Looks Can Kill

By Cliff McGoon

Retired cop Chet McGarey feels put out to pasture but rediscovers his detective talents and reconnects with his high school sweetheart when he unmasks a killer aboard a 1950s reunion cruise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cliff McGoon
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301602896

Cliff McGoon

Cliff McGoon has been a writer, editor and publisher most of his adult life. He received a B.S. degree in Communications from the University of Illinois Journalism School. He has published two other mystery novels: Grannies’ Deadly Reunion and Looks Can Kill. McGoon published the magazine Communication World for 13 years for the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC) in San Francisco. McGoon worked in public relations and corporate communication for several large multinationals. He also was a captain in the United States Air Force serving as an information officer in the Philippines, Thailand and Vietnam during the ‘60s. More recently, McGoon has been writing and recording songs in the country-folk genre. His album--Thunder In the Night--is available at Amazon.com, ITunes, and ReverbNation. He was born in North Dakota, grew up in suburban Chicago and currently lives in California. He rides his Harley throughout the western US.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The .25 caliber Beretta poked into the roll of fat around Carl Gorcheck’s waist. Even such a small gun took up too much space in Gorcheck’s waistband. As he waited, ready to deliver the best performance of his life, he flipped the mirror and visor up for the fourth time and shifted his weight in the seat of the rental car.

Gorcheck sat half a block away and on the other side of the street from John Bettsford’s sprawling Rancho Mirage estate. Carl had been down this street a million times in his mind — probably a hundred in person — rehearsing for this moment.

John Bettsford emerged from the side gate with an armload of garden clippings.

Gorcheck pulled down the sun visor one final time and flipped open the vanity mirror. He adjusted his steel-framed Armani glasses, ran his fingers through his closely-cropped, grey- and brown-streaked hair, and fingered the inch-long scar that he’d knifed into his left cheek to create one just like Bettsford’s. He pushed his fleshy face close to the mirror to check that the brown contact lens on his right eye completely covered the blue iris.

John Bettsford’s knees talked to him in a low, complaining voice as they sank into the soft sand in the half-acre of garden adjacent to his house. He’d sweated through his first desert summer and was enjoying these early September days, with puffs of breeze promising cooler air. He loved the heavy smell of the rich, dark loam his stubby fingers were kneading into the lantana bed just beginning to take shape.

Even on this cool morning, the garden work made John Bettsford sweat. His steel-rimmed Armani glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them up, then brushed his left cheek with the back of his hand across the inch-long scar that pointed toward the bottom of his ear. Still kneeling, he sat back on his heels and looked up at the pale blue morning sky. Blue, almost the color of his eye, one eye. The other was brown.

John heard the side gate open, then close. From his knees, he watched the man approach on the gravel path and listened to the crunch of his footfalls. The man walked hunched over, as if he were carrying a backpack. As he approached, the crunching grew softer, like he was trying to make himself lighter on his feet. John half-smiled as he looked closer at the approaching man. The man who seemed to look just like him. About five feet ten. About 170 pounds. A slight paunch. Brownish hair with a swash of grey. A full face. Jowly. Medium ruddy complexion. Glasses. John kneeled transfixed as the man approached, expressionless. Between heavy breaths the man reached under his shirt and swung out a pistol with a silencer tube at the front of the barrel. It glinted in the morning sunlight. He drew the pistol without hesitation, as though he’d had considerable practice killing. It made a flat, almost unimportant sound. John Bettsford tilted backward. Then, with a hushed thud, his body merged with the lantana bed. The rich aroma of loam was the last sensation he experienced.

Leaving John Bettsford’s lifeless body staring at the cloudless sky, Carl Gorcheck entered the back door of the rambling 5,000-square-foot California ranch house. Large overhangs provided shade and protected the wheat-colored structure from the occasional winter rains. He looked around, admiring the fourteen-foot ceilings, the travertine floors, the wall of glass facing the garden.

He held the warm barrel of the Beretta against his cheek, then slid it into his waistband.

He passed through each room. In each he said: this is my kitchen, my dining room, my living room, my office. Then, Gorcheck pulled a beer out of the massive stainless steel refrigerator and strolled into the office where he began opening the desk drawers. He lit a cigarette. He picked up several checkbooks and smiled at the balances. He looked through Bettsford’s wallet. A card showed that Bettsford was retired from the International Pilots’ Association in Washington, D.C.

