Luke Rules

By William Hoffer

From the international bestselling authors of Midnight Express, Not Without My Daughter and Freefall comes Luke Rules, the adventures and misadventures of Luke Wilde, former Marine Corps sniper turned wily and often contrary PI.
Set in Richmond, Virginia, the story begins when Luke and his 90 pound bloodhound Fred arrive at the office on a Monday morning to find a dead man sprawled across Luke's Harley-Davidson Third Edition pinball machine. That's when he begins to realize that what started out as a routine peek-the-sheets adultery investigation is escalating into a series of bizarre murders. As the bodies pile up Luke knows that to crack this case, he'll have to toss the legal playbook into the crapper and play by his own rules.
The colorful cast of characters includes Luke's outrageous 190 pound assistant Dagmar McNeil, his grumpy friend Al Berkes who is a special investigator for the Virginia State Police, and Reddy Wilson, former third string catcher for the Cleveland Indians.
With much laughter and mystery along the way, Luke manages to nab the killer in his own unique style.
Warning: Luke has a bit of an attitude problem!

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Hoffer
• Release date: Jun 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458106193

William Hoffer

William Hoffer has been spinning out international best-sellers for more than 20 years.He collaborated with Billy Hayes to chronicle the exciting escape from a Turkish prison in Midnight Express, which was later produced into an Academy Award-winning motion picture starring Brad Davis, John Hurt and Randy Quaid.William and his wife Marilyn worked with Betty Mahmoody to write Not Without My Daughter, the story of Betty and her daughter’s desperate and dangerous escape from Iran. The book became a stunningly successful international phenomenon, and was produced into a motion picture starring Sally Field and Alfred Molina.William and Marilyn’s Freefall is the nail-biting thriller recounting the near-tragedy of Air Canada Flight 174 that ran out of fuel at 41,000 feet. It was produced into a motion picture starring William Devane, Shelley Hack and Mariette Hartley.The husband-and-wife team’s latest book is Luke Rules, the adventures and misadventures of Luke Wilde, former Marine Corps sniper turned wily and often contrary private investigator who likes to play by his own rules. Luke Rules is the first in a series of Luke Wilde adventures. Look for Torch! coming in 2011!!!

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

FRED LUNGED TOWARD my office door. Stuck his snout low then raised his head high. Let loose with a world class howl: AAAOOOWOOH!!! By the time I caught up with him, I smelled it too. Reminded me of some of the after-battle bad in the Afghan mountains. Also heard a deep pulsing sound like someone had pumped up the bass on a cheap 70's boom box. What the hell? I felt an ass-cramp take hold. Hoped to hell there was a dead raccoon or some other varmint inside. And, who else knew my entry code? Dagmar. Reddy. Al.

I dragged Fred backward. Not easy when a 90-pound bloodhound has caught the scent. Managed to hoss him back into the shotgun seat of my Cherokee. Grabbed a hunk of crumpled napkins from the floor mat. Held them over my nose as I headed back to the door. Punched in the code. Peered inside. A thick cloud of flies buzzed all over the place. Blood-soaked papers littered the floor. A trail of dark blotches led to the corner, where a dead guy was sprawled across my Harley-Davidson Third Edition pinball machine.

You have no idea how that craps up your day.

He must have triggered the on-switch when he fell. The machine’s lights were flashing and on the screen a pair of bikers roared their Fat Boys across a bright orange desert. The man spread out on top was too big to be Reddy. Too small and too white to be Al. Sure wasn’t Dagmar. Who the hell was he? How did he get here? Who offed him? Why?

I studied the body from a distance. Head was turned to one side. Arms were thrust forward, covering what was left of his face. Dressed in dark slacks and a gray windbreaker. Back of his jacket was blown apart. Dark stains covering it. Dry. He’d been here awhile.

I hustled back outside. Grabbed my cell.

No! Al snarled. He always answers that way when I call. Damn caller-ID.

Get your big black bahookie over to my office, I said. There’s a dead guy who’s spilled blood and brains all over my pinball machine.

Not the Harley-Davidson Third Edition?

Yup.

