Baby Brother Blues (Sammy Dick, PI Series: Book 1) Read online

  The tips of the two queen palms in my front yard glowed red, like fiery paint brushes, and the casement windows with their square panes of glass on the living room of my 1970s ranch-style home mirrored the sky, but in toned down pastels of pink and yellow.

  The dying light accentuated my light yellow sump block home, and I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction, in spite of emptying what was left of my bank account to buy a couple of measly tires. Oh well, I was on my way to making the big bucks, so no need to worry about those unpaid credit cards mounting up.

  I owned this home. More specifically, my dad and I were cosigned on a mortgage for this home. I was able to afford the monthly mortgage payments because I rented two of the three bedrooms out. One bedroom to my best friend, Delilah Chavez, and the other to my cousin, Geo, who was also my business partner.

  I clicked the garage door opener and continued to admire the play of the sun’s light as the ancient garage door shuffled up its runners. When the door clunked fully open, I guided the Mazda3 in until it almost touched my blue Ninja motorcycle. I popped the trunk and extracted my briefcase. At least it was no longer empty, but chock full of Swann intel, as they say on TV.

  A loud barking greeted me as I emerged through the side door into our kitchen. Snack, my two-year-old golden retriever, was bouncing around on the kitchen floor like a kangaroo. He was hoping I would throw the ball for him for the required minimum of 2,000 times in the backyard.

  Snack hadn’t always been named Snack. Shortly after birth, when I’d brought the little golden fur ball home, he’d been duly christened Casey. The trouble with Casey, though, as he grew bigger and I tried to teach him a few manners, is that he would never come when I called his name. If I called “Casey, Casey, come here boy!” he’d ignore me completely, and continue to chew feverishly on the slobbery metal edge of the carpet he’d mangled into a geometric pretzel. All the dog books said it was imperative that I teach my new puppy to come to the sound of his name. Casey’s hearing seemed to immediately improve when, instead of yelling Casey!, I yelled Snack! Then Casey would fling his head up, stare at me intently, let go of the slobbery chunk of carpet he was laboring over, and scritch-scratch all over the wood floor to receive his snack. After a while, I gave up calling him Casey. The name Snack had stuck and two years later, no one even remembered that his real name was Casey.

  I plunked my briefcase onto the kitchen table. One of its seats had a rip in it and the white fuzzy stuff was peeking out through the cushion. I made sure my Biltmore office looked good, so I could attract high-end clients like those I’d just snagged, but that didn’t leave me much to invest in my home, except, of course, in electronic gadgetry. Geo pitched in for a lot of that, simply because he couldn’t resist having the latest and greatest toy—even though it maxed out his credit cards.

  I walked into our galley kitchen with its white cabinets, ancient electric stove, and yellow Formica countertops. A series of round brownish marks decorated the yellow Formica, where Geo and friends had set down a hot pan or two without using any protection. I was hoping they paid more attention in their sex lives or they were going to be ridden with STDs. I flung open the cabinet next to the stove. Snack was still bouncing about expectantly. The rustling of the snack box as I withdrew it from the cabinet almost sent him into paroxysms of joy and anticipation. Now the hard part.

  “Sit, Snack, sit.” No response, except jump, jump, jump. Pant, pant, pant. Deaf, deaf, deaf. I’d learned to wait patiently until Snack realized how serious I was. Unfortunately, he seemed to need to realize this every single day for the last two years. After about five more jumps and a lot more panting with me holding the snack resolutely in the air, Snack gave it up and tucked his butt down onto the linoleum floor. “Good boy, Snack, good boy. Here ya go.”

  Next I trotted down the hallway to my messy bedroom. Among all this mess, I have some really awesome workout clothes. So I rummaged about the hangers and shelves until I came across one of my favorite outfits, the Leopard Lady. I yanked the curtains closed and slid out of my sweaty, ruined sheath, tossed it regretfully toward the trash can, barely missing.

