Common Ground: Book #2 in the Common Denominator Series

By Richard David Bach

When newly-married young private detective Kayman Karl and husband Raam Commoner agree to sell her P.I. firm to a sleazy competitor, they never expect the deal to open a Pandora’s Box and unleash a lethal storm of murder-for-hire, murder-for-profit, and murder-for-the-fun-of-it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626756502

Richard David Bach

Author Richard David Bach was born in New York City, was raised with a younger brother by a widowed mother on the south shore of Long Island, and sleepwalked his way through an uneventful but stable and happy childhood wondering when life would begin. For Richard, life began at 17 when, in a post-war America obsessed with modern technology, he left home for Troy, New York, to pursue a Civil Engineering degree from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and an ROTC commission as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force. It was the time of the Korean War, and while the mechanical engineers from RPI were building weapons, the civil engineering students were preparing to build targets. College was a hint of freedom from the stifling confines of a structured upbringing, and a two-year active duty tour in the Air Force overseeing design and construction of anti-missile radar sites in the Arctic followed by an uninspiring job as a highway design engineer made him yearn for more adventures. The Pursuit of Adventure: Oregon or Bust That pursuit of adventure began unexpectedly during an accidental migration to Portland, Oregon. An old friend asked Richard to drive him from New York to Portland where the friend–a recent medical school graduate–was to begin an internship. Richard took his two-week vacation and a week’s leave of absence from his job and drove across country camping out and sightseeing along the way, planning to turn around and head back to NY once he had dropped off his friend. That never happened. Richard fell in love with Portland, called to extend his leave of absence (which he may still be on) and kept putting off going home until his family stopped asking when he’d come back. Years of self-introspection and therapy led him to the realization that he had probably never intended to return. Once in Portland he continued to work as an engineer, first for the Portland Development Commission designing Portland’s first urban renewal project, and then for Pacific Power & Light Company as a right-of-way-agent, where one of the power company’s attorneys encouraged Richard to try studying law. He enrolled in the Northwestern School of Law of Lewis & Clark College’s night-school program, excelled in his studies, and (despite working full time for the power company and trying to help his wife raise their two small children) loved every minute of law school. After passing the Oregon Bar, Richard joined Stoel, Rives, LLP, Portland’s largest and most prestigious law firm, where he founded and chaired its Environmental Law Practice Group, practicing environmental law until he retired to take up writing and spend time with his family–a loving wife, four productive children, nine grandchildren who make him very proud, and one adorable great-granddaughter.

Book preview

robbery."

CHAPTER 1

There was something vaguely familiar about the guy in the red, green and yellow plaid jacket and god-awful toupee who held the elevator door open as he got off, letting me squeeze into an already full car while I juggled a grande coffee, an apple fritter, a briefcase and a hair dryer. Couldn’t place him on the ride up the elevator, and halfway through the alphabet his name still hadn’t come back as I ‘pardon me’d my way off at the sixth floor and pushed through the glass doors into the reception area of Karl & Karl Investigations LLC, LA’s most prestigious boutique private detective agency and my place of employment for the past five and a half months. We specialize in corporate security and white collar criminal defense.

I gave up trying to place the guy with the hairpiece once I stepped in and looked around the waiting room. Three people sitting on the comfortable chairs K&K provided for its clients — two men and a woman, all in their twenties, all in severe business attire, briefcases perched on their laps, one of the men and the woman reading the LA Times, the other guy talking on a cell phone.

OK, Raam, I thought. Forget the dude in the toupee … here’s a chance to practice some tradecraft … ID these people.

I tried to remember what they’d been teaching me to look for. Spot the clues, the tells, the little giveaways that go right to the gut of every good P.I. OK. These three, sitting here. From their dress, their demeanor, their accessories — and from the fact that they were here at K&K looking expectant — I made them as lawyers. Not public defenders. Too well dressed. Bright young junior associates in substantial firms seeking to engage the services of K&K in aid of clients willing to pay big bucks in the hope of vindication or exoneration.

I debated going up to them to ask if I’d been right, but decided that to do so would admit to gross lack of faith in my rapidly developing investigative skills. And I wasn’t sure I could handle rejection. A substantial part of my training to be a P.I. revolves around recognition and identification techniques, and I’m only beginning to learn how much I have to learn. In this case, though, it wasn’t a tough make. I’m a recovering lawyer myself, so I can always spot a cohort who didn’t have the good sense to get out of the business or the grades to get out of the public defender’s office.