I don’t have time for this, pinhead. You’re shitting me, right?

Nope.

You call it in?

Not yet. Wanted to get to you first.

Did you kill him?

No.

Are you sure he’s dead?

Either that or he’s a piss poor pinball player. Score’s still at zero.

Do you know who he is?

Nope.

I know I’m going to regret this, but I’m on my way. Make that call. And I’m gonna give you a piece of advice and you’re not gonna like it. When the cops get there, the best thing you can do is something you’re not very good at.

What’s that?

Cooperate.

THE 911 GAL seemed a little cranky to hear about the body. She took my name and address. Ordered me to stay on the line until the cops got there. After about three minutes I heard the first siren. Seconds later, a patrol car screeched to a stop. A young cop jumped out. Looked about fifteen years old. Still had baby fat and peach fuzz. He said, You the guy who called in the body?

Yeah.

He had his hand on his service revolver holster. Didn’t like the way it shook. Sit down against the outside wall of the building, he said. Keep your hands behind your back. Don’t move.

I did as I was told. Normally I’m not so good at following directions, but Al had said to play nice. Besides, as a former Marine Corps sniper, I’m a sucker for a guy in uniform.

Officer Kiddie Kop said, Where is it?

In the corner, to the left. Follow the sound of the roaring hogs.

He gave me a blank stare, then opened the office door. Slipped inside. Came back out. Bent over. Flashed hash.

An unmarked Crown Vic pulled up. Stocky guy got out, glaring at the uniform. Dark hair. Thick moustache. Ruddy, pock-marked face. About 5'8. Maybe 225 pounds spilling out of a wrinkled brown suit. Looked like a walrus. He waddled over to the young cop, who was still gagging. Said, Way to screw up a crime scene, junior." He glanced down at me, told me to stay put. Pulled a small tube out of his pocket and rubbed some goo on his upper lip. Covered his shoes with paper booties. Yanked on rubber gloves and went inside.

The patrolman got himself together. Went to his unit and grabbed a thick role of yellow crime scene tape. Started blocking off the area in front of my office.

The walrus came back out holding a plastic bag. He got into his car, pulled off the gloves and talked on his radio for several minutes. Then he came over to me. Badged me and ID’ed himself as Detective Harry Constantine. Henrico County Police. Homicide Squad. He looked around. Saw my sign: WILDE INVESTIGATIONS. Narrowed his eyes. Puffed himself up and said, Just so we’re clear about the situation, pal, this... he nodded toward the door ...ain’t for amateurs. This is my crime scene. Got it?

Your crime scene is bigger than my crime scene?

Don’t get smart with me, wiseass. You touch anything inside?

Nope. Looked in. Saw the blood. Saw the body. Backed off. Called it in.

You know who the guy is?

No. I never forget a face, but his seems to be missing.

You packing?

It’s in the truck. Center console, along with my Carry Concealed. I nodded toward the Cherokee. Beware of the dog.

He went back to his car. Pulled on a fresh pair of rubber gloves. Brought out the plastic evidence bag, carefully placed it on the hood of the car. Opened it. Slid out a wallet. Peeked inside. He looked back at me. Asked, You know a Dennis Riley Ashcroft?

Aw shit, I said.

WEST BROAD STREET is one of the busiest stretches in Richmond, and a crowd had gathered outside the perimeter of the yellow tape. It was a bright clear day in late September, with a hint of a chill in the air. A local TV news crew shot video as the bagged body of the late Dennis Ashcroft was rolled out. Crime scene techs crawled all over my office. I heard someone order a police photographer to snap shots of a semiautomatic pistol they found under my desk, then bag it. Constantine stood over me, asking questions, taking notes. Frowning. Shaking his head. He was having a hard time believing my story of what had come down over the past few weeks. Even I didn’t like the way it sounded. Finally he asked, Any idea who killed him?

Impressive list of pissed off husbands and boyfriends, I said. And he was just a tad behind on a bazillion mortgage payments.

Constantine said, My partner tells me a bank guard from across the street came over and gave him a statement. According to him you had a pretty big dust-up with this Ashcroft guy a couple days ago right over there in the parking lot.