  After pulling on some black tights, and the Leopard Lady, I grabbed a protein drink from the kitchen and pushed open the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. The motion of sliding open the kitchen door threw Snack into new paroxysms of anticipation.

  I seated myself in the metal chair with the plastic slats crossing it, except for a few slats that had broken and flopped to the concrete. Our back patio stretches the length of the kitchen and faces east. The residual colors of the sunset played out in the eastern sky. The tangerine of the city lights glowed above my neighbors’ homes.

  My roommates wouldn’t arrive home for a while because they were both taking evening classes on the ASU West campus, less than a mile away from where we lived.

  For some reason, it relaxed me to sit on the back patio, watch the sky turn dark and throw the balls for Snack. Just as I finished the protein drink, Snack had completed the retrieval mission of bringing scattered balls from the yard to surround my chair. Snack now sat staring expectantly at me for the nightly ball throwing to begin. Snack didn’t like to have balls thrown one by one for orderly retrieval. He preferred to have a deluge to contend with, which made it much easier on me, so I started picking the balls up as fast as I could and tossing them willy-nilly to all points in the yard, in the bushes, in the north corner, south corner, against the tree. Snack delighted in the chaos of it and ran every which way trying to manage all of the balls at once. He’d get one ball in his mouth that had fallen in the bush, then spit it out in favor of pursuing one that had bounced off the bark of the tree. Next, he’d see a ball collide with the back fence and spit out his current ball to chase the one that bounced high in the sky off the back fence. There’s something about a golden retriever in full motion that is the essence of joy, and Snack’s pleasure in this nightly process refreshed me.

  When all the balls had been scattered to the four ends of Snack’s known universe, I got up, stepped back inside, rinsed out my one-person blender cup, turned it upside down in the dishes drainer to dry, and extracted a Rock Star energy drink from the fridge. I searched around for a semi-clean workout towel and went out to the garage to fire up the Ninja. Tossed my stuff in the plastic saddlebag, backed out, and reared up into my nightly wheelie before smacking back on the pavement to thunder down Sunnyside Lane. My neighbors had long since forgiven me for this nightly noise. I think it makes them feel safer living on Sunnyside Lane and in the Farms, where almost the entire Dick family resides, since most of us are cops.

  Chapter 11

  At 7 P.M., after an intense routine, I swung out of the glass doors of Pure Fitness, floating on the sweet high of my workout. I’d been able to see my dad, one brother, and flirt with Mountain, all members of the PPD all in one place. Mountain’s real name was Montaigne Devereaux, Detective First Grade, my almost boyfriend.

  After such a strenuous workout, most of the saunter in me was almost sauntered out, but I mustered up enough energy to saunter over to the Biker Grill and swing my leg, enclosed in my sweat pants, over the top of my Ninja. My upper body was still in the tight-fitting Leopard Lady, now considerably wetter than when I’d arrived. My breasts swelled, I thought, enticingly out of the top.

  The dry heat felt great on my wet skin. Though the heat in a Phoenix summer can be brutish during the day, in the evening, a pleasant warm dryness suffuses the night air. The concrete and pavement softly radiate the day’s heat upward and the trees seem to relax from their daytime vigil to withstand the intense heat. I sucked in a big breath of the evening air, flashed a big smile at the bikers outside having a smoke at the tables on the patio, several of whom I knew. A few smiled and waved as I glided by. Sometimes I dropped in for a drink or a bite to eat, but tonight I wanted to start making notes on the investigation to give to Geo.

  When I got home, Snack immediately started bringing me all of his tennis balls,
back in through the doggy door, plopping them under the kitchen table, but I poured him a large bowl of Wellness dog food for big dogs, set it down and refilled his water bowl. I made sure to use a really big bowl because he drank so much in the summer heat. That was enough to take Snack’s mind off his ball addiction for a while and allow me some peace and quiet.