Gorcheck pulled the driver’s license. Studied the photo. One brown eye. One blue. The only easily discernible difference in the appearance of the two men. Five feet ten. 170 pounds. A full face. Jowly. Medium ruddy complexion. Glasses. The fact that some fluke in DNA distribution had caused Carl Gorcheck to look nearly identical to John Bettsford was one of the few bits of luck this life had bestowed on him. Fate had slapped his face every time he turned for help. If he ever was to rise above the muck and monotony that had been his life for these sixty-some years, he would have to make it happen himself. He deserved it. Everyone else had a pension plan. Now so did he.

Gorcheck smiled with the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. He squinted his eye to avoid the smoke. He’d tried to quit ever since he learned that John Bettsford didn’t smoke, but nothing worked.

In the months that he had studied Bettsford, one of the many things he’d discovered about the man was the technical term for his eye condition: Heterochromia iridium. Gorcheck had a pair of brown contacts made. To make his appearance match Bettsford’s, he’d wear one to cover one of his blue eyes — the right one. But now the contact itched, so he went to the kitchen sink and slipped it out, folding it into a paper towel.

He sank into the leather club chair, put down his beer and balanced his cigarette on top. A book lay open, face down, on the end table alongside. He cradled it in his short, yellow-stained fingers, fingers that were too uncooperative to do anything very well. The Glory Daze, by Chuck Stabler. So this is what he reads, Gorcheck half mumbled.

"Dedicated to the kids in my eighth-grade class at Thacker Junior High. And to Milton Armer who made publishing it possible. This is an entirely true account — as I remember it — of those seventh- and eighth-grade years. It’s based on the people and events that touched us all."

Gorcheck continued …

Chapter 1

None of us knew that the combination of events, ambitions, hormones and lucky accidents at Des Plaines Thacker Junior High School in 1954 would draw us together, imprint us, unite us as owners of a secret written in invisible ink on the back of our diplomas. We didn’t know it then …"

As he flipped through the book, an invitation fell into his lap. A square invitation — on heavy paper with a green wax seal on the back — from Milton and Joanne Armer. Hmmm … an all-expenses- paid reunion cruise from New York to Halifax. John Bettsford had it made. He pictured himself at the rail of a gleaming ocean liner, looking out at the endless blue ocean.

Hearing the doorbell, Gorcheck’s head jerked. His pulse hiccupped. In a split second his composure snapped back. Well, answer your door, Mr. Bettsford. He pulled himself up from the club chair, adjusted the Beretta in his waistband and answered the door. His first test. Confidence flooded through him.

John — wutsup? The man asking was about sixty, wearing a tennis visor and a blue Nike warm-up. Aren’t you ready for our game? It’s ten-thirty, isn’t it?

Oh, hell, his mind went blank. Bettsford must have set up a game with this guy. During surveillance he’d seen the neighbor come to play tennis with Bettsford. It presented a problem, since Gorcheck had never mastered even the rudiments of the game, despite numerous practice sessions and lessons.

I, uh, I hurt my foot. Really bad. I can hardly walk. Gorcheck stooped and ran his hand down behind his right knee. Gorcheck fished in his pocket for a package of throat lozenges. He popped one into his mouth to mask voice differences.

Got a bit of a cold, too.

Yeah, are you okay? You look a little different. Gorcheck could tell the man was looking at his eyes. In a cold flash, he remembered he’d taken the brown contact out. Shit. He stood up and turned his head away.

Well, I think I’ll have to pass on the tennis. Gorcheck could feel the man’s suspicious look punching holes in him.

Well, okay, John. Sorry you’re hurting. We’ll do it next week then.

Okay. I’m sure I’ll be better by then.

He watched the man as he walked away. This first test was a failure. He’d forgotten to put in his contact, and this guy must have noticed. This was the first person Gorcheck had talked to face to face since he’d become Bettsford. He’d made a mistake. He felt his sense of control slipping away. God had just turned up the desert heat. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip.

Gorcheck felt like running — away from these people who knew Bettsford. He had money — Bettsford’s money. Why stay here and risk exposure?

