Ida Hawkins, P.I. Eight Days

By Susan F Roberts

Ida Hawkins loves her life as a private investigator in New York City. On a Monday in May a series of events and mishaps changes the direction of her life. Within days she finds herself in the wild west of Montana embroiled in a murder investigation with Tribal Cop Samuel Runswind. Just when Ida thinks things have been resolved a secret is revealed that changes her relationship with Runswind and her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan F Roberts
• Release date: Feb 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301147496

Susan F Roberts

I grew up on the Rocky Mountain Front of Montana in an environment that was as ecologically drastic as the culture I found myself in. Mountains meeting prairie, Native American culture meeting white European. My father was a dyed-in-the wool cowboy and my mother a sweet young thing who didn't have a clue about which end of a horse to get on. I was conceived in the Great Bear Wilderness area the summer my mother was eighteen. She always said I was a Native spirit looking for a home.

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Ida Hawkins, P.I.

Eight Days

Published by S.F. Roberts at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 S.F. Roberts

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter One - Monday - May 19th

Chapter Two - Tuesday - May 20th

Chapter Three - Wednesday - May 21st

Chapter Four - Thursday - May 22nd

Chapter Five - Friday - May 23rd

Chapter Six - Saturday - May 24th

Chapter Seven - Sunday - May 25th

Chapter Eight - Monday - May 26th

Prologue - Tuesday - May 27th

Monday - May 19th

Yeah, that is what I said, Jim said shaking as a shiver raced up his back. There’s a dead person up there.

The 911 call completed he set the phone on the table slipping into a wooden backed chair beside it, the silence in his little house magnified by the events of the morning. Only an hour ago he’d been standing in the crisp morning air, watching as the sun made its way over the low mountain range to the east. Golden light spreading shafts of light over the slender edges of sepia colored grass wilted near the edge of the hot primitive pool of water.

His worn towel tossed over the crude wooden bench, he slipped off his flip-flops looking at the remnants of a party the night before scattered across the ground in the form of empty beer bottles. He made his way thru the cold thick mud as it wedged between his toes raising goose bumps across his naked arms. Grabbing hold of the railing of an ancient wooden ladder he began his descent into the one hundred and two-degree water. It was a daily ritual that kept his war wounded leg workable for the rest of the day. His right foot reached further down the ladder as the heat from the water lapped up the calves of his legs. He loved these quiet moments, alone, and in the out-of-doors. Stopping his descent into the pool he pulled one hand from the ladder rubbing grains of sand from the corners of his eyes. His mornings were the same everyday, rising from bed, throwing on his sweats and sliding into the worn flip-flops near the door before grabbing the old towel from a hook near the door. On occasion he would walk up the hill past old buildings with boarded up windows but often he drove his 1950 GMC truck parking it in a rutted lot near by. People from all over the world loved these pools, their hundred year reputation for healing having traveled by word of mouth. He’d met many of those who came to this out-of-the-way place just to sit in the hot water and enjoy a place open to all, a gift of natural healing from the earth.

Jim’s foot slipped near the end of the moss covered ladder rung and he relaxed letting himself fall backwards into the haze of steam, water splashing up over his head in a wave as the bulk of his body hit. The pool was five feet deep, the rectangle of six by eight feet could fit a miraculous number of people on a busy day. This early in the morning the usual soakers were locals, massing together for a time when politics, philosophy and gossip were shared with zeal.

Jim shivered. What little warmth he’d garnered from his quick spill into the hot pool was all but gone from his limbs. He rose to find a flannel shirt in the closet and pulled it over his shoulders. The whole incident had been such a shock. Never in a million years had he consider someone would die in that sacred place. The memory of the body’s long hair washing against his arm would taunt him for days. The body had been right beside him, floating face down on the surface of the water, hidden in the copious haze of steam coming off the pool.

Jim looked down at his knees peeking from the edges of the towel he’d slipped around his waist. They were embedded with layers of black mud accumulated from the full speed crawl he’d made after hoisting himself free of the water. A series of siren’s pierced the morning air. Jim knew it would stir curiosity, gossip and speculation, the morning’s events rousing a mix of fear and excitement uncommon in this small town where absolutely nothing happened.