  I trotted to my bedroom, peeled off Leopard Lady and tossed it on my closet floor on top of about five other various assortments of workout outfits all with exotic names. The pile was beginning to reek just a bit, so I nudged it deeper into the recesses of my closet and slid the door shut the best I could. I couldn’t quite get it closed there was so much stuff in it. I gave up on the effort and stepped in the bathroom for a quick shower. Pulled on some jeans followed by a soft, well-worn black PPD t-shirt my brother had given me, and padded barefoot down the hall back into the kitchen.

  I flipped open the side freezer door and perused through the Lean Cuisines stacked side by side, like books in a frozen library. Nothing much interested me, but I extracted the macaroni and Salisbury steak version, popped the plastic loudly a few times with a fork and nuked it in the microwave.

  Meanwhile, I hunted through the pile of CDs for something interesting, found my iTunes mix I’d made recently and burned onto a CD consisting of rock/rap/opera/indie/CW and etc., etc., etc., called Eclectic #12, which I’d scrawled across the front of the CD in indelible black marker. Eclectic #12 started out with a rollicking number called Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf, then glided into 100 Years by Five for Fighting followed by the number one best sex song of all time, ‘O Sole Mio by the Three Tenors, followed by, arguably, the number two best sex song of all time, Lollipop, by Lil Wayne. Bruno Mars followed with You Can Count on Me. Next came the bittersweet tune Jesus Take the Wheel by Carrie Underwood, which I always play when I need to let go of tension, and on and on with brand new cuts and other strange favorites thrown in to keep my interest up and the pace changing. Just like I liked my life.

  I cranked up our state-of-the-art sound system, custom assembled, thanks to cousin Geo, and danced around the room to Bat Out of Hell, waiting for the last four minutes of my Lean Cuisine to tick by. Ding! I clicked open the microwave door, slipped the hot plastic container onto a plate and set everything down on the kitchen table. Dinner is served! Snack immediately burst back upon the scene, sniffing the Salisbury steak and began bouncing around making a whining noise.

  I eked out a little of the gravy into Snack’s bowl. I’ve heard it said that people choose pets that mirror themselves. I didn’t want to dwell too long on what my pet choice reflected, so I grabbed one of my yellow legal pads from the kitchen drawer, plus one of my favorite gel tip pens and began to document my research questions for Geo. By now Like a Lollipop was surging from the stereo. I jumped up briefly to dance around the table to help center my thoughts. By the time Carrie was crooning through the room, I was all settled and focused.

  I poised my gel tip pen over the pad. What did I need to know to crack open this case and make some immediate headway? I usually tried to start out by formulating questions from my client’s point of view. In this case, I had two clients. Next, I would list my own questions gleaned from my first day on the job. While on an investigation, I then engaged in this question-forming task daily until the case was solved to the client’s satisfaction, or I was let go—whichever came first. I preferred the former. Luckily, Geo had an excellent mind and could often come at these questions from an alternative, insightful, creative perspective that unveiled all kinds of juicy insights. Geo’s searches had the power to reveal startling and sometimes very unflattering or even unlawful practices about the clients themselves or other aspects of the investigation. Geo and I just followed the snakes of information down into their hidey holes, and after we followed the hidey hole to its end, we decided what to do about the information we’d found. For both being so young, I thought we were pretty damn good at our jobs.

  One belief we share is that people who are in trouble are almost always part of the problem themselves: in a divorce, in money troubles, or in business troubles. Part of our job was deciding how to repackage our findings, so that we stayed on the right side of the law, yet also helped our clients. All while helping us make a living and grow our reputation. One of my business goals was to climb the ladder of referral business, and I’d love to gain additional referrals from Sylvester Swane. He ran in some of the fastest and richest circles in the world. Perfect!

  Deeply inspired by these motivational thoughts, I began to write out questions from my client’s point of view. One of my strengths is that I can distill questions down to their most raw, unadorned level. This enables Geo and me to quickly begin tackling the real issues, rather than the client’s embellishments of the issues. Often clients don’t even realize they are candy coating their own problems because the problem in its starkest form would be almost unbearable, so they call it something else that is more palatable to them. When I begin a case, if I don’t rapidly sort this all out, I’ll be chasing the wrong information. My job is to clarify reality and then decide what to do with that reality.

