tank exploded and the car became a fireball.

"Whoa," he breathed. "Awesome." He turned away to duck into his car, charged with wild glee.

"Did it work?" Reinhold asked on the phone.

He laughed. "Scotty go boom."

***

One month later, Chicago

Tabitha Solo listened to playback of the first cut of her debut album and resisted an urge to jump up and dance for joy. After years of struggling to launch her singing career into the big time, she now had a record deal less than four weeks since bumping into Carren Bixby at Scot Cunningham’s wake.

"Beautiful," proclaimed recording engineer Ollie Berkus as the song ended. "You’re going to be a star, Tabitha. I mean it."

"One track down and nine to go," she remarked, thrilled by the lofty compliment from a real professional. "You’ve made it so easy, Ollie."

"Me?" he countered happily. "You’re the talent here. It’s you that made it easy."

She glanced across the room at Carren who paced and talked to her cell phone wearing her serious-manager frown. She always became more intense when on the job, but her intensity had played a huge role in landing the record deal in the first place. In a short time, Tabitha’s one-time rival had become not just her manager, but a best friend, surrogate mother, and guardian angel rolled into one.

Ollie nodded in Carren’s direction. "She’s a go-getter. Where’d you find her?"

"Back in high school, I had this huge crush on her boyfriend." An image of Scot came to mind unbidden: blond hair, tanned muscles, manly even as a teen, the golden god she once worshiped. "Carren and I ran into each other at his funeral last month. She had a business degree and a crappy job and thought she could help me get something going." She shrugged. "What can I say? Her family is super rich and they know a lot of influential people."

Ollie made a sly wink. "Well I guess there’s no grudge about the boyfriend since she’s busting her butt for you."

"Grudge? Nah! Even back then she was cool with it." She fondly regarded her friend again, the now familiar elegant face, the close-cropped honey-colored hair, and the air of total confidence. "Look at her. She was that gorgeous even in high school. He had her, so why should the most popular guy in the senior class even look at a skinny, shy sophomore like me?" Her face grew warm at the memory of the summer day when, on a dare, she sneaked up and kissed Scot as he slept in a hammock beside the Bixby’s pool. The memory of his furious reaction could still shrivel her soul with humiliation, and how Carren had laughed! "It’s been ten years, and we’re both grownups now. I just had a stupid teenager’s infatuation."

Carren slapped her cell phone closed, and the furrow in her brow smoothed. Her doe-like brown eyes twinkled as she approached and she grinned. "Sheez-louise, kid. That sounds terrific!"

"I told her she’s going to be a star," Ollie added. "I don’t think she believes it yet."

"I don’t," Tabitha agreed. "If I keep pinching myself, I’ll be black and blue all over."

"And she’s a dream to work with." Ollie reached an arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "Great vocal control and perfect tone. I think I’ll call her One-Take Tabitha."

Another blush made her cheeks hot. "Well, I had good teachers back at the Conservatory."

"We’ll wrap the album in record time at this rate," he observed as he stood and stretched. "But we still need a headliner cut, so maybe you can think about it over the weekend."

"Consider it done," Carren stated confidently.

"See you both here Monday then." He sketched a wave and sauntered to the door.

Tabitha basked in a sense of contentment almost as strong as her disbelief in her sudden success. She owed it all to Carren. And to think she almost skipped Scot’s funeral since she had not seen him since he graduated and scarcely thought about him anymore. But if she had not gone, she and Carren never would have linked up and she would still be playing two-bit bars for low pay and tips.

Carren’s hand landed lightly on her shoulder. "You know what? We should celebrate this landmark occasion."

She certainly felt like celebrating, and she regretted the need to delay it. "Well, it’ll have to wait until after my gig tonight. Artie’s, remember?"

Carren snapped her fingers. "Oh, yeah. I forgot."

Tabitha blinked in surprise because Carren never forgot anything, especially performance dates. She wondered if her phone call had upset her. Had she looked worried during it? Then, with relief, she remembered how Carren insisted she quit playing joints like Artie’s Tap now that she had a real career. Carren probably forgot because, for her, the weekly Artie’s date was a thing of the past.

"It’s the last one," Tabitha apologized. "I promised him through the end of the month, and it’s just a couple of hours. We’ll be celebrating before ten."

"Sure," Carren agreed amiably. "Why don’t you drop me at home and take the car?"

Minutes later, they were in Carren’s car bound for the Gold Coast apartment they moved into soon after Scot’s funeral. Tabitha stole a glance at her friend’s profile and remembered how she once thought she could never compete for Scot’s affections against Carren’s combination of beauty, brains, and money. How odd that the man who once would have driven them apart had brought them together, and together they were going places.

