Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

“Who said I need help?” he shot back. His dark eyes flashed with heat and emotion.

His eyes flashed down and to the right. His pupils dilated despite the deep shade. Now he was lying. I could see it plain as the nose on his face, only I saw the lie in his eyes and the twitches around his mouth.

“You called me and …”

“And I asked you to tell me about these notes.” His eyes narrowed as his gaze bored in on me again. He was trying to read me. He didn’t realize that was my game. I could see fear in his eyes and he wasn’t a man used to fear. He hid it well. He was afraid, afraid for his family and himself.

This is just what I need, terrific!
“Thank you for the tea, General Hunt. It was a pleasure to meet you. I should be getting back to Orlando,” I said as I got up.

“I can pay you whatever you want,” he said.

“If I had a dollar,” I replied, “for every time I needed the dollar, I’d never need a dollar. Thanks for the tea.”

“Hold on, hold on,” the general said holding up both hands in surrender. “I like to be in charge. Too long in the army, I guess.”

“Sir, I know a little about your military career. You were a good cop. The MPs still talk about your Nha Trang serial killer investigation.”

“How do you know about that? You weren’t an MP.”

“No sir, G-2, an interrogator” I replied, “but you knew that. That’s why you called me, isn’t it, sir.”

“Your assessment of these messages, what do they tell you?” the general asked, his tone softening a bit.

I took a deep breath, suppressed a weary sigh, and began, “Kidnappers and blackmailers more often than not use a computer printer. Printers are so generic any more that unless there’s a major flaw, the font is more or less untraceable, except for the printer’s type, brand, and in some cases the model. Notes in well-known cases like Son of Sam or the cryptograms left by the Zodiac Killer or Unabomber Ted Kaczynski’s manifesto were hand written, or typed on a typewriter. There are other examples. None of these cases had cut out letters pasted onto a piece of paper. I’ve only seen that in movies. Your mastermind is an amateur. He or she is teasing you with minimal information and may or may not know something damaging to you or your family. The glue or the glossy paper’s surface could have fingerprints. That is if no one has handled it to much. It should be possible to determine which publication uses this paper and print type. If we find magazines, well, a good lab could match the paper. Is that what you were looking for?”

I was about through with the general’s game, no matter how much he wanted to pay me.

“Was sure you’d be sharp.” General Hunt said, “even if you are a little rough around the edges. Sharp and that you’d know about my background and have a quick handle on the situation.”

“I know your background, a little about your family and that you are the wealthiest man in the area, if not the state. Sir, if you called me all the way out here to play twenty questions…”

“No son, as you can see, I’m in a bit of trouble. Someone’s trying to cancel Christmas. This dropped in my lap and I don’t know what it’s about. I can’t go to the local police, not until I know more. There are always things…”

“There are always secrets. The owner of a secret should decide when to let it come out, if at all,” I said. “There are three kinds of information about people General Hunt, public, private, and secret. With the internet, today, none of it’s safe.”

The general looked right through me yet again, and then said, “Told you an ex-army Intel man would be sharp.” Turning to me he said, “I’ve beat my brains out trying to figure this one, Everett. Will you help me?”

“I go where the evidence leads General, no glossing over the rough spots. I don’t stick my neck out for anyone. I’ll keep your confidences and it just happens I’m not working on anything now so I can give this my full attention. I have one question first though, why me? I haven’t exactly been on the cover of PIs of the Rich and Famous. You can afford to hire anyone in the state.”

“I’m active in RMOA, the Retired Military Officers Association.”

“Never heard of it, but I wasn’t a Boy Scout either.”

“Doesn’t matter, they have access to Official Military Personnel Files
.
I found your name through the RMOA database. You were Intel, you grew up in the Orlando area so you know the lay of the land, and you were an effective, decorated officer.”

“You got my OMPF, well I guess money talks General.”

My host’s eyes narrowed again for a moment, the sparkle disappeared. He didn’t like my crack. The general had a temper, but he had it reined in pretty damn well.

Maybe I should zip my lip.

“What that file doesn’t tell you is I failed as a local cop…”

“Yeah, so you got fired, so what. You beat them in court,” he replied.

He had done his research. It should have been my second red flag. The first one being he’d called me at all.

“I wasn’t fired. I resigned,” I bristled.

“Have it your way,” the general said. “You think you can handle this on the QT, son? ‘Whoever goes about slandering reveals secrets, but he who is trustworthy in spirit keeps a thing covered, Proverbs eleven, verse thirteen.’ ”

I didn’t care for him spouting scripture, but I knew what he wanted to ask. He wanted to know if I could stay off the sauce long enough to do my job.

“Look General, the army was good to me,” I replied, “until Iraq. I came back with some citations and a footlocker full of bad memories. I’m going to the VA. Is that enough for you?”

“But can you handle this, captain? Stonewall Jackson said he feared alcohol more than the enemy’s bullets. Do you have the personal courage to…?”

“Yes, sir I do and I remember my Army Core Values too.”

“You remember them…, but do you still live by a higher standard. Do you… never mind,” he said. “We won’t talk about your… issues.”

“I was always big on the integrity, general,” I said. “Separating right from wrong, acting according to what you know is right and saying openly that you’re acting on your understanding of right versus wrong.” I knew I didn’t need to quote the Army’s values to this man, but I did it anyway. I wanted him to understand. “I think that’s the one that messed me up. I did what I was ordered, but …”

“ ‘Whoever walks in integrity walks securely, but he who makes his ways crooked will be found out,’ Proverbs ten, verse nine,” he said. “You decided you weren’t so sure your orders were the right thing to do,” he replied.

He did get it. “Something like that,” I said.

This was an interesting man. After a long while, he gave a little chuckle. He extended his hand and this time the handshake was that of friend.