Making a mental note to ask about them later, I turned towards the reception desk presided over by Kim, the cute little blond receptionist whose telephone voice promised confidentiality and sincerity — confidentiality being a cornerstone of the firm’s reputation, and sincerity providing substance for the quiet, conservative office décor.

She looked up from the magazine on her desk and appraised me with the same penetrating glare I get every time I walk into the office, letting me know she still wasn’t sure about this new guy who had married the boss lady.

I tried to be nice. Morning, Kim. Is she in? I nodded towards the back corner office. The office from which Kayman Karl managed the firm and was rewarded for her management skills by the fierce loyalty of every one of K&K’s employees.

Is she expecting you? My marriage license doesn’t get me appointments.

I hope so. I held up the bag. I brought her an apple fritter.

It better be fresh. OK, go ahead. Kim’s intense desire to protect Kayman still intimidated me, so even though I measure six-foot-four and two hundred-twenty pounds, and Kim tops out at five foot nothing with only a double digit entry in the weight column, I was relieved when she allowed me to pass. I mouthed a ‘thank you’ as I turned down the corridor.

I knocked once, discreetly, and opened the door at a grunted, Come in.

Kayman sat perched on the corner of her desk reading a report and looking absolutely gorgeous in her favorite LA Angels t-shirt and high-end designer jeans. Kayman Karl — the best P.I. in southern California and my wife of five months, eighteen days and ten hours, and the only person in the world who could make me smile just by the sight of her.

She glanced up from the report. What’s with the hair dryer?

No ‘Hi, Honey’ or ‘Nice to see you.’ Here in the office she was all business. Familiarity was frowned upon.

I broke yours, I said, handing the box to her. Sorry. It’s a long story. I hope you weren’t too attached.

She shrugged and dropped the box on the desk behind her. What’s in the bag?

An apple fritter.

She brightened, slid off the desk, and with a malicious grin she plucked the little brown Starbucks bag from my hand. Punitive damages. That dryer was a priceless family heirloom.

All business, but not fanatical about it.

as was his right by virtue of the fact that he and Kayman’s late father had founded K&K in the early 1970s after tours of duty as MPs in Vietnam, and the equally compelling fact that Kayman adores him.

I need this, said Uncle Wally. But what I really could use is a stiff drink. Coopersmith just upped his offer to four point two million.

Then it clicked. The guy with the terrible toupee at the elevator. L. Sheldon Coopersmith III. Huckster-in-chief and owner of one of the largest independent detective agencies in Southern California. Specializes in ‘INFIDELITY’ in capital letters. Self-proclaimed ‘King of the Infidelity Investigators’. Coopersmith’s hokey ads and tedious infomercials flood our late-night television, which is why he looked so familiar. One in particular popped up on my visuals — the one where he tells his late-night audience, with a whispered conspiratorial delivery, that Los Angeles is a hotbed of hot beds and everybody cheats. He then goes on to warn his listeners to suspect infidelity if a partner displays two or more of Sheldon Coopersmith’s sure signs of a straying spouse, and to call the 800 number prominently displayed across the screen, where his operators are on duty twenty-four hours a day. And all the while, behind him in grayed-out tones, is a seedy motel room with hot and heavy sex interrupted when the door bursts open to a Coopersmith Detective Agency operative with a camera.

While I was remembering, Kayman’s jaw was dropping. Wow! Four million bucks? Are we worth that much?

The deal’s contingent on an audit of our books, of course, but yeah, I think that’s close. Uncle Wally paused, looked down and shuffled his feet, and handed the apple fritter bag back to Kayman.

Kayman, Honey, I want to take his offer.

Kayman paled and backed up until she was pressed against the edge of her desk. Then her face went crimson and her cobalt blue eyes went to indigo.

No! That word was made of equal parts of indignation, disgust, anger and disbelief, and it came out with a vehemence that startled Uncle Wally and made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. We told Coopersmith we weren’t interested when he was at three million.

Now it was my turn to drop a jaw. Kayman hadn’t said anything about Coopersmith wanting to buy the firm or having made an offer. K&K was her firm, and we had been married for less than six months and had known each other for only a couple of weeks before that — but even so ….

Because three million dollars was way too low, said Uncle Wally.

No! It was because I couldn’t let what you and Poppa built here go to that sleazeball! Poppa would be spinning in his grave. My god, Uncle Wally. Have you heard him on TV?

Her mimicry was amazing: I am L. Sheldon Coopersmith of the Infidelity Institute, and I am here to bring you some insights into betrayal … beginning with the six sure signs that your spouse is cheating on you.