Oops.

Well, it wasn’t really a fight, I said. I just bounced him around a little bit.

Constantine scowled. Grumbled, You kill him?

No.

He ticked off points on his stubby fingers. You own a gun and you know how to use it. That gives you means. From that cockamamie crock you just fed me, you sure as hell have motive. And opportunity? It’s your office, right?

I’ve bought my share of hassles in thirty-some years, and it’s usually my smart mouth that takes me there. So far I’d been pretty good at following Al’s advice, but this guy was a nickel on my blackboard. I said, If you’re gonna read me my rights, don’t forget the part where a naked woman can and will be held against me.

His ruddy face grew even redder. Shut up, Wilde. I’m telling you up front. I don’t like private dicks and I especially don’t like private dicks with attitude.

You busting me?

He grabbed me beneath the armpits, pulled me to my feet. Spun me around.

I thought about ramming an elbow into his flabby gut. Maybe stomp on the front of his foot. Then wheel around and head butt him. You know, get his attention. But just then a big hulk of a black guy stepped under the yellow tape, flashed a badge and said, Back off, Connie.

Constantine turned. Dropped his hold on me. Said, What the hell are you doing here, Al?

CHAPTER TWO

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

A FEW YEARS back Al Berkes moved down from Jersey to hire on as a special investigator for the Virginia State Police. I help him by solving some of the really tough cases that he can’t figure out by himself. He’d probably say it’s the other way around so I’ll cut him a break and call it a tie.

Al’s a big tough-looking galoot, but he’s like one of those roasted marshmallows. All black and crusty on the outside, but soft and gooey in the center. I’ve seen him bust the chops on some really scurvy low-lifes and ream out a rookie cop for next-to-nothing . But I’ve also seen him choke up at his twin boys’ First Communion. And if his wife Charlene asked him to hang the moon he’d rush over to Home Depot to buy the world’s tallest ladder.

When we’re not busy leaping over tall buildings in a single bound, Al and I moonlight as a two-man umpiring team for a local semipro baseball league. We do it for kicks and for the chance to have a few cold ones after the game. Once in a while Al even picks up the tab.

Right now, I hoped that would be soon.

It was about 2130 on a steamy Monday night, the last game of the season between the Petersburg Tide and the Ashland Gray Sox. Ashland, the home team, was down 8-5 in the last inning. They had loaded the bases, but there were two outs. I looked over at Al, who had hunkered down between second and third. His light blue shirt had dark stains under the armpits. We locked eyes. Both of us knew it was almost Miller time.

The Gray Sox last chance stepped into the right-hand batter’s box. The pitcher shot a fast ball dead center over the plate. Batter didn’t move. I raised my right arm high. Yelled, Steee-rike!

Time! I looked over toward the first base dugout and saw Ashland’s manager Reddy Wilson running at me. He had his cap off and the night lighting reflected off his sweaty bald scalp. Reddy had once been the third string catcher for the Cleveland Indians back in the days of the now-defunct Neanderthal League. He’d hung around forever as a coach or manager, and he was still at it. He loved to teach the finer points of the sport to the young players. I figured by the expression on his face that he was about to give them a lesson on how to get tossed out of a game.

Reddy is a wiry little guy, only 5’5. The top of his head comes to my chin. He spit out a wad of sunflower seeds. Yelled up at me, That ball was three feet over his head!"

Your head, maybe, I said. Not this guy’s.

Reddy threw his cap onto home plate. He kicked dust onto the cap, the plate, and my shoes.

A sergeant once accused me of having a problem with authority. Not if I’m the authority, I told him. This kind of ‘tude didn’t do squat for my Marine career, but does explain why I get off on the umpire’s most whup-ass moment. I pumped my right fist and threw an air punch across my head. Yer outta here!

You dimwit, Reddy shouted. You just threw me out of the visitors’ dugout. You can’t even find the right bench. How the hell can you call balls and strikes?

I threw a left-handed air punch at the first-base dugout. Alright, you’re outta there, then!