Samuel Runs Wind maneuvered his new Chevy 4x4 truck over the deep ruts of the parking lot pulling up beside an ambulance, its lights flashing and the back doors thrown wide open. Emma Lou, the local police officer in Pineville was already there, her cruiser parked to the left of the ambulance, the driver’s door hanging open. Emma Lou this early in the day caused a great sigh to escape Runs Wind’s lips as he turned off the vehicle. He didn’t dislike her, but he rarely relished their meetings. He climbed out of his vehicle heading toward Emma Lou and two men standing over a body near the edge of the hot pool. It was a beautiful morning with pheasants suddenly rising into the air only a few hundred feet away. It wasn’t often he had to drive over this way for a death, more often it was a domestic situation or drunken brawl at the housing complex. The local sheriff and deputies took care of most of the situations that came up even though this was Indian land.

Hello Sam, Emma Lou said looking up. The guy is native but I don’t recognize him as one of the locals.

Runs Wind acknowledged her with a nod and a crisp good morning. See any obvious injuries when you pulled him out?

No, probably drunk and went for a soak. Killer combination, you know, She said with a smirk.

Runs Wind hunkered down on one knee to examine the water logged body. Steam wafting off the man’s swollen skin into the cool morning air as he noted a raw flesh wound on the man’s scalp. Leaning closer he looked at the circle of skin larger than a good sized silver dollar missing from the man’s shoulder length hair. Nice clean cut, he said standing. He squinted into the brightening sun then looked at the two men. Take this fellow to Ronan and leave a message for Jansen that I want an autopsy for cause of death as soon as possible.

No problem, Sam, Harry said turning, Eddy get a body bag.

Harry and Eddy worked to get the cooling body into the black bag as Runs Wind began circling the edges of the pool hawking the area for clues. He was glad Emma stayed to watch the two men load the body into the bag because he needed to pay attention to the crime scene. He moved around the hot pool kicking the faded yellow grass with the toes of his cowboy boots finding nothing more than empty beer bottles and washed out cigarette butts. He stopped at the edge of the pool and hunkered down gazing into the clear water where every pebble was visible. Seeing nothing that could have been a weapon he entertained the idea that the head wound could have been inflicted in a bar room brawl but only for a moment. The edges of the wound were too clean. Runs Wind searched around the wooden bench and near the base of several old trees near the pool. One tree in particular was used by the numerous soakers for items of gratitude and folly, filled with charms, tobacco, bras and small idols tucked in the branches. It confounded him that nothing associated with the dead man lay near by. Most soakers left their shoes tucked under the edge of the bench, or a shirt and pants thrown over the bushes.

Runs Wind walked back to the pool and watched as the ambulance pulled away.

Died wearing his BVDs, Emma remarked standing near the wooden bench a delicate long fingered hand perched on a wide hip and the other hand clutching a roll of bright yellow police tape.

Where could the man’s effects have gone? Runs Wind mumbled looking south over the landscape of the small town below, the majority of its narrow streets unpaved. The first residents of the place had lived in tents mainly near the springs which then supplied all the necessities of life since water was scarce in these parts. He’d seen old black and white photographs from the early 1900s that showed near three hundred tents arranged around the springs. In the forties it had become a tourist destination with the water advertised as the best in the United States, a healing Mecca until the advent of penicillin. The touted twenty-eight day cure lost to antiquity as modern science won out leaving little cottages and motels shuttered and boarded up. The Indian housing complex with its modern duplexes lay to the west less than two blocks away. The man could have been visiting a relative and left his clothing and other items with them.

Although the small town lay on an Indian Reservation the majority of the residents were white, many with ties to those who’d come in 1910 when the Dawes Act opened the reservation for homesteading. Because of the white influence the town had its own police force. He looked up into Emma Lou’s happy go luck face as she handed him the end of the yellow tape. Flashing a quick smile she said, Damn nasty business for such a fine Monday morning, don’t you think?

Murder on Indian land ruins any good day, Runs Wind commented.

No way, you’re thinking this is a homicide? Emma said bug eyed. Case of drunken stupidity, if you ask me. She twisted her mouth sideways in a grin. Which you didn’t, but I’ll say I’m darnn happy it’s your jurisdiction this time Sam.

I’m sure you are.

See anything unusual around the pool?

No, Emma. But I do believe there was some fowl play involved. Runs Wind motioned Emma to follow him toward the pool. Lot of partying going on up here as usual? He said changing the subject.

Just about every night. I come up on a regular basis and chase them off. Damn fools don’t get it that alcohol and hot water don’t mix.