Kayman’s spot-on caricature coaxed a grudging smile out of Uncle Wally — he was not a man given to humor, but she could always make him laugh. She boosted herself up and sat on the edge of her desk. C’mon, Uncle Wally, we have a totally different kind of practice. What does he want with us?

He says he wants to go more mainstream with his P.I. agency. He says he admires our corporate client list, and he promised to operate K&K as a separate division until he could make a smooth integration. He seems sincere, but who knows. You’re right. We could be making a big mistake, but I’m tired of this business and I’m ready to retire. I’d love to do some traveling while I still can.

Kayman pushed away from the edge of her desk and took a step toward Uncle Wally. She stared at his face for a moment, her cobalt blue eyes running like a CAT scan across his frontal lobes. Then she smiled down at him.

What’s her name?

I’d never seen a sixty-five year-old man blush before, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone blush that deeply. He looked like he’d either overdosed on niacin or was about to burst into flame.

Phyllis. Just above a whisper.

I knew it! Kayman was triumphant. The way you’ve been bouncing around the office the past week or so. I even saw you smile once. You old fraud … you’re getting laid!

Kayman reached out, pulled Uncle Wally in close and hugged him, kissing the top of his bald spot. A six-foot frame, supported nicely by the longest legs in LA, gave her a five-inch advantage.

Tell us about her, said Kayman as she steered him over to her couch, opened the bag, broke the apple fritter in two and offered him the largest piece.

I sat down in the high-backed chair behind Kayman’s desk, and took a sip of my coffee, which by now was tepid, and listened as Uncle Wally narrated the story of how he met Phyllis Fortuna, fifty-four, childless, widowed, and very hot. A cute meet as they say in Hollywood — she had dropped a latte in his lap when she tripped over the briefcase he carelessly shoved only part way under his chair. According to Uncle Wally, she apologized, made some tentative but futile efforts to blot his pants with a small paper napkin, but gave up and offered to pay to have the suit cleaned or replaced.

Then she handed me her business card and asked me for mine, said Uncle Wally, and hinted that I should call her. So I did, and we hit it off. Kayman, I think I’m falling in love.

Kayman straightened and scrunched up her face. Sex was one thing. Love was another. Are you sure, Uncle Wally? What do you know about her?

Oh, c’mon, Kayman. Give me some credit. I’ve been a P.I. much too long to not be just a wee bit suspicious when a good-looking fifty-four year-old woman comes on to a short, over-weight balding old fart like me. I checked her out six ways from Sunday before I called her. She’s clean. I ran her all the way back to kindergarten, and except for a couple of speeding tickets and a nasty divorce proceeding with a philandering husband, I didn’t see any red flags.

How about sexually transmitted diseases? Are you being careful?

My god, Kayman, you’re worse than your mother. Yes. Until the blood tests come back, we’re being careful. If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll boil her before we go to bed.

Uncle Wally popped the last piece of apple fritter into his mouth and gave Kayman a big smile around the frosting. It was a smile of happiness and contentment — regular sex can do that for a guy — and Kayman gave in. She turned to me.

Whaddya think, Raam? I’m going to have to share some of my half with Mom, but I’d like to know how much of that two point one million we could shelter from taxes.

Another surprise. She had down-shifted from angry rejection of any deal with Coopersmith — into a lower gear as ardent advocate for the sex life of her favorite uncle — accelerating through detective-like suspicion of the motives for said sex life — and finally dropping into business-like tax planner — all with the fluidity of a Ferrari gearbox.

I dunno, I shrugged. I’ve never done any tax law. I could find you a good tax lawyer, though. Who do you use now?

We don’t, said Uncle Wally. Our bookkeeper uses TurboTax for our personal and partnership returns. We were audited by the IRS once about twenty years ago, and we’ve never had any tax issues since.

How much do you owe to your mother?

Legally? Nothing. I bought Poppa’s half share in the firm from Mom after Poppa died. I took out a loan and paid her in cash, what the appraisers said it was worth, but it was nowhere near what Coopersmith is paying us. I want to split the difference with her.

Kayman turned back to Wallace Karl. OK, Uncle Wally, if you want to sell, we’ll sell. Call Coopersmith and tell him we’re considering his offer, and tell him our lawyers will get in touch with his lawyers.

She started towards me, then stopped. Oh, I forgot. Will we get to meet your Phyllis tonight, at the CALPI dinner?

"’Fraid not. She called a little while ago and said she was in bed. Lady problems, and that I should go without her. But I was planning on showing her off to you, and there’ll be another time."

OK. Maybe we can all go to dinner sometime soon. Kayman came over and sat down on my lap. Raam, I’m going to go home early because I need to get ready for the banquet tonight. Find us a good mergers and acquisitions lawyer and a tax guy, and pick up some travel magazines on your way home tonight.

