Crack Up, A Dirk Cobb Thriller (Book One): The Dirk Cobb Thrillers, #1

By T.L. Peters

Dirk Cobb, an ambitious young lawyer with a fondness for the ladies that is not always reciprocated, hooks up with a sweet and very stylish department store manager as a diversion from the pressures of his job. But Dirk finds more than he bargained for when the young lady turns out to be not quite so innocent as he thought and soon leads him on a wild chase to solve an age old prophetic riddle, one that might just get him killed.

"There are lots of surprises in this opening volume of The Dirk Cobb Thrillers, the most exciting of which for me being the introduction of Jake and Snowflake from the popular Jake Stone series as allies of Dirk as he battles one deadly villain after another. Fans of the Jake Stone books are sure to get a kick out of Dirk's description of the lovely but ferocious Snowflake and her often hapless man Jake. I might have pictured this unlikely couple a bit differently, but then again Dirk is a guy with plenty of quirks of his own. An enjoyable and entertaining read whether or not you are acquainted with the Jake Stone books." Theodora

"First rate entertainment!! Peters supplies loads of action and plenty of fun." Damsel

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.L. Peters
• Release date: Mar 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476146102

T.L. Peters

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews About the author: T.L. Peters is an ex-lawyer who enjoys playing the violin and giving his dog long walks in the woods. In between, he writes novels.

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Crack Up, A Dirk Cobb Thriller (Book One)

By T.L. Peters

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012, T.L. Peters

License Notes

This e book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To read more about the author and his other books, including his popular Jake Stone series, go to http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/tlpeters.

First rate entertainment. Peters supplies loads of action and plenty of fun. Damsel

. An enjoyable and entertaining read. Theodora

There’s no question that Peters is a master wordsmith. Gerry B’s Book Reviews

Cambridge, Massachusetts

April, 2022

Chapter 1

She made my acquaintance by slugging me in the mouth.

She was wearing low rise, red rouge cotton cut off shorts, a polyester tight-fit leopard print blouse with long sleeves rolled up to her sharply glistening elbows—the front of her shirt generously unbuttoned down to her bronzed and sweaty cleavage—a matching and quite fierce leopard print band adorning her perfectly proportioned scalp, large gold bamboo earrings dangling from her lusciously fleshy lobes, a thick gold cuff bracelet clamped onto each densely muscled wrist, open-toe wedge shoes clinging to her heavily veined feet by the gentle pull of bright pinkish-purple linen straps, and huge rectangular framed turquoise sunglasses with orange-grayish lenses so musky that I couldn't see her eyes.

I could see the rest of her well enough though—with her skyscraper wedge heels all six feet ten inches, give or take a quarter of an inch or so, of shapely wired and lean female muscle, a killer set of cheekbones, high and haughty, a long sweeping nose to match, thick glimmering platinum blond hair bouncing violently off her broad angular shoulders, a set of boobs that looked like they had just been poured out of a concrete mixer, long sculpted legs shimmering like stilettos in the late afternoon sun, and forearms that squirmed like a bouquet of slithering snakes every time she moved. And she was moving plenty, especially once she had grabbed me by my shirt collar and begun rudely slamming my head against the bronze statue of John Harvard, nobly seated directly behind me in a stern hardback chair with an open Bible resting on his sturdy right leg.

We were in the Old Yard of Harvard College where most of the undergraduate freshmen lived and hung out between classes. This chick looked a bit too old, maybe in her late thirties, to be a student and a tad too physically strident to be a professor. I tried to recall if I had offended any husky platinum blonds lately, but nothing popped into my increasingly addled brain.

For the life of me I couldn't fathom what pressing business such a powerfully sexy babe had in this august setting, other than kicking the snot out of the first poor schlep who happened to stumble along, which was apparently me. But at least I knew why I was there. After deposing a few hostile witnesses in downtown Boston in some big time products liability case that was as boring as all my other cases, I had breezed by to rub the bronzed toe of the venerable John Harvard at the behest of my latest girlfriend. Katie said it would bring us good luck, and I hated to blow her off, especially since she was the nicest person I'd met in a while.

You see, I was a lawyer, and lawyers as a rule don't hang out with the most congenial crowd. My acquaintances in that dully insular microcosm of the twilight of western civilization tended to be other lawyers and clients, with their wives and a few girlfriends sprinkled in for show. Sure, a lot of these blowhards pretended to be friendly—nearly everybody is friendly these days, on the surface anyway—but they were mostly dedicated and life long phonies, just like me.