***

Jack Watson wiped sweat from his face as he watched the front entrance of Artie’s Tap from his car. Typical neighborhood bar trying to snare some of the hipster crowd with live music on weekends. His subject, Burt Godfrey, purportedly came in every Friday night around six, but if he did not show by six thirty, Jack figured to chuck it and try another stakeout spot.

He did not relish the idea of a confrontation with Burt, a one-time cop driven out of the Chicago Police Department for his alcohol problem and violent temper. However, Burt’s wife, Jack’s client, needed to find him to initiate a divorce so she could move on with her life. Burt would not be pleased to be found since he had run out on his marriage to shack up with another woman. Jack had learned in three years with the Riley and McBride detective agency that odds were against a happy resolution for everyone involved in one of these cases.

"Don’t let it get you down, son," Ralph McBride often counseled. "Righteousness is where you find it."

Ralph, his mentor, would retire in another month, right at the end of Jack’s apprenticeship, and he would take over the agency. The concept of owning his own business often seemed overwhelming, but he took comfort in the opportunity to be in charge of his own destiny and rebuild from the shambles of his life.

He straightened in his seat and muttered "Halleluiah" as Burt approached and entered Artie’s. He waited five minutes, then locked his car and followed him in.

He paused inside the door to size up the layout: deep narrow space, long bar on the right, a few booths along the left wall, and about two dozen pub tables scattered throughout the rest of the room. Toward the back, a raised platform held an electric keyboard and a microphone. More than half the tables were occupied.

Jack moved toward the center of the bar where a cluster of men watched a ball game on the television mounted to the wall. He sat on the stool next to Burt’s.

Burt turned and squinted at him with bewilderment. His broad face looked more haggard than Jack remembered although Burt’s departure from the force had preceded his own by years. They knew each other, had never been pals and were too different to be friends, but all ex-cops remained brothers to a degree.

Burt finally grinned. "Well, I’ll be damned! How the hell are you, Jack?"

"Hey, Burt," he replied and shook hands with him. "I’m good. How about you?"

"Great, just great."

Artie, the bartender and another ex-cop, raised eyebrows in a question. Burt drained a beer mug, moved it beside an empty shot glass, and held up two fingers as he swiveled on his stool to face Jack. "Heard you left the force."

"True. Been a few years now."

"Four bullets in the gut they said."

"Also true."

"Tough." Their beers arrived, and Burt drained half of his in a couple of gulps. "So what’re you doing now?"

"Private investigator."

Burt chuckled. "That’s funny." He gave out a harsh bark of a laugh. "That’s really funny. What’s your wife think?"

"She was not amused. We’re divorced." The lie served to forestall probing questions. He did not want to share the painful, humiliating truth with Burt or anyone else.

The laughter dried up. "Oh. Sorry."

"I’m not. You should try it."

Burt’s brow furrowed as a not-yet-pickled part of his brain added two and two to make four. His shoulders drooped. "Rose hired you to find me."

"She did."

Burt drank more beer and stared at the television with unfocused eyes. "I’ll bet she’s pissed."

"Maybe at first, but not anymore. It’s been six months, and she just wants closure."

"Artie!" Burt bellowed. "Another shot of Black Label." He turned to Jack, sullen and wary. "So you found me. What happens now?"

He shrugged. "I report what I’ve found. That’s the job: find, contact, report."

Burt knocked back his whiskey and scowled. "Okay for you. She gets what she paid for, and I’m screwed."

A typical defensive reaction. "Hey, this is your chance to do the right thing before it gets ugly. Besides, you’re the one who ran out. If you didn’t want to stay married, you should have just come out with it."

Burt scowled and looked like he wanted to fight. Guys like him generally relied on brute force rather than tactical method. Jack braced for an attack, although he figured Burt’s alcohol intake would compensate somewhat for his additional height and weight.

A series of electronic pops and hisses issued from the stage as the entertainment prepared to start.

Burt returned his focus to his glass and drew a heavy sigh. "So divorce, huh? How’d yours go?"

Jack gritted his teeth as a raw nerve screamed. A man did not recover from two years of living hell the instant he signed some papers, but Burt deserved a fair answer to a fair question. "Like getting out of a jail cell through the keyhole: hard but so much better on the other side."

Burt studied him with bleary eyes, his expression closed.

Time to end the meeting. "Why don’t you just call Rose?"

Burt nodded somberly. "Okay. I promise I’ll call her."

"You don’t have to promise me anything." He slid off his stool and dropped a five beside his half-finished beer. "It’s just some friendly advice. How you handle your life is up to you." He walked away, glad to be done with the assignment, although the next one would probably be about the same.

