Pigeons TCPI 4

By RB Pahl

Tracy is hired to prove a girl didn't commit suicide. She is officially listed Suicide, OD on drugs and alcohol. The death was seven months in the past.
She goes to the SFPD and sees her friend Greg. [Sgt Gregory Phillips, SFPD] When Tracy first sees the crime scene photos, she is immediately convinced the death was something other that a suicide, even though there was a note. When Greg asks her to explain, she tosses a picture in front of him.
"She's buck naked", Tracy says. "She went to the trouble to clean her house, even though the house keeper was coming in the next day. Why would she clean everything and turn around and leave her body exposed for the world ... and the cretin who shot a little too many crotch shots to see?"
She drives to the victim's apartment, and is a bit shell-shocked to see that it is a luxury condo, rent beginning about three grand. No way she can afford this. Using a ruse, she gains entry into a model unit that appears to be like Gail's. It is quite a Playboy's kept girlfriend's set up.
On a whim, Tracy drives to the M.E.'s office to see what if anything they might have on Gail's suicide. There appears to be nothing earth-shattering about the autopsy, but when she stands to leave, the M.E. she has been talking to asks her if she would like to meet for a drink after five. She says yes.
The drink escalates into a rapid dinner downtown, where the relationship between Brad Springer, M.E., and her begins.
The next morning Tracy drives to the bank where Gail worked. In a humorous bit, starting with the walk from the parking lot. When she gets to the money pit, she battles her way to Faraday's supervisor.
EXCERPT: “Go back to the end here,” The woman pointed to what used to be an aisle between desks, but was now a trading floor, “See an old guy named Olson. He’s the boss.”
I said my thanks and fought through some very rude people who had no respect whatsoever for small people. I was elbowed and shoved in places on my body I hold in strict privacy. Finally my umbrella came out, and even though it was folded, and the tip a rounded half inch ball, it became a formidable weapon to be used, quarter-staff style, for poking my way though. Thoughts of slamming it across some fat heads crossed my mind. If I could reach that high.
Finally, I got the attention of those who blocked my path while haranguing about a paltry fifty or a hundred, even five hundred million dollars. When I finally broke free of the shouting masses, not one floor trader knew I had passed between them. Or had clobbered them with my bent-up bumbershoot. In the back was a small secretarial desk, with a man sitting at it, and a glassed in cubicle.
“Help you Miss?” He said while punching buttons on a modern telephone keyboard.
My nostrils were flared and I’m sure I was breathing fire. “I want to see Gail Faraday’s supervisor... now!” I panted angrily.
My temper was well over critical mass. “I want to talk to the keeper of these animals, I don’t want to have a seat, I don’t want to be routed to someone else!”
“First time up here, hah?” He chuckled.
The next morning, the paper has an article about a girl named Cassie Potter, who committed suicide in her luxury condo. She quickly realizes this is the same pattern as Gail. She goes to the M.E. office and converses with Brad's secretary, who suggests a search for more girls. Tracy finds a third girl, Susan Kennedy, who died two years ago.
She goes to Greg with her findings. He finally realizes she is right, there is a serial killer. Under orders from Captain Anderson, Greg takes over the investigation, and tells Tracy to butt out.
Tracy gets a key lead, and follows up on it with an old camera nut and a street artist. She finds and identifies the killer at the same time Greg arrests the Playboy. Tracy complains and tells Greg don't arrest the guy.
"Too Bad. You lose."
He's gone when she tells her partner that the Playboy isn't the

• Language: English
• Publisher: RB Pahl
• Release date: Dec 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466184145

RB Pahl

RB Pahl is the nom-de-plume for Richard Pahl. He has worked in many industries, and is an expert in sailing, boating, flying, skiing, etc. An artist is an artist is an artist. A professional photographer-computer artist who has won many national print awards in professional competition, he began writing several years ago, and has polished his skills for many years. Now, he is beginning to sell. Please enjoy all his books.

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Pigeons

A Tracy Cunningham Novel

Book Four

RB Pahl

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 RB Pahl

All rights reserved.

pi - geon n (ME, fr. MF pijon, fr. LL pipion-, pipio young bird, f r. :pipire to chirp] (14c)

1 : any of a widely distributed family (Couxbidae, order Coumbifdrxes) of birds with a stout body, rather short legs, and smooth and compact plumage; asp : a member of any of many varieties of the rock pigeon that exist in domestication and in the feral state in cities and towns throughout most of the world.