She leaned over and whispered in my ear. Thanks to Mr. Coopersmith, we’ll have the time to take that honeymoon cruise you blew when you killed your biggest client and had to resign from your law firm.

CHAPTER 2

When I got home a few hours later with a stack of cruise brochures, my ‘Hi, Honey, I’m home’ was greeted by the thud of a Ferragamo pump hitting the door jamb behind my head and bouncing to a stop at my feet. I wish I could say I ducked, but I never saw it until it whizzed by my ear. I did see the next two things she threw. Her beaded purse glanced off my shoulder and I managed to catch the other shoe a couple of inches in front of my nose. I’d been a pitcher in my younger days, and line drives back at my head had been an occupational hazard. But that was then and at this moment Kayman was pissed.

I turned the spike heel over in my hand — miraculously it hadn’t broken — and held it out to her. If these shoes really hurt that much you could just take them back.

That dialed her down from red into orange, and she held onto the hand painted ceramic bowl instead of throwing it at me. Which was good, because I had picked up that little souvenir in Afghanistan.

Come on, Sweetie. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry and I’ll never do it again.

A smile. Fleeting, but I caught it before she smothered it. This was serious. She wasn’t going to give me an inch and the famous Kayman Karl temper was on the verge of erupting back into the red zone. Although I was beginning to learn where most of her buttons were, this one was new. I had no idea what she was so angry about. And she was so mad all she could do was sputter and point at a dress draped over the back of the couch.

Uh, oh. Kayman’s dress. The dress she had asked me to drop off at the drycleaners yesterday to be steamed. The champagne-colored evening gown she was planning to wear to tonight’s function. Something was wrong with that dress and it was obviously my fault.

Look what they did! She snatched it off the couch and waved it in front of my face. Look at that! It’s ruined!

Kayman was right. It looked ruined to me. Halfway between the knees and the waist there was a large discoloration, vaguely heart-shaped, that might have suggested an indiscretion to folks who look for such things.

Dammit, Raam. I told you to take this to Jimmy Ling’s and you took it that idiot on the corner.

The cleaner on the corner was closer and I was in a hurry. Besides, his prices seemed reasonable.

Reasonable? Oh, Raam, you’re such a dick. You don’t take an expensive satin designer dress to the neighborhood cleaners. You take it to a professional. Jimmy Ling is the best in Beverly Hills.

Well, I shrugged, at least we can get them to pay for it.

Back into red. No! Dammit! He won’t. I talked to that idiot when he called to tell me I could pick it up … which caught me by surprise because I didn’t know you had taken it there … and when I went to his store he insisted the stain was there when you brought it in yesterday. How can I prove that it wasn’t?

She was right again. That would be a tough case to win, even in small claims court.

I held out my arms in hopes of getting a hug, but she didn’t budge. OK, Sweetie. I’ll buy you a new one. Get your bag and we’ll go down to Rodeo Drive before they close. We can find something in time for the banquet.

Don’t patronize me, Raam. If it was that easy I wouldn’t be that angry with you. She hugged the dress to her chest and glared at me. "This is a vintage Hollywood movie dress. Laurel Bacall wore it in ‘The Big Sleep’ and I bought it at a charity auction. I paid big bucks for this little number because ‘The Big Sleep’ was my father’s favorite movie and I wanted to wear this dress tonight just for him."

That pushed my guilt button. The one my mother installed when I was first learning to walk and set on voice-activation when I left home. I took a couple of steps toward Kayman but she abruptly sat down on the floor and began to puddle up.

You go. I’m going to stay home. She buried her face in the dress.

I sat down next to her and tried to put my arms around her, but she pushed me away.

Don’t touch me! You knew how much tonight’s banquet meant to me. Poppa’s been gone for less than two years, and this is a huge honor CALPI is giving him … inducting him into their Hall of Fame posthumously without waiting the usual five years. And I wanted to wear that dress so if he’s looking down he’d know how much I loved him and miss him.

More sobs, but this time she let me hold her.

I’m sorry, Babe. I really am. It was a dumb thing to do. But let’s see if there’s anything we can do.

I stood and lifted Kayman to her feet, guiding her back towards the bedroom. To her closet and her extensive wardrobe. To her huge drawer of scarves. Enough to tent a Cirque du Soleil spectacular. I told her to put on the dress while I rummaged through the drawer until I found a mocha-colored silk scarf that looked like it might go well with the champagne gown. I pulled it out and waved it in front of her with a flourish.