After only a few paces, Burt yelled, "I’ll double what she’s paying if you forget you found me."

He stopped and faced Burt again, aware that every pair of eyes in the bar had focused on him. "Rose isn’t paying me. My agency is. And to file a false report wouldn’t be ethical." Again, he started for the door as the other customers returned attention to their own affairs. He started planning his report in his head.

"Look out!"

He halted and half turned in time to see a chair hurtling at him. He ducked, almost too late, and one of its legs scraped by his ear while another struck the back of his head.

"Screw you and your ethics, Watson," Burt shouted. "A*****e!"

Jack ignored the pain and prepared for defense in case Burt charged. The spectators fell silent, watching with a sort of tribal excitement at the promise of violence, and it infuriated him. He refused to be anyone’s entertainment.

"All right. You hit me. Satisfied?"

Artie hustled around the bar and stood between them, tapping a riot stick against one palm. "Back off, Burt. You don’t bust up my joint, understand?"

"Come on, Watson," Burt growled and leered over Artie’s shoulder. "Come on."

"I won’t fight with you." Jack touched his jaw, and his fingers came away with blood on them. The anger faded, leaving him fatigued. "Why don’t you just go wherever it is you call home and get sober?"

Two other men came forward, and each grabbed one of Burt’s arms. "Let’s go, buddy," one suggested quietly. "You’ve had enough." They guided Burt to the exit.

"You okay, Jack?" Artie asked warily.

"I’ll live." Blood trickled down the side of his neck, and he pointed to the hallway at the back.

Only slightly unsteady, he reached the restroom without further embarrassment and closed himself in. In the dull light of a low-wattage bulb, his mirror image showed twin bloody scratches in front of his right ear. On the wall, a warm-air hand dryer; no towels. He grabbed a fistful of toilet paper to staunch the wound and wondered if Burt planned to wait in the alley and jump him as he left.

Someone rapped urgently on the door.

"In a minute," he called. He pulled the wadded tissue away, and some of it stuck to the still-bleeding cuts.

Three more quick knocks. "You okay, mister?" Lilting female voice. "I brought you some towels and ice."

He tossed the toilet paper aside and opened the door.

He guessed the woman behind it to be in her early twenties, slender, average height, with shoulder-length dark hair as smooth and shiny as silk. Her wide-set royal blue eyes matched her ruffled silk shirt and regarded him with unabashed interest. She gave an impish grin and held out a plastic cup of ice and a couple of bar towels.

"Thanks." He poured ice into one of the towels and pressed it to his ear.

"I’ve got Artie’s first aid kit," she said. She held up a small red box. "I could fix that for you."

"Thanks, but I�""

A man appeared behind her. "Hey, other people gotta use the can, ya know?"

The woman shot a glance at the intruder and then grabbed Jack by his free hand. "Come with me."

"You don’t have to�""

"It’s okay," she broke in. "You don’t want to get an infection."

He let her lead him to a small table near the stage at the end of the bar, out of view from most of the customers, and she laid a hand on his chest to prod him into a chair. A whiff of soft, flowery perfume floated from her, demure yet seductive, and he gave in.

She stepped behind the bar and rinsed another towel at the sink before moving beside him with a dancer’s grace.

"Were you the one who shouted?" he asked.

"Yeah." Her hand covered his to move the makeshift icepack aside, a trio of silver bangles on her wrist tinkling. "Guess you came out on the wrong side."

"There wasn’t a right side." Another hint of perfume as she touched his head to tilt it at a better angle and dabbed at his cut with a tender lightness. A curious sensation; no one had attempted to mother him in a very long time. "Thanks for the warning though."

"You going to call the cops?"

He almost laughed. "Burt used to be a cop, and the two guys who showed him out still are. We’re a loyal bunch."

"Not that loyal," she commented wryly. "You’re a cop?"

"Used to be. Now I’m a private investigator."

"Ah." She set the towel aside and tore open a foil-packed antiseptic wipe from the kit. "This is going to smart. Sorry."

The alcohol cooled the scratches for an instant before the sting began. The sensation of her hip pressed against his shoulder effectively blocked the pain.

"I heard him call you Watson. First name or last?"

The question made him smile. "Last. First is Jack."

"I’m Tabitha Solo." She wiped blood from the side of his neck and then backed away. "The bleeding’s stopped. Want a bandage?"

He shook his head, glad she did not mention the usual connection of his name and occupation.

"Feel okay?" she asked with a worried frown. "Not dizzy or anything?"

"No, I’m fine." She appeared much older when not smiling. Her fey sort of beauty appealed to him, along with her open friendliness. "You’re quite a field medic."