  In this particular case, my first point of contact had been Michael Oversong, so I decided to start there. My approach was to write on the left-hand side of my legal pad in a simple outline format. I started with each player’s name and then in parentheses, I wrote out the basic human instinct or motive I thought was driving the individual, at least in this situation. I let my strong intuition be my guide, which seemed to help speed up investigations. Of course, if I was wrong, we’d miss important information, but so far I seemed to be on target more often than not. Besides, Geo’s expertise and talents seemed to balance out and level my leaps of intuition with actual facts and other insights.

  My perception of the motives and drivers of my clients often changed over time, as I became more familiar with the business and the people in it and was able to observe them, as it were, in their natural habitat. After I listed their motives and drivers, I’d list root cause questions underlying those instinctual drivers. If a particular question warranted sub-questions, then I’d write those in too, indented under the main question.

  Michael Oversong (Wants loyalty, love from his wife. Wants to regain an interest in his job.)

  1. Is my wife cheating on me?

  a. With Karl Zaiid?

  b. With someone else?

  c. When?

  d. Where?

  e. How?

  f. Why?

  2. How can I win her back?

  3. Is Mai stealing from the business?

  a. If so, why?

  4. Do I even care about this job?

  That pretty much exhausted my initial questions for Michael. Next I turned my attentions to Sylvester. As I wrote down my questions, I realized that both Michael and Sylvester were complex men in their own ways. I was attracted to complex men. I realized I was looking forward to watching this case unfold, that is, if I survived. The little fortune cookie message was ominous to begin with, but the slashed tires sent a clear message that violence and volatility lurked just below the surface. I decided then and there to begin carrying my little revolver. After making that resolution, I returned to my questions.

  Soon I’d covered just about everyone of note and then finished with a few general questions, ending with one of my current top favorites: ”Who the hell slashed my tires and why?”

  I sat back and observed the fruits of my labor on the legal pad. It looked like a pretty good start. I could at least get Geo pointed in the right direction. Between classes at ASU and ASU West, he’d sit in my Biltmore office while I was undercover on a case and conduct the behind-the-scenes portion of our investigation. He and I both held Arizona Department of Economic Security private investigator licenses and attempted, as much as possible, to stay legal for a variety of reasons. First of all, we didn’t want to embarrass my dad, who was on the PPD. Secondly, we didn’t want to get our clients or ourselves into legal trouble, and thi
rdly, in the occasional cases where an investigation ended up in court, we wanted our research to have been obtained legally, thereby giving our clients a stronger position. My guess was that neither Michael nor Sylvester desired to end up in court, regardless of my findings, but one never knows where an investigation might lead. Best to be prepared for any eventuality.

  However, all that being said, both Geo and I have skirted around the edges of lawful practice. To make money, we’ve needed to get results. Sometimes results could only be obtained through less than perfectly lawful means.

  Since I’d had Lean Cuisine for dinner, I decided I could have a bowl of vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate sauce for dessert. I pushed back the plastic kitchen chair and noticed that Snack had stopped bringing in the balls and was now sitting docilely in front of me. He accepted some patting on his smooth, golden head. Then he padded into the living room to his favorite piece of gnawed, upturned carpet near the sofa, circled three times, and lay down to sleep with his muzzle resting on the gnawed carpet, just in case he woke up and needed something to do. I noted for the hundredth time that I needed to fix the carpet but concluded for the hundredth time that I’d wait until Snack was a little older and calmer, say fifty years, and then I’d replace it.

  Chapter 12

  Just then, I heard the ancient garage door shift upwards. The side kitchen door flung open and in strode Geo carrying his black canvas laptop briefcase. He was dressed in a black PPD t-shirt, just like mine. We had a lot of those in our extended Dick family. In fact, we have one all-family get-together photo from three years ago where every single person, including spouses and children, is wearing a black t-shirt. We didn’t even notice until later when a nonfamily member pointed it out. Must be something in the DNA.