He eased the heavy front door shut. He smelled his cigarette burning on the beer can, so he shoved the long-ashed butt down inside until it sizzled, then grabbed another beer from the fridge. Gorcheck sank into the club chair. His arm dropped onto the book. He fingered the invitation. A cruise. Far away. People John Bettsford hadn’t seen since eighth grade. They wouldn’t know him. They already liked him. They wanted him along. An addendum to Gorcheck’s plan was tumbling into place. He could always come back here. Sell the house and liquidate Bettsford’s assets. A cruise might be just the thing. Relax. He’d never been on a cruise. Maybe even meet some rich widow. Move away to where nobody knew John Bettsford, or Carl Gorcheck.

Chapter 2

Chet McGarey heard the tap, tap, tap on the office door. In the excitement he thought it might be a client.

Yeah … I’m coming. He lifted his eyes from the Pandora’s Box website on his computer screen and clicked it off.

Sorry, Mr. McGarey. They told me to put this up. The maintenance man pointed to the three-day pay-or-quit notice.

Business has been a little slow getting started, Chet muttered, closing the door with the big eyeball on the translucent glass. McGarey thought the eyeball might add a little Sam Spade marketing punch and foot traffic to his fledgling private investigator’s business. It had. At least twice a day someone walked in thinking he was an optometrist.

He kicked the half-dozen envelopes the mailman had dumped through the mail slot. He bent down to pick them up and winced as the pain shot up his right leg. Shit, I never figured retirement would hurt this freakin’ much, he thought. The nagging knee pain had been his friend just three months ago. Along with a mostly non-functioning right ear — from one too many trips to the firing range without ear protection — these stubborn reminders of his declining usefulness qualified him for a disability pension from the Des Plaines Police Department.

Des Plaines was a half-hour train ride from downtown Chicago, and for a sleepy suburb it had enough trouble to keep its police force and Chet McGarey busy for the better part of twenty-five years.

Like an old hound one illness away from the long sleep, McGarey racheted up slowly, with the envelopes, along with his September copy of Corvette Fever magazine. Most were bills, several marked in embarrassing red stamping: second or third notice. Corvette Fever would ordinarily be first-read out of the group. But a square envelope caught his eye. He ran his finger across it. The paper was heavy weight. Smooth. Expensive. Like it should have been delivered, instead, downstairs to the bank. On the back was a wax seal in green. The return address read: Milton Armer, personal.

The wooden chair groaned, absorbing McGarey’s 165 mostly muscular pounds. He turned the invitation over in his hands. They were his dad’s hands. Creased. Worn. Strong. He clamped his eyes tight to fight the image off, then rubbed his right knee and thought how nice a long-necked Bud would be to flush away the throbbing pain.

Milton Armer, McGarey muttered, pulling out his half glasses. Laser surgery restored most of his distance vision, but anything up close was a blur, another reminder that the best thing about this retirement life might be that it wouldn’t last long. He leaned back and looked above his glasses at the ceiling. Milton Armer — that guy was a little dickwad back at Thacker Junior High, like a million years ago. Well, about fifty anyway. He slid the invitation out of the envelope, and flipped back the flimsy vellum overleaf.

You and your spouse are invited

to an all-expenses-paid

reunion cruise from New York City

to Halifax, Nova Scotia,

honoring the 1954 class of

Thacker Junior High School.

Departing Pier 92 in Manhattan

September 25

Returning October 2

The cruise, aboard the Golden Queen,

all first-class airfares,

hotel accommodations and

transfers will be paid by

Armer Enterprises International.

If you have questions,

please call your hosts

Joanne and Milton Armer

800/773-4567.

McGarey stuffed the unopened bills into the center desk drawer, right next to a pair of tarnishing steel handcuffs. He had slapped them on a dope dealer from Rosemont nearly fifteen years ago. The arrest made him suburban Chicago Detective of the Year. The plaque he received hung with several others on the wall in his office, not that they were doing much good in getting him work in his golden years.

Chet turned the invitation over in his fingers. Is this some kind of a scam? You’ve won a cruise, then they want you to buy a magazine subscription. What the hell would Milton Armer be doing this for? He flipped his glasses onto the desk, then twirled the pretty-much-new Rolodex on his desk until he came to Bailey Turner’s name.