2 a young woman.

3 an easy mark : dupe

4 Clay Pigeon [alter. of pidgin] : an object of special concern :business

Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary - Merriam Webster

That kind of says it all, doesn’t it? Tracy Cunningham.

Chapter One

G’morning, Mum, I gasped as I collapsed through the back door after my morning run. I had just finished my five mile run with a full out-sprint up from the bay level roads in Sausalito to my boarding house, which was one hundred and twenty wood stairs from the Villa shopping building up to the street in front of my house.

One hundred and twenty hurtin’ steps. The first time I ran up those suckers, my legs hurt for three days. After removing my muddy running shoes in the small back porch, I used the counter to stretch out and cool off, breathing with deep gulps.

Good morning, my dear, Missus Lockland handed me a cup of rich black coffee. Of all the roomers the portly woman had, I was by far her favorite. Our relationship was much closer than roomer-landlady, though. For a lot of reasons, when I first came to the boarding house, I was distressed and needed the calm guidance of a mother figure.

Missus Lockland happily provided it and the love necessary to help me flourish. I won’t ask how you are, she said, because that’s obvious. If I remember what you once said, you’re in severe pain, you can’t breathe, your heart is beating like a rock drummer on acid, and your leg muscles are jelly.

That’s about it, I popped a wedge of Cantaloupe into my mouth, savoring the sweet melon while talking. Running is like hitting your head against a brick wall. It feels so good when you stop.

I poured a small pot of coffee, took it and my cup upstairs to drink in my room after I took a shower. Only the new boarder from West Germany was up when I quietly walked down the hall to the bathroom.

Guten Tag, she said.

Guten Tag back atcha. I said to her and slipped out of my robe. I set an oven timer I always carried into the large bath room, because even though the hot water capacity of my boarding house was more than adequate, given an opportunity, I would hog it all. The timer was my way of rationing water. I allowed myself ten minutes. Any more than that, and my fellow boarders of the third floor, women’s wing, would bitch at me the first time they saw me.

I entered my favorite of two shower stalls, turned the water on full cold, shouting into my clenched teeth for the hot stuff to Hurry up and get here! This form of self-torture was part of my morning routine. I started out with cold water, then allow it to get almost steaming hot before I adjusted the controls to a comfortably hot stream. I figured that all the temperature changes would wake everything up.

Even though time was short today, I decided to shampoo my hair. It was cut in a wedge style. A few months ago, I had been forced by circumstances not entirely under my control to dye my blonde hair black. It took forever to grow out, and while it did I looked like a cross between a skunk and a punk rocker. It was only recently that I was able to put my blonde wig to one side and have the black hair cut off, leaving me with a short-short pixy style.

At the sound of the timer, I quickly rinsed my hair and stepped out of the shower. When I was dry, I wrapped the towel like a turban around my head, and put my robe on. Back in my room, I selected my clothing for the day. Nautical standard. Good old-red, white and blue. Snug blue slacks, hemmed at my ankles, a soft white sweater worn over a camisole, and a red sport coat. I held the cami against my bare skin. Ummm. I love the feel of this silky cloth. That settled it. No bra.

With my soft sweater, I wanted look as feminine as I felt this morning. Considering my athletic figure, it isn’t really obvious when I do or don’t wear a bra. Recently I’ve been maintaining a little more than my old one-oh-two to one-oh-five. My comfort range is in the 108 pound area. Luckily, most of the added five to seven pounds seems to have deposited themselves in my breasts, so that I’m now a legitimate B cup. All I watch is my tummy. Any bulges and I stop eating. Most of the time, the men in my life don’t agree with me, but what do they know?

From my belly-button down, I consider my figure at the very least, a ten. I have a perfectly curved waist with shapely legs and hips … for a midget.

Kid, the ol’ bod’s really not ... too... shabby.

I trotted downstairs, carrying my jacket over my arm, and sat at the breakfast table. I wolfed down my share of scrambled eggs and bacon with voracious fervor, monosyllabically carrying on a conversation with Pat, another long-time roomer. Monosyllabically, because I didn’t want to talk with my mouth full. Monosyllabically, because Pat’s conversations, no matter what the subject, were all worded to convince me that I could do worse than spend a few nights with him.

A big hairy lie.