But this time I was going to be different. I was all set to rise above my miserable self and do the right thing by keeping my promise to Katie, not just saying I did. So before I headed off to Logan Airport for the hour and a half flight back to Pittsburgh, I decided to be a good guy and rub my soiled fingers over John Harvard's bronzed toe, polished to a smooth rusty orange with the epidermal off scouring of decades of like minded tourists and students. Then this chick showed up. Where she had come from, I had no clue. I turned around and there she was. But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered now was trying to keep myself alive.

Why this bountifully muscled babe had apparently taken such offense at my modest pre-flight plans, I also had no idea. But I didn't feel like engaging her in deep conversation, especially not after she had slid her crushing hands around my neck and was in the process of throttling me in a grip that would have made a metal vise feel like warm butter.

If I didn't get her off me soon, I'd black out for sure, and then what would happen to my scrawny hide—perhaps a quick one way trip to the local morgue? Maybe that would be an okay curtain call for some other poor random jerk, but not for Dirk Cobb, no way, not right now anyhow. I was just thirty one years old, and I had a career full of clueless clients to swindle and senile senior partners to bamboozle before I was through. I had never hit a woman before, and not too many men either, but I didn't see what choice I had.

I reared back and threw a hard left at her chin. I caught her nice and flush on the soft fleshy cleft right beneath her full red lips. It felt good too, like hitting a baseball on the meaty part of the bat, the pleasant tingle sweeping all the way down to my toes. I waited for her tough fanny to go sailing backward onto the prickly green grass of Harvard Yard, but she didn't even budge, not an inch. All she did was smile, a wicked brutal smile.

Stay away, she hissed.

I felt a blast of moist hot air bounce off my cheeks. Her mouth was just a few inches from mine. She looked so good right then, so fierce and wild and strong, that if I'd had any guts, I might have tried kissing her. Maybe this chick got her kicks from beating up guys, and there was nothing more to her impromptu assault on me than a little sadistic frolic before dinner. Perhaps I even struck her as the type who might enjoy some casual punishment at the hands of the fairer sex. She got me wrong on that last point, but she sure looked hot.

I remember leaning into her an inch or so, but she slapped me away before I could even pucker up my thin dry lips. Then she lifted me to my feet like I was a hunk of straw, kneed me in my soft belly, karate chopped me along the back of my brittle neck, and laughed heartily as my already piggish nose slammed into the well tended pavement of one of the many crosswalks bisecting the ancient yard.

As I winced through the stinging pain I could see my blood pooling up along the side of my face, red and bubbly and thick. Beyond, resembling actors in some hazy black and white film, were a half dozen students lounging against gnarled tree trunks while peering into their sleek lap tops. Some of them began looking my way, their eyes bulging, their mouths forming perfect ovals of horror and fear.

I wanted to cry out to them for help, but my jaw felt like a clump of dried mud. I couldn't pry it open, not for the world. I couldn't even seem to lift my head off the concrete.

Suddenly I heard the big babe hovering above me scream so ferociously that I began to tremble, and I worried for a second that she was about to stomp on my head with those chunky wedge heels. But she must have had pity on me, either that or she wanted to torture me a while longer. She lifted me up by the scruff of my neck, whirled me around so that I was gazing directly into the sweaty gleam of her hard muscular chest, and then raised me high into the air, her burly hands braced under my arm pits like bony meat hooks.

I still had some fight in me and tried kicking her, but my black wing tips ended up bouncing harmlessly off her plump fleshy thighs.

I said stay away, she snarled.

I felt her warm spit slam into my eyes and began blinking wildly.

Stay away from what? I groaned, my jaw finally flapping open as a trickle of blood swirled down my chin.

You are even more pathetic that I was told you would be.

Told by whom? I sighed, as though the last gush of life was slipping out of me.

As if you didn't know, hot shot.

I don't know anything.

You know everything.

What are you talking about?

Stay away, or the next time I'll kill you, she growled, her voice deepening into a husky baritone.

For a moment I wondered if she took steroids, and that was why her voice was so low. In any case, she sure was strong.

I'll kill you long and slow, you little jerk, right out here in public just to humiliate you. When I kill a man, I try to make it worth my while.

I was about to tell her she was crazy, but she dropped me in mid sentence. I remember my legs crumpling beneath me as I slumped back down onto the hard hot pavement. A few seconds later I heard a small worried voice oozing through the dazed blackness of my mind .

Are you all right, Sir?

It was some skinny Harvard kid with long scraggly hair and wire rims. His wispy girl friend was standing beside him. I looked around and caught a glimpse of the big blond's glistening calves just as she swung around a corner and disappeared behind some ancient reddish building. I swung my eyes back toward the skinny Harvard kid.