McGarey’s mind did a tug of war between hitting the My Favorites button on his computer and reconnecting with Pandora’s Box, or closing up for the day and heading for the Isle of Mann and the coldest long-necked Buds in Des Plaines. Shit, it was only ten-thirty in the morning, and the earliest he’d ever closed was eleven-thirty — on Norwegian Independence Day. A nubile strawberry blond with silicone breasts danced in two dimensions across the screen. He reached for the computer mouse, hesitated, took a swig of coffee, then looked at Bailey’s number. She was one of the kids in his gang at Thacker Junior High, class of 1954. Kids. Shit, now she was a grandmother and divorced from her third husband.

Bailey had kept track of Chet over the years through her friend, Ginger Keeler, who lived in Sarasota, Florida. Ginger always knew where everyone was and what they were doing.

Bailey contacted Chet a few months ago when she saw his name on the class reunions website. McGarey was a little flattered. He had never quite gotten over her. Fifty years ago she’d changed him — made him think differently about his opportunities for the first time in his short life. Now they had quite a bit in common, especially the divorces. He’d been through six, Bailey three. She was funny, sexy on the phone, and seemed to be up for anything, which for Chet usually involved booze and hay rolling.

Bailey was living proof of God’s law of compensations. She was heavy, heading for fat, but she was cute, even pretty, with smooth kissable skin. Bailey was pleasant, easy-going, nice to be around. In the past, marriage material for Chet had been far less.

Chet hadn’t yet gotten to the point of figuring out a physical meeting, although the idea had been festering. They were somewhat geographically disadvantaged since she lived halfway across the continent in Mill Valley, California. She’d told him it was a Marin County bedroom community across the bay from San Francisco. She described her home as a neglected one-bedroom cottage in back of a once-proud Victorian on East Blithedale Street. Chet had always admired Bailey’s flair for language. She’d only been in the area a short time but had a job at Notes From the Underground bookstore in nearby Corte Madera. She said it didn’t pay much, but the hours were flexible. Chet guessed her last divorce settlement was keeping her afloat.

Chet punched her number into his phone, looked into the computer screen, and ran his other hand across the explosive array of sticking-up hair on top of his head. He swiveled the computer to see his reflection in the screen and the wide teeth tracks the comb made through the longer hair on the side of his head. Chet checked his smile, wondering why he hadn’t ever married Bailey. Hell, he’d married just about everyone else.

Hello.

Hi, Bailey … Chet McGarey here. He held the phone to his left ear, the good one.

Oh, hi, Chet. I haven’t heard from you for a while. How are you enjoying retirement?

Well, now I’ve gotta buy my own gas when I chase the bad guys. He was pretty satisfied with that opening. He’d run it through his mind a half dozen times, with another half-dozen variations. He swirled the last dregs of his coffee in the cup and his stomach spasmed. You know, I’m a P.I.

Wow. That sounds exciting. Chet pictured Bailey’s warm and inviting brown eyes illuminating her tanned skin. She spent most of the summer between seventh and eighth grade in the back yard, he remembered. She always smelled like baby oil and peaches. Are you on a big case?

Well, I’ve still got enough time to work on my lifetime achievement award at the Isle of Mann, but that’s not why I called. The Isle of Mann was a Des Plaines bar where nobody knew your name, except for Chet’s. It had been a second home for Chet ever since he was old enough to drink — a little longer if you counted fake IDs.

Oh? Bailey said. What’s up?

Chet pictured her thick, dark wedge haircut, framing her tanned face, remarkably unwrinkled despite years of holding it to the sun. He remembered a little spray of mocha freckles, a wide mouth, white teeth and puffy lips.

This morning I got an invitation to a cruise — from Milton Armer. Remember him? It’s for our class at Thacker. He leaned back in his chair, the springs skeeked. Did you get one? He hoped she had, and that she’d suggest they go, together, maybe.

No, I didn’t. But my mail’s still catching up with me from Florida. She paused. I hardly even knew Milton Armer.

Seems to me we used to call him the ballerina, or something.

Oh, yeah … I think his dad owned a decorating store. I guess he got teased a lot.

"Well, apparently whatever he