I couldn’t imagine what could be worse. He was a good enough looking guy, but I was pretty sure his idea of sex was Me first. Definitely not my idea of good bedroom gymnastics. I finished my breakfast, gave myself a final check of my make-up, gave Missus Lockland her usual peck on the cheek and ran outside to my garage stall in the drizzle of a March morning.

Good morning, Maggie, I greeted one of my two cars. How are you this morning?

As it was going to be a quiet office day, and I hadn’t used her for a week or so, Hoss got the day off. Usually I drive my coke-bottle Corvette, vintage 1982, stick shift, because Maggie was getting up there in value. At current prices, she was worth over a hundred thousand dollars!

One doesn’t drive an investment car like Maggie very much. I put my key into the dash key-lock and switched on the classic MG-TF 1500. Recently I brought Maggie out of storage and canceled the rent. She could stay in the garage with Hoss.

In my last case, many people wanted me DOA. Other people who shall remain nameless demanded that I get out of the dangerous case. I lost my job, Greg Phillips, and very nearly my Dad before it was all over. To get away from the people who wanted me dead, I had to die; My neat little MG had to die with me. A fifty foot plunge into an ocean pool took care of my fatal auto accident. When it was all over, my associate wanted me to come back.

Of course… wouldn’t you?

Five minutes after I stormed into his office, ready to personally choke the life out of him, he had me crying and giggling at the same time, in spite of my incredible mad. As part of my demands for returning to the fold, I insisted that Lee arrange for Maggie to be completely restored to her former condition. I decided to let Lee off the hook, because it was going to be a very expensive fix.

The Brits can make car heaters, so it was cozy and warm in my car when I pulled out of the muddy back lot, through the slow traffic in Sausalito’s surface streets for the one mile stint to Tiburon where our offices were located.

Rain gently pelted the parking lot when I pulled into my reserved slot behind the old converted large home and ran to the back door of the building. I smiled as I pushed open the carved walnut door that had a fairly new brass plaque that said Brooks and Cunningham. I walked up to the front.

Good morning, Renny Babington chirped into the phone while she said at me, Brooks and Cunningham. I waved with my fingers at my secretary, poured a cup of coffee, picked up the morning paper and walked back to my huge office, a legacy of my partner’s late father. My office was the largest of two offices in the suite. Lee had made it clear that no man would ever occupy it. It was the office that his late father had used.

But a woman was a different story. In no way could I ever replace Lee’s beloved father, and I didn’t try. I made a few changes over the months since I came back. I added flowers, a beautiful marine aquarium, and a small stereo that was tuned into a jazz station most the time.

The carpeting was so lush that I usually removed my shoes and spent the day barefoot, or in stocking feet, or like today, when it was a bit cooler, some pink, warm, fuzzy slippers. I hadn’t walked through my own door when my desk phone began ringing.

At the same time, I tried to shrug out of my sport coat, while dropping the newspaper, scattering it on the floor, Dammit, I’m coming! and putting my scalding hot cup on the desk without spilling coffee. I cussed the obnoxious instrument again and picked up the receiver, while finally getting my arms out of my suddenly too tight coat.

Hello!, I snapped.

Sheese! Sorry for bothering you, Trace.

No, I cradled the phone on my shoulder and hung my coat on a hat rack behind my desk, It’s me who should be sorry for snapping. By now you should know I’m a mean widdle bitch until I’ve sucked up some coffee. What’s on your devious mind, Boss?

Now that Lee and I were equals, we liked to call each other that. I’m afraid to ask, now. Dare I? he said.

Try me.

Would you do me and our new client the honor of coming into my office?

I suppose, I grinned and sighed dramatically, coiling the cord of the receiver around my finger. Getting his goat was a fixed part of my morning routine. It’s really an imposition, you know. I was only half-kidding about being a bitchy broad until I’ve had my caffeine fix. I heard his voice through the hall and the phone simultaneously.

Miss Cunnin…

On my way boss, I grinned and slammed down the phone.

Got’m!

I love it!

I walked the ten steps from my office to my partner’s and knocked courteously as I entered. Lee and the client stood as I entered.

Tracy Cunningham, this is Mr. Anthony Faraday. Lee said as I put my hand out to the client.

Mr. Faraday, this is my partner and the investigative half of the firm. I shook his hand. I have a good grip with a small hand that’s usually lost in a man’s.

But I try.