Here, what if you folded this on point and draped it at an angle over those gorgeous hips of yours?

That might work, she said, begrudgingly knotting it around her waist and turning from side to side in front of the full length mirror. OK. That’ll have to do.

She looked at me with a quizzical smile that suggested doubt as to my sexual preference. Where did you learn a trick like that?

Dated a fashion designer. Picked up a few pointers before she decided I was unredeemably square and decided to go out with gay guys.

She softened, but not by much. OK. This’ll work. But I’m still angry with you. Go start me a bath and then leave me alone. I’ve got to be at the hotel early because I’m on the program, and all I want to do now is soak, work on my speech, and think about the best way to get even with that idiot at the drycleaner.

CHAPTER 3

May I have your name, please?

The name tag pinned to the ample bosom of the short, round, sweet and efficient young woman behind the registration desk introduced her as Bethany, and her hand hovered over alphabetically precise columns of nametags for the annual black tie dinner and awards program of the Los Angeles County Chapter of the California Association of Licensed Private Investigators — ready to pounce on whatever name I might offer.

Commoner. Raam Commoner.

Oh, of course, Mr. Commoner. You’re Ms. Karl’s husband. I should have recognized you. Here are your badge and beverage tickets. You’ll be seated next to Ms. Karl at the head table. They’ll be calling everyone in to begin the program in about twenty minutes, but the bar is open now and there are complementary hors d’oeuvres in the lounge.

Thanks, Bethany. Do you know where Ms. Karl might be? She came early.

She’s in the events office with CALPI’s officers, going over the schedule and the speeches. You could probably find her if you go back down the hall. It’s the fourth door on your left.

No, I won’t bother her. I’ll just go have a drink. Thanks.

The badge she pinned on officially identified me as ‘Raam Commoner, Karl & Karl Investigations, Associate Member CALPI.’ And they spelled my name right this time. ‘Associate Member’ really meant ‘probationary member’ and I had been reminded on a number of occasions that it behooved me to watch my step during my two-year probationary period. Reminders tended to annoy me, and were unnecessary. I wanted to succeed. I just wasn’t sure if it was because I didn’t want to embarrass Kayman or because I wanted to prove there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it.

Hadn’t been easy, though. Since I married Kayman, resigned from my fairly lucrative law practice, and joined K&K as its most junior investigator, I’d been grinding away in preparation for the P.I. exam. Fortunately, Kayman’s degree in criminology made her a good teacher. As long as her patience held out.

My identity and status confirmed by my badge, I clutched the tickets for the two free drinks included in the dinner price and wandered into the lounge. Some of the guests had arrived much earlier, had quickly used their tickets, and were well along toward insobriety on their own nickels. One in particular could be heard a long way off. Dalton Ellenberg. An unmistakable voice, one that would be heard at every CALPI event, and one that could make me cringe every time I heard it. A former pro football center, gone to fat — bald, boisterous and poster child for every campaign ever launched in an effort to rein in or outlaw private investigators. He trampled all over the P.I. ethics code and had been brought up on charges a number of times.

But he somehow always managed to get off, and he always managed to attract a coterie of admirers, a dozen or so of whom were agreeing with him on the subject of corruption in CALPI’s management. They were also keeping him generously supplied with drinks, and I wondered if it was to keep him talking or to see how many it would take to put him on the floor.

I turned away as soon as I spotted him, but he saw me first and raised his glass in a toasting gesture.

Well, well, he said with a sneer that took me back to grade school and a drunken slurring that took me back to college. "COWPIE’S newest golden boy. How many blow jobs did that hot babe wife of yours have to give to get COWPIE’S board of masturbators to give that award to her daddy?"

I lunged at him, but the two hotel security guards, whose job was to keep an eye out for loud drunks and both of whom were younger and a lot bigger than even I am, stepped between us and held me back.

Cool it, man, whispered one of the guards. We’ll take care of this asshole.

Ellenberg had flinched and backed up when I went for him, and he was willing to allow himself to be led away, although he tossed off another couple of insults over his shoulder as the security guys firmly marched him off. I stood there for a moment, counting to ten and waiting for my heart rate to start back down, and then I turned back toward the bar to refill the gin on the rocks I had spilled. But just as I did, two hands covered my eyes and something sexy rubbed up against my butt. If it was Kayman, I was back in her good graces. If it wasn’t, I was in trouble.

Have we been properly introduced? I’m a married man, you know.

The voice was deep, throaty and even sexier than the butt rub. We don’t need an introduction. All you have to do is whistle.

Wow! I said as I turned around. The face was Kayman but the body and