That’s better, Reddy said. He picked up his cap. Jammed it onto his head. A dust storm rained down across his face. He turned and walked toward the locker room beneath the stands.

"IT WAS HOTTER than a fried fart out there, Reddy said. What took you so long to toss me?"

Never let ‘em see you sweat, I said.

We were at a neighborhood watering hole about a block and a half away from the ballfield. Reddy had showered and changed into Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt that said: BEER: IT’S NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE.

Al walked over from the bar, hossing a tray with a pitcher of cold Bud and three mugs. He slid into the booth next to Reddy, across from me. Reddy grabbed for the pitcher. Filled his mug. Took a gulp big enough to paint a foam mustache on his face. Smacked his lips.

Al held up his mug. Clinked it against mine. Said, So what’re you working on now?

International espionage, a possible terrorist attack on the Seven Dwarfs and a series of surfboard hijackings in the Everglades.

Not doing jack-shit, huh? Al offered.

Well, actually, a new client’s coming in tomorrow. Said she had a real easy case for me and she’d pay me a ton of money as long as we had great monkey sex along the way.

Reddy plunked down his mug. Said, You want one of my little blue pills?

I was just kidding about…

Just make sure you call your doctor if you have a boner lasting more than four hours.

Al stared at his beer. Mumbled, Shit. Four hours? I’d call everybody I know.

CHAPTER THREE

I GREW UP in Whaleyville, Virginia, near the North Carolina border, just west of the Great Dismal Swamp. After dicking around at two community colleges, I was staring at a Great Dismal Future working in one of the local peanut warehouses, so I beat feet out of there. Signed on for a stint in the Marines. Trained as a sniper. Did a couple of tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Corps got my rear in gear and the sniper training taught me to focus so I didn’t get it blown off.

Two years after my release from active duty I had my PI license and set up shop on the west side of Richmond. I like my music loud, my wheels fast, my beer cold, and my women, well, uh, frequently. I’ve got a studio apartment in the historic part of town called the Fan, but the sofa, coffee pot, camp-sized refrigerator and microwave in my office suit me just fine. Same goes for Fred, who was snoring out a cadence for me as I paced back and forth.

I checked the time. Checked it again. Shot a quick game of pinball. Checked the time. My Aunt Tootie always complained that I had the attention span of a cricket. That was before they started throwing around labels like ADHD. Case in point: The woman was half an hour late for her 1100 appointment and I was ready to file a missing person report. Finally Fred lifted his head from his cedar-stuffed pillow. His tail started whirling like a chopper blade. I heard a soft rap on the door.

It’s open, I called.

She slipped inside. Pushed the door shut. Leaned against it. She wore a belted tan trench coat over a white t-shirt and black slacks. A black, red and white scarf wrapped around her head, covering her hair and part of her face. Reminded me of the Iraqi flag. It was Tuesday in the first full week of September, bone dry and 86 degrees outside. What’s with the coat and scarf? I wondered.

Please close the blinds, she said.

Why?

Just, please, do it, alright?

I stepped over to the windows. Sunlight blazed. Traffic screamed along as usual. I tugged the blinds shut.

Thank you, she said. She walked slowly toward my desk. She was taller than average, 5'8" or so, and wore mile-high sandals that added a couple more inches. Sunglasses. Big. Round. Black.

Virginia Ashcroft? I asked.

Yes, she said. Please call me Ginny.

Her hands shook as she slipped out of the trench coat and laid it across the back of the chair. Tossed her large dark brown leather bag onto the floor. Sat down across from my desk and pulled off the shades. Lost the scarf. Ran her fingers through her short dark hair.

I settled in behind my desk. Checked her out. Mid-thirties. Nice skin, except for some angry-looking red blotches. Big, piercing green eyes. I wouldn’t call her a knockout, but she was attractive in an uptight kind of way.

Sorry I’m late, she said. It’s a bad habit of mine.

What’s with the cover-up?

Her eyes grew wide. She took a deep breath and said, I couldn’t take the chance that Dennis would see me coming in here. I parked a couple blocks away and walked over.

Dennis?

My mistake of a husband.