Did you ever see that woman around here before? I wheezed.

Never.

His girl friend shook her head too. I picked myself off the ground and looked myself over. All my parts looked in reasonably decent shape, but it was just too bad about my outfit.

I had bought this suit the week before in the swankiest men's clothier in Pittsburgh for eight hundred bucks. I was on the cusp of making partner, and my mentor at the firm, Lester Firth, had advised me to spruce up my image. My new rayon navy blue jacket was now ripped wide open along the shoulder, and my matching trousers had so many holes that I couldn't even count them all. My heretofore pristine white cotton shirt was torn in front, and even my red silk tie was badly frayed along the bottom.

Even though I was still ambulatory, I had to admit that this babe had really worked me over. I could tell that from the blood still dripping down my chin.

She was at least twice as strong as I was. There was no doubt about that. Normally I might have felt a bit sheepish about being clobbered so handily by a woman, especially out in public. But this platinum blond was built like a tank, a beautiful, shapely hunk of a tank, but a tank nonetheless. Everybody could see that.

I thought about filing charges with the Cambridge police. But why bother? I wasn't planning on returning to Boston any time soon. Maybe if I just ignored the whole embarrassing situation, it would all go away. I didn't need the extra hassle. I had enough on my mind.

I guess she didn't enjoy my company, I joked.

Neither of the Harvard kids laughed.

Are you sure you're all right? the girl asked, her head dipping below mine, her eyes bright and alive. The student health center is not very far from here. We can take you there.

No thanks, I said, waving her off like I was some tough guy.

Imagine that. Me, a tough guy. I peered up at the stolid, almost chunky image of John Harvard staring down at me. Of course, it wasn't actually John Harvard's image. I had read the tourist brochures. No one knew what he really looked like, not anymore anyway, because no portraits existed of the young English clergyman, who in the early sixteen hundreds had donated his personal library of 400 books and 779 pounds sterling, half his estate, to the modest new college along the Charlies River. The sculptor, a fellow by the name of Daniel Chester French, the same guy who had done the seated Abraham Lincoln in the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., had made do by recruiting one of his students to serve as a model.

I glanced at the inscription on the granite base, John Harvard, Founder, 1638. Those were lies too. John Harvard hadn't founded the prestigious school— the Great and General Court of the Bay Colony had by decree—and it wasn't in 1638 either, but in 1636. All lies, I thought, all phonies.

I stared at the bronze relief plaque on the right side of the pedestal. The plaque depicted the Arms of Harvard, a shield featuring three open books inscribed with the Latin word, VE RE TAS.

Truth, I muttered.

The wispy girl smiled.

You can never trust a Harvard man.

Or woman, I groaned.

The skinny boy grinned bashfully, his face reddening around his soft temples.

I would have come over to help you, but it all happened so fast.

I shrugged it off. I knew how he felt. I was a coward too.

Don't worry, kid. You did the right thing. She would have kicked your ass just as bad as she kicked mine.

He smiled and began walking away with his girl friend close at his side. They were chatting now but occasionally looked back at me. It was as though they were expecting me to fall over any second. But I wasn't about to accede to my weaker impulses, not right then anyway. If I was going to collapse into a smarmy puddle of my own sweat and blood, I would do it in the safety and comfort of my apartment, which I soon hoped to get rid of before moving up into something more suitable for a rising young star in the venerable firm of Blunt and Flint.

I glanced again at the handsomely false image of Harvard's first benefactor, with the flowing academic robes falling loosely across his sturdy arms and the trace of a moustache outlined dully under his aristocratic nose. I thought about once more rubbing my fingers over his bronzed toe for good luck. All the published tour guides advised that this rather cheesy gesture was the thing to do at Harvard. But this time I decided against it. Luck, good or bad, apparently wasn't my thing. I had to face facts. All I amounted to was an obscenely compensated corporate grunt, and hard work and a sleazy code of ethics were the only truths I believed in.

I hurried across the yard and caught a cab outside my hotel a few blocks away. Forty minutes later I was rushing through the airport trying to look as normal as I could, with my clothes all torn up and blood still oozing from my nose and mouth. I must have done a pretty decent job of it, and nobody said a word to me.

Chapter 2

Lester Firth, resplendent in the clean lines of a gray shadow stripe suit nicely accented by a light blue shirt and narrow maroon tie, rose from behind his large cherry wood desk, looked me over and smiled.

What happened to you?

I rubbed my forefinger over the still swollen cut along the bridge of my nose. I had cleaned myself up as best I could the night before, but I still looked a tad rough around the edges. I couldn't complain too much though. After tangling with that big Amazon, I