Let’s close this area for a couple of days. Might be blood or other bodily fluids in the pool. How long does it take for the water to cycle in and out? He asked reaching for the tape.

Blood, there was a wound? Emma queried moving her hands in a wide arc of excitement.

Mostly worried about bodily fluids, Runs Wind covered.

Emma frowned. Probably one day.

Well considering bodily fluids in this day and age I’d go for the cautious side of things.’ Here, she said reaching the police tape towards Runs Wind. Take an end of that so I can start stringing it.

Emma moved along one edge of the pool stretching the yellow tape taut before tying it to a tree limb. I’m sure you’ll be checking the bars downtown, Emma said. No doubt he was drinking in one of them. He might have known someone in the housing project. His clothes and stuff might have been left there before coming up here. We’re use to people walking around in bathing suits and such. She finished.

Thanks for the insights but I think I’m capable of figuring out how to investigate this.

I know that Sam, I was just trying to be helpful.

By the time Runs Wind climbed into his pick-up and started the motor he was agitated. Emma Lou had a way getting to him. No matter how many times he told himself not to react to her run on sentences and opinions, he did. Pulling away he saw her wave and reciprocated. There were three bars downtown but he had nothing to go on, no name and no physical description to work from. He knew all too well how every Indian looked alike to most of these bartenders. He’d talk to the coroner, maybe Jansen would come up with some information that would help him in this case. Sam turned the vehicle around and headed for Pablo. He still wasn’t sure if he would catalogue this as a homicide. There were a lot of questions that needed answering.

The young woman sitting across from private investigator, Ida Hawkins, bit the edge of her perfect red lips then spoke. I want to see him prosecuted for her murder.

It was ten in the morning and Ida took a moment to study the resolve tracking over the young woman’s jaw.

You witnessed the event?

Hell, yes.

And you didn’t try to stop him?

Stop him? Jewel Higginbottom said dropping her porcelain framed jaw and leaning towards Ida’s desk. You don’t understand. We belonged to him, every leg, and every limb, even our souls.

Ida leaned into the back of her chair suppressing the itch of an ironic grin. No offense, but I never understood the ins and outs of prostitutes and their pimps.

He was good at what he did. His charm could have crumbled the Egyptian Pyramids, and when he went into one of his funks -- well, all hell broke loose.

Ida shifted in her chair. Higginbottom was better than average in looks her sumptuous physicality the perfect business card. So he just up and disappeared?

Middle of November four years ago.

Do you recall the day? Ida asked leaning forward posing a ball tip pen above an empty piece of paper in the middle of her desk.

Higginbottom closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them looking straight at Ida. I last saw him the afternoon of the 15th, I remember it was a Wednesday. They were always slow.

Ida flinched, the remembrance of that same Wednesday always just below the surface and leaving her with little sympathy for the woman who sat in front of her. So you want me to find Robert James Phillips? Ida said.

The woman’s wide eyes flattened to slits. You knew Bobbie No Good?

Do I, Ida said pressing her lips into a grimace. I worked vice for the NYPD at the time. Higginbottom emitted a low laugh.

You find that funny? Ida asked raising her eyebrows.

The redhead sucked in air lifting her chin level with Ida’s, her blue greens hard edged. His trail maybe cold but with you on it, I’d put my money on you. She sighed dropping her shoulders then offered up a quick apologetic smile. Word on the street is he was put into the witness protection program.

Ida blinked hard, Excuse me, but it’s hard for me to believe the feds would cover for a slime like him.

Higginbottom clicked the long ends of her freshly painted finger nails against the factory edge of a purse lying in her lap. I got it next day from Joey. Joey was his drug connection. Maybe Bobbie knew more about the cartels than he should have. Anyway Joey said he was done, leaving town that very morning ‘cause Bobbie had turned state’s evidence. Bobbie had warned him all hell was going to break loose.

Ida rubbed the bottom of her lip in puzzlement. Joey point blank said Bobbie had become a federal witness?

Yes.

And you believed him? Ida said cocking her head in a questioning slant.

Bobbie disappeared, which wasn’t like him, what else would I think? You’ve got a good reputation as a private investigator. I’ve changed my station in life, cleaned up my old habits and I am interested in justice. I’ll write a check for a retainer right now.

Ida kicked back in her chair chewing over the information. Generally, she said sitting forward. The feds don’t let anybody know where they put witnesses for obvious reasons. And frankly I still don’t understand why you hold him responsible for your sister’s death.