We spent the afternoon checking out scenarios. General Hunt had no clue what the notes were about, but he had his suspicions. He was a private man and he didn’t give anything up easily, especially about his family. It took a while to draw the whole dark truth out of him. He’d asked his son Cary, an investment banker, about the notes. The young man had turned white. Obviously, this was not a case of ‘like father like son.’

“Any idea what your son’s hiding?” I asked.

Pokin’ around a man’s family is touchy business especially if the man was used to getting his way like General Hunt. He just glared at me. I imagined him staring down his Vietnamese serial killer the same way. He pushed his sunglasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose as his tired eyes closed for a moment.

“I haven’t … but …”

“Sir, if I’m going to help, you have to trust me,” I said as kindly as I could. A man was entitled to his secrets, but no one could hide much from me.

After a few moments of tense silence he said, “I believe my son was having an affair.” He who commits adultery lacks sense; he who does it destroys himself,’ Proverbs six, verse thirty-two. I don’t know who she was, but all the signs were there. I’ve seen them before. I’m afraid I’ve got Van Gogh’s ear for music when it comes to my son. I’ve bailed him out for years. You don’t get to choose your family, but they’re not just important, family is everything.”

“That’s what parents do, isn’t it sir, protect their children. A good officer does the same thing. No shame in that,” I replied.

“Maybe… maybe it’s the right thing, maybe not. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man and smart as a whip, but when it comes to women, trouble has a knack for finding him. There’s nothing new in history. Churchill said. ‘Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it’. My son repeatedly shows lapses in judgment yet I keep bailing him out.”

The quote was actually from George Santayana, but I saw no point in antagonizing him. We're doomed to repeat the past no matter what. People are just plain stupid. “Has he been into anything serious?” I asked.

“He’s had a few scrapes with the law, DUI mostly. There were a couple fast women…well bred, but ambitious women I’d call social climbers. There was an underage one, but she looked and dressed like she was twenty-five,” he said.

“Nothing major?” I asked.

He shook his head no and said, “No big deals and there’s been nothing in the almost three years he’s been married, until recently that is.”

“What happened recently?”

“He…,” the general took a deep breath. “He and his wife had some troubles, but he said they patched things up,” he responded.

“An affair?”

“That’d be my guess,” the general replied. “I don’t know which one of them …”

“Or maybe both,” I added. “That’s a good reason for blackmail, don’t you think?”

“Why come after me? My son’s a wealthy man in his own right.”

“Deeper pockets, be my guess,” I replied, “deeper pockets and your well known aversion to publicity. Look, I don’t care why. You called me. Tell me what you want done and I’ll do my damndest to do it.”

“How would you start?” the general asked, knowing what I’d say. He was an experienced cop and knew how to work a case.

“I’d start with your son. I’d do some background then have a chat with him, I’d talk to his friends and coworkers, check out the places he frequents, that sort of stuff,” I replied. “I’d look for people who know his secrets. Isn’t that what you’d do?”

“Yeah, I suppose I would. I’d look at his wife too, but I’m betting you were just being gentlemanly. My son’s out of town; left this morning. He’ll be back late next week. You can do your background work, check out his contacts and haunts, and then talk to him when he gets back. I’ll square it with him. He’ll cooperate. Hold off on talking to his wife until I clear it with him.”

“I will fulfill my obligations, sir,” I said, quoting another Army core value - duty.

General Hunt, the meticulous military man, used to having things his own way sighed and said, “I need your help Captain. Can I count on you to find out who’s trying to hurt my family?”

“Yes, sir you can,” I replied. I meant it as I’d never meant it before. Still, he was holding something back. I wished I really could read minds, but I’d find out soon enough.

The drive back to Orlando gave me time to think. I hadn’t gotten much information from my new client other than his suspicion his son had an affair. I learned where the younger Hunt worked, his country club, but that was about it. The sun flamed orange in the rearview mirror and began to dip behind the downtown buildings as I swung off Interstate 4. It was about seven by the time I negotiated the traffic and got back to my office. I tried to call a source I use but had to leave a message. I’d find him in the morning. The promise of cold hard cash for information on the general’s son, Cary Hunt, and his wife Stephanie was sure to turn up something. With a big enough bankroll you can get information on anybody, and working for Hunt, money was no object.

My meeting with General Hunt got me thinking it was time to dry out or at least cut down. He hadn’t come right out and called me a lush, but it was plain what he thought. My army buddy Roscoe Black had been trying to get me in a program since I’d come to back to Orlando. He’d tried to get me squared away, but somehow, when the general pegged me in 3.3 seconds, it shook me up. Maybe it was time.

The pigsty I lived in reflected my train wreck of a life. As a gesture to my newfound inspiration, instead of grabbing a cold one, I spent a couple hours mucking out my apartment. I ditched dozens of empty pizza boxes, even more beer bottles, and close to a case of empty Old Overholt fifths. The recycle bin behind the Drunk Monk overflowed with dead soldiers from months of my benders. By ten, I had the place spic and span, good enough for a boot camp inspection.

I spent the rest of the evening at the computer researching my client, his son Cary and trying to find anything that might sniff out who was trying to blackmail the general. There was a lot of dope on the Hunt family, but nothing you could call a lead. I was feeling rough so when I started to get the shakes I called it a night and hoped it would be a calm night.

Next morning I woke feeling like crap. It wasn’t the DTs, but damn close. My hands shook so bad I thought I’d slit my throat with my safety razor. I tossed on some mostly clean clothes then hit the bricks. I headed over to the Embassy Suites on East Pine where I know the manager and a certain guy in the kitchen.

Ted Graves, the day manager was just finishing his count of the previous night’s receipts when I breezed through the door. Ted and I went through OCS together and our paths crossed in Iraq. He’d helped me out a time or two since we’d come home.