She pulled a gold cigarette case and lighter from her purse. Took her three tries to light up. Sucked in a lung full. Said, Mind if I smoke?

There was a big tin of Charles Chips on the corner of Dagmar’s desk. I got up, walked over, yanked off the top, turned it upside down and handed it to her. Thanks for asking, I said.

She gave me a bit of a frown but set the makeshift ashtray on the edge of my desk.

So let’s get started here, I said. Back to your husband. You described him as a mistake. How so?

I...I don’t know where to begin, she stammered.

Take your time.

She was quiet. Looked past me. Chewed her lower lip. Finally said, There is something going on with him that’s, well, scaring me.

My eyes flicked toward the reddish spots on her arms. He’s roughing you up?

She lowered her eyes. Didn’t answer me.

I couldn’t help noticing the welts on your arms and neck. Is your husband responsible for them?

She shook her head. Not in the way you mean. They’re hives. I get them when I’m anxious or upset. So, yes, in that way, I guess you could say he’s responsible.

I thought that over. Tried again. So, you’re saying he’s not abusing you physically?

More silence. Then she shook her head.

Not sure I bought the denial. Decided to come back to that issue later. Needed to get her to relax. Leaned back in my chair. Said, Okay, just tell me a little bit about him.

This is tougher than I thought it would be, she said. It’s just...hard to get started. I probably shouldn’t even be here. She took several deep breaths. Pulled a photograph out of her purse. Handed it over. A man and a woman, in tennis whites. Woman was Ginny. Guy had to be her husband. I’ve seen my share of Dennis Ashcrofts. Expensively-styled dark-brown hair, teeth like Chiclets, tanning booth tan. Country club cutie. He also appeared to be a few inches shorter than his wife.

She got up. Started to pace.

Fred stayed on his pillow but tracked her with his eyes.

Suddenly the words tumbled out. Like they’d been stored up for awhile. The Ashcrofts had been married for a dozen years and had two kids, eight-year-old Brittany and five-year old Ethan. Dennis was a cosmetic surgeon. We were a good team at first, she said. I’m an RN and I worked with him for a while. But I could tell he didn’t like having me around all the time, so after Brittany was born, I decided to stay home. She took a drag on her cigarette. Stared past me.

I asked the obvious. Do you think there’s another woman?

She made a soft, snorting sound. Said, There’s always another woman with Dennis. Other women really. But no, I think what’s setting him off lately is about money.

I asked for some basic financial info and learned that this pair had some serious coin. Ashcroft’s practice raked it in and he had pumped a big chunk of the profits into real estate holdings in and around the city. Mostly commercial buildings. Awhile back he brought home copies of some of his financial paperwork and stored them in a desk drawer in his den, Ginny said. One day last week I took a look at some of it. He’s been moving money around over the last few months, taking more and more of it from some accounts and putting it into others. It’s like he’s panicked over something and playing musical chairs with our finances.

You think maybe he’s stashing some of it where you can’t get to it? Think he’s getting ready to bolt?

She nodded. Maybe, and if he does I have to be prepared. One of my friends went through a messy divorce and she told me that if you can prove that he’s been a, oh, I don’t know, let’s just say a frequent flyer, maybe I can get a better settlement for the kids and me.

Okay, I said. So you’re worried about the money more than the women?

Yes.

Alright. But if we can find out about the women we can protect the money. Is that about it?

Yes, she said. I want to use them for leverage.

Any idea of who he’s seeing now? I asked.

She gave a quick head shake.

Does he go out in the evenings? By himself?

Yes. Two, maybe three times a week, she said. Sometimes he’d call in the afternoon to say he had a business meeting later in the evening, or maybe had to check on a patient at the hospital. Other nights he’d lock himself inside his den. Said he needed to study his case notes and didn’t want the kids to bother him. But she could hear him talking on his cell. Softly, so she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he’d come out and say he was called away on an emergency. It’s a built-in alibi. How do you argue with that?

Someone needs an emergency face-lift, you gotta hustle, huh?

She nodded. To tell you the truth, I’m just as happy to have him go. When he’s out of the house I can at least start to relax.

I tapped my finger on Ashcroft’s