Let me clarify it for you… on the streets we knew lots of things that the cops probably didn’t. Higginbottom said her voice hard edged. I couldn’t come forward at the time; I was still mired in the life I was living.

Ida washed a gaze over the long slender nose and high cheek bones of the woman, who looked no older than the middle twenties which meant she‘d started early on the streets. You’re right on that count, the cops often don’t know everything that goes down on the streets. That’s why they rely on snitches. You find any sources with information, have them give me a call, she said pushing one of her business cards across the desk. My home phone number is at the bottom, that’s for you only. I’ll do my best to see what I can find out about No Good.

Higginbottom pulled a check book out of the purse in her lap, waiting until Ida rolled a pen toward her before she scribbled across the green note.

I’ll make it for a thousand. Do what you will with it, just find that bastard if you can. Higginbottom said pushing the check across the desk.

Ida picked the slender slip of paper up eyeing the numbers before laying it in the middle of her desk. She rose, Let me walk you out.

Back at her desk Ida leaned over it to call Phyllis, her long time secretary, on the intercom. Give me five, no interruptions.

Slipping out of her high heels Ida planted her stocking feet on the edge of the desk and leaned back folding her hands over the beige wool material of her slacks. A first had just occurred and it had opened a personal can of worms. Ida hadn’t realized how complacent she’d become to the events of the past. All it had taken was mention of that fateful day and her heart opened raw and fresh as the day it happened. She’d involved herself in the challenge of running her own private investigator’s office to cover the grief, immersing her self in a business that grew slowly, a challenge after years of regular pay checks from the New York Police Department. Her decision to leave the force and pursue a career as an independent investigator coming with widowhood and an incredible sense of loss, her husband‘s death making her look at other options. The fact that she’d been unable to enter the doors of the 47th Precinct for weeks after his death had played into the decision. She’d tried going back to work, even making it up the front steps and to the second floor before running for the bathroom. Jimmy, Frankie’s partner, had come in to retrieve her, the look on his face after throwing open the stall door to her tear stained face brought a smile to her face. Everyone had understood especially the captain with his recommendation to take a couple of months off. Not long after Ida knew her career in law enforcement was over and it wasn’t long before she found herself under the tutelage of gumshoe Dave Jensen. Ida spent a year under his wing before getting her license and going solo. She still called him on occasion when something baffled her, which wasn’t often.

Ida had wanted a missing person case and this was the first one offered to her but the idea of tracking down Bobbie No Good didn’t excite her. She’d known him as an arrogant, malicious predator of women. One bonus was the fact that he didn’t fit the profile of the clients she’d been following for the last couple of years. Ida had grown tired of cheating spouse cases, most of them brought to her by wealthy women with pending divorce cases. Granted the cases had made life easy financially, but Ida always felt a world apart from the women who came into her for help. She’d lived the perfect marriage for ten years with a good looking, intelligent, and kind mate. The fact that it was cut short by violent drug kingpins still haunted her. She would never forget Sergeant Badoglio’s face that night, the open door between them, and the naked truth of Frankie’s demise etched in his eyes with the finality of a Western Union telegram even before he spoke. Ida rocked forward landing her feet on the floor as she reached for the phone. Her long fingers punching in a number long quiet in her head, the familiar ring and anticipation as she waited to hear the throaty voice of Doris on the precinct phone, instead it was unfamiliar female who asked, NYPD, Precinct 47, how can I help you?

Is Jimmy O’Rourke in?

Who should I tell him is calling?

Ida Hawkins. In the resulting silence Ida imagine the scene in the precinct offices, detectives filling their coffee cups, the phone’s ringing off the hook, the half written notes as witnesses were being interviewed in an open room buzzing with energy.

Jimmy’s gruff voice interrupted her reverie. Ida, great to hear from you!

Jimmy, you have a minute?

For you, always.

I got a visit this morning from an ex-hooker who worked the Square. Her sister was found in a dumpster in an alley three years ago. It was ruled an OD, but I’m wondering if I could get a copy of the file. I’m assuming it was closed.

I could pull it for you and have it copied. What the hell do you need it for?

She says it was murder. They were some of Bobbie No Good’s girls. You know if anybody has seen him on the streets lately?

He hasn’t been seen for a long time, Ida. Probably moved to Miami where the weather’s better.

Ida chuckled. More his style.

"That’s what they say. Hey, I was going to call you.