Dad always said that was the important thing. Faraday was a big man, in his fifties I guessed. Dark hair, flecked with gray. Overweight, but not severely so. He had brown eyes that showed an overlying sadness even though he said easily at me. I sat in my favorite chair in Lee's office and sipped my coffee while Lee filled me in on Faraday’s problem. Mister Faraday’s daughter died seven months ago.

Oh, I said solicitously. I’m sorry, Mister Faraday.

Thank you. He was soft spoken to begin with, but the reply was even softer. He opened a large mailing envelope and removed a five by seven black and white photograph of a pretty young woman. This is my Gail.

Lee continued, PacMarine has been holding up the payment of her life insurance benefits, which is why Mister Faraday has come to us.

Why are they refusing payment?

Actually, they’re not withholding payment, Faraday took over the conversation. But the double indemnity clause is in question. They won’t pay off because they think Gail committed suicide.

Did she?

Absolutely not, Miss Cunningham. Faraday turned to me so I could be sure of his explanation. Gail had her whole future in front of her. She loved life. Someone killed her and made it look like she killed herself.

Why?

I don’t have any idea.

What do the police say?

They have it filed as suicide, he sighed.

Where did all this happen?

In San Francisco. In her apartment. They say she took an overdose of tranquilizers.

Trankies? And she had her shit together? Something’s wrong already.

What was she doing with tranquilizers?

I don’t know that, either. Her emotional make-up was someplace between high-strung and even-tempered. She could be a ball of fire, or most laid back. Maybe she was using tranquilizers to smooth her peaks and valleys.

Bi-Polar? I didn’t want to make a big thing of the issue. Sounds logical enough to me. What is it you want us to do?

I want you to prove Gail didn’t kill herself.

Why now? Mister Faraday, I don’t want to sound callous, but she’s been dead quite a while. This would be a lot easier if you had come to us sooner.

I understand that. The police haven’t done much. I think her case is in the cold case section now. And because her mother...and I...are undone over all of this. I don’t believe Gail killed herself, not for one minute. Someplace in San Francisco her killer is running around free, while my baby is in her grave.

Tears came to his eyes. He never re-mentioned the insurance money as a reason why he wanted the murder proved. I wasn’t too interested in ghoulish reasons for opening a cold case up. And as far as I was concerned, greed can be ghoulish.

Mister Faraday, do you have any ideas or suspicions who could have killed her, or any thoughts about a motive?

No. I don’t know any of her San Francisco friends. We live in Seattle. Gail came down here eighteen months ago, after she graduated from the University of Washington in Financial Management.

What did she do for a living?

She worked for a bank in the financial district. She was an assistant money broker.

What’s that?

She bought and sold money. That’s how she described her job. I’m a small manufacturer, Miss Cunningham. I make specialized parts for the Boeing Company in Seattle. I don’t know about matters of high finance, especially in the numbers Gail talked about. A million dollars wasn’t enough money to warrant more than five second’s time, according to her. She dealt in hundreds of millions at a time.

Do you think her job may have had anything to do with it?

No. Extortion or robbery couldn’t have been a motive. All that money is strictly electronic money, from what she said. She said there probably wasn’t a hundred dollars between all her co-workers in her particular office. The bank didn’t keep any cash or cashable bonds there. She had no access to the big stuff to put in her own account, if that’s what you mean. By this time, he was glaring at me.

I don’t mean to imply anything sinister, Mr. Faraday, I said his rising irritation back down. I’m just asking questions as they pop into my mind.

I’m sorry.

What about her boyfriends? Did she have one?

She told us she had a boyfriend. That was a few months before she died. But you must realize that she was away from home, doing her own thing for the first time in her life. She wasn’t going to tell her mother and father about her love life. I wasn’t worried about men. She was a good kid, brought up in the right kind of home with well established Christian values. I, for one, can't believe men or romance had anything to do with all this.

Okay, Mister Faraday, I exchanged surreptitious nods with Lee. If it’s my decision to make, we’ll take the case. I’m assuming that you and Mister Brooks have discussed the fees, so I won’t go over that again. I can get on it right away, because all I have going now is a few auto accident investigations.

I’ll do anything to got out of those boring cases.

Sorry "bout that Renny... your work load just increased.

Thank you, Miss Cunningham, His manner brightened immediately and visibly. Faraday stood up when I left. A few minutes later, I saw him walk to the front office where Renny was waiting with the paperwork that I insisted each client fill out.

It was a detailed questionnaire, almost