Got Luck (Tales of the Behindbeyond, Band 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1
A Woman and a Bullet
The woman outside the door was Stained. She stood outside, reading my name on the door and walking back and forth. If she realized I could see her through the glass, she didn’t seem to care. The Stain shrouded her like a torn mantle of dark, writhing ribbons, and nobody could see them except me. I’d seen Stain like hers before, but I couldn’t remember where.
I sat on the edge of my desk and watched her check the door again. Maybe she was trying to figure out how to pronounce my name, which was painted in silver lettering on the door. Goethe Luck. People always had trouble with the last name. Kidding.
Finally, she opened the door and leaned in. Somewhere outside, someone was playing Gloria Estefan. She looked at me and then backed out. The door closed itself. She read the door again. I wanted to go ask, “May I help you?” but hesitated. I could use the work, but I didn’t want to scare her off.
She opened the door again and stepped inside. I watched her check my second floor office, placing the closet, back room, and bathroom. She was pretty in a debutante kind of way: confident and likely spoiled. Her looping ash-blonde hair was underwire length, and she wore too much makeup for my taste. I guessed she was trying to look older than she was. A light strawberry scent drifted in with her, delighting my nose. The Mama would call her a harlot, but she looked like most twenty year-old girls walking around on your average summer day in Miami. Her clothes were expensive but looked like they came from unrelated shops, as if she had strolled through Bal Harbour and purchased one item from each store with no consideration for color or texture.
“Welcome to the Pizza Shack,” I said. “Table for one?”
“Someone killed my husband. The police can’t help me.” She said it flatly, like she’d been practicing until she’d wrung all the emotion out of it.
No wonder she hadn’t caught my joke. She’d walked in with a script.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Won’t you have a seat?” I turned the single chair in front of my desk partway around. Like her clothes, the chair didn’t match anything else, so at least the office coordinated with the client. The chair was one of those plastic office creatures that had been ergonomically designed to death. She sat and looked at me with dry eyes.
“Did you say this was the Pizza Shack?” she asked.
Ah, there we go. Just took a minute. “It used to be. We still find pepperoni under the rugs.” I sat back on the edge of my desk and clasped my hands. “Tell me about your husband.”
She took a deep breath, sat down, and launched into her speech. Her voice was husky yet soulful. “They found Barry in his hotel room. He was wearing the shirt and tie I gave him for his birthday. And the pants. And the shoes. He’d been stabbed once in the heart. They said that’s what killed him. He died quickly. But he was also cut open. His belly. They cut open his belly after he was already dead.” She moved her hand in front of her own abdomen with her fingers splayed apart like she was feeling his pain. “His insides were still there and all. But they can’t tell me why he was cut open like that.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Sounds like you’ve told that story a few times.”
“About a million. Don’t worry. I’ve already cried it out.”
“You’re fine,” I smiled warmly. “When did this happen?”
“Six months ago.”
“How long had you been married?”
“Less than a year. Our first anniversary would have been two weeks after he was killed.”
“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
She shifted in her seat.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“Are you going to take notes?” she replied. “If you’re going to help me, you should take notes.”
“All right.”
I stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk. So far, the girl was sincere. Her tone told me that she was accustomed to having people do what she asked, but she wasn’t a brat about it. She paid attention to detail and expected other people to do the same. Her husband had been gone for several months but, for some reason, she wasn’t happy with the answers she’d been given. Maybe there was something in her subconscious that didn’t agree with what she’d been told. Maybe she just wanted a second opinion.
My chair was one of those great wooden office monarchs made of oak with dark green real-leather upholstery that weighed about two hundred pounds. It reclined so you could lean back and put your feet up on the desk—also oak—and take a nap. I sat in it and opened the desk drawer. No pepperoni. Just a few notepads and pens that I’d gotten from the nearby office supply. Been here six months and this was the first time I’d used them.
“Milly,” she said. “Milly MacPherson Mallondyke.”
While I tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent my left eyebrow from rising, I made notes including all the information she had given me so far. I asked, “So, your husband was Barry Mallondyke?”
Milly nodded. “The fourth.”
The fourth? I guess men with a name that sounds like it was made up for the sole purpose of sounding pretentious have no problems attracting mates.
“I want to know more about you,” Milly said. “I want to know who I’m hiring.”
“I haven’t agreed to work for you yet,” I replied. Her request was a smart one though. Not expected. Milly might turn out to be even deeper than she appeared. I answered, “I’m twenty-seven years old. When I was eight, I died from a fever. I don’t remember what happened, but the doctors told me I was clinically dead for almost three hours. Apparently, they cooled my body in ice and revived me. From that moment, I found a desire to live every day as if it were my last. I also found out that when I touch somebody I can see their future.”
“Is that true?” The wry wrinkle in the corner of her mouth told me she didn’t believe all of it, but she was willing to play along.
“Most of it. It’s true that I have a better appreciation for life than most people because it’s also true that I died when I was eight. The part where I can see a person’s future by touching them is from a Stephen King novel. The Dead Zone. Ever read it?”
“No. But if you could see the future like that, you could touch me and then we’d know if you find out who killed my husband. Right?”
Point for her.
I suddenly remembered where I had seen a twisting mantle of black ribbons like hers. The Stain she wore had also been on a child. A little boy whose parents had both been shot in the head, but no bullets, no bullet casings, no gun, and no residue were found. The case was never solved. If the Stains matched, could the same perpetrator be involved? I’d probably never know, but I made a mental note.
“You’re right. I can’t see into the future, but I’d be glad to help you with your problem. Just so you know, I’m ex-military and ex-police. I have a private investigator’s license, which gives me access to records that are not available to the general public.”
“That will help.” She pressed her lips together in a half smile.
I went on. “I can also interview people who don’t want to talk to me and make a...