"Hey, bar fights are my specialty," she replied with a grin. She sat across from him at the table. "There’s usually at least one a week here."

He found her easy manner relaxing. How rare and refreshing to find a woman who did not appear to have an agenda other than friendship. Attraction escalated to the danger level, but he tried to convince himself he had no reason to fear. You’re a single man and she’s a beautiful woman. You’re allowed to flirt. "So excuse my cliché, but what’s a nice girl like you�"?"

Her grin widened and she finished "Doing in a place like this? I’m a singer. Tonight’s entertainment."

"Why here?" he asked to prolong the conversation so he could continue to stare at her. You want to ask her out. Admit it.

"I grew up around here. My dad used to come in here a lot."

He felt his pulse accelerate and not in a good way. Dread seeped in like a film of oil over water. You should be over this by now. Take control. You don’t have to settle on being this way forever. "Was he a cop?"

"Fire fighter. I used to come here with him when he picked up the beer keg for the firehouse picnic." A flicker of sadness clouded her expression for a moment. "I sang with a band for a while, but when they broke up, I went out on my own and came here looking for someplace to perform. Artie remembered me and gave me a break."

At least she did not flirt. He really wanted to keep talking to her, and flirtation would have augmented the all-too-familiar anxiety response. He thought if he eased into it, perhaps he could overcome. "So what do you sing?"

"Anything," she answered and averted her gaze with a shy smile. "The band I started out with did eighties rock so I guess I’m sort of partial to that, but I do requests here and I get all kinds." She raised her head and honest interest lit up her face. "I’ve got to tell you, I’m a huge fan of mystery movies, but I’ve never met a real detective. What’s it like?"

Even her non-provocative question proved too familiar, and his chest tightened. D****t, d****t, d****t! Fight through it or you’ll never get your life back.

Her smile faded, and her eyes narrowed in puzzled concern. She reached across the table and put a hand over one of his. "Are you okay, Jack?"

Her hand stayed on his, warm and gentle. Her bracelets refracted light like tiny white sparks. In her eyes, he saw compassionate concern and a touch of expectation. The dim light cast reddish highlights through her silken hair, and he fought a strong urge to stroke it. His gaze wandered to the deep V neckline of her blouse where a pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat.

Then, as quickly as desire rose, a tidal wave of guilt and shame quashed it. In an extreme act of willpower, he gently withdrew his hand and saw disappointment in her as she pulled hers back as well. Time to go before he embarrassed himself further.

"I should go." He stood, pleased to find his legs steady. "Thanks for all your help."

She smiled again with a quizzical tilt. "My pleasure." She rose also and collected the towels and first-aid kit. In a lithe movement, she deposited them behind the bar and came back with an order pad and pencil. She scribbled on a page, tore it off and thrust it at him. "Not exactly a bill."

He looked at the phone number beneath her name and then at her.

Another big, warm smile. "I’m on in a couple of minutes. Want to stick around a few minutes and give me a listen?"

"Uh, I really have to get going," he heard himself say although the temptation to stay with her made his voice a bit shaky. He backed away, barely able to break the eye lock. "See you."

She cocked her head to one side and looked somewhat bewildered. "See you." She headed toward the restrooms but paused in the doorway to waggle fingers in a wave.

He stared after her for a moment, struck dumb in an onslaught of reactions. Just before the anxiety kicked in, he had felt something profound. Plenty of people talked about love at first sight, and he had never believed in it until tonight. Tabitha just might be the woman he had long searched for.

Rather than face the curious stares from the crowd out front, Jack spotted a door behind the stage area which proved to be an exit to the side alley. As the door closed behind him, he heard the electric keyboard render a vaguely familiar tune, but he could not recall the title.

In his car, he sat for a couple of minutes, reflecting. The legal separation had begun over a year ago although the chasm opened long before that. A wave of disappointment washed over him that his ex-wife still controlled him to such an extent. He hit the center armrest with his fist, hard enough to hurt.

"You’re stronger than this," he muttered, and caught the image of his eyes looking back fiercely from the rear view mirror. "You can beat it. You have to. You can’t let Tabitha Solo get away."

Resolute, he keyed the ignition and finally placed the tune. "You’ve Got a Friend."

Reviews

[Steve R.]

Great stuff. Raises lots of questions, like is Jack or Burt one of the guys who killed Scot C? Starting out with the different plot threads that I'm sure get tied together keeps the reader eagerto read more, I think. No wonder you have a couple of novels published already. Description of the bar is well written. Descriptions of the people too. Enough to give an image without being overwhelming. Have you finished this yet?