Dark Red: A Mike Angel Mystery

By David H Fears

Mike and Molly are married on Christmas Day in 1967, but upon leaving the Reno chapel a stray bullet strikes Molly in the head. As desperate weeks and months pass with Molly in a coma, Mike cannot go south to find the shooter. Sanity forces him to take on a routine insurance fraud case, reported stolen jewelry by a mysterious redhead. Her connections throw Mike into the world of international drug cartels, ice pick murders, and even an apparition in Tonopah, Arizona, where Mike searches for a missing FBI secretary, also a redhead. He tangles with the Cali drug cartel in an abandoned airplane hangar from WWII, then hides out in a Tonopah motel with the irresistible wholesome secretary he rescued. The two redheads in this episode couldn’t be more different. Mike struggles to find boundaries between Platonic friendship, seduction, and fidelity to Molly.

The case also involves Mike interviewing a dismemberment killer on Nevada’s death row in Carson City, and falling into Latino gang dangers in Sacramento. #9 in the series of stand alone complex mysteries. Adult language and sexual situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David H Fears
• Release date: Sep 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310573064

David H Fears

David was known by the handle “professor” as a boy (no doubt the thick black spectacles, Buddy Holly style), and has had a lifetime interest in Mark Twain. He has also written nearly one hundred short stories with about sixteen published, and is working on the 14th Mike Angel PI Mystery novel.Fears is a pretty handy name for horror stories, but he also has written mainstream nostalgic, literary, some fantasy/magical realism, as well as the PI novels. For the past decade he has devoted his full time to producing Mark Twain Day By Day, a four-volume annotated chronology in the life of Samuel L. Clemens. Two volumes are now available, and have been called, “The Ultimate Mark Twain Reference” by top Twain scholars. His aim for these books is “to provide a reference and starting-off place for the Twain scholar, as well as a readable book for the masses,” one that provides many “tastes” of Twain and perspective into his complex and fascinating life. He understands this is a work that will never be “finished” — in fact, he claims that no piece of writing is ever finished, only abandoned after a time. As a historian, David enjoys mixing historical aspects in his fiction.David recently taught literature and writing at DeVry University in Portland, his third college stint. His former lives enjoyed some success in real estate and computer business, sandwiched between undergraduate studies in the early 70s and his masters degree in education and composition, awarded in 2004.He was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and has lived in New England, Southern California and Nevada. David is youthful looking and is the father of three girls, the grandfather of four and the great-grandfather of two; he’s written, “It all shows what you can do if you fool around when you’re very young.” David’s a card. How many of us think humor has a place in mystery tales or history tomes? He claims his calico cat Sophie helps him edit his stories while lying across his arm when he is composing, and sinking her claws in with any poorly drawn sentence. As a writer, a humorist, a cat lover and father of girls, he relates well to Clemens. Writing hardboiled PI novels is his way of saying "NUTS!" to politically correct fiction.UPDATE: Beloved Calico Sophie died on Apr 24, 2016 at 13 & 1/2 years. She is sorely missed.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Dazed and Disbelieving

My life was in the dumper. Joy and juice gone. Hope so far out of reach I doubted blessings would return. From the highest highs a guy can fly to the lowest gutter of despair — from tying the knot with my best gal to agonizing months of Molly in a coma — that terrible Christmas shooting haunted every hour with no way of finding the shooters. I hid in the bottle with my best friend denial, struggling to scrub images of Molly’s bleeding head in my lap outside of Reno’s Little Chapel of the Flowers on December 25, 1967.

The radio kept playing Skeeter Davis’s, The End of the World. I wanted to reach through the speaker and slap her.

Eight months, three operations and a million prayers later, Molly was still in a coma, prognosis uncertain, which buried my life as uncertain as a defendant in a triple murder case without an alibi. What sanity I clutched kept me by her side as days melted into weeks melted into months. In February they moved her from the University Hospital on Pill Hill to a nearby long term facility where they monitored her vitals and fed her through a tube. I lost over twenty pounds, down to 165.

On St. Paddy’s day, a special holiday to Molly Bennett, I tried toasting her possible recovery with her favorite champagne. There was still time for 1968 to turn out well. It couldn’t be any worse than the past three months.

I grew sick of praying. My faith dried up that summer. So did my bank account.

One hot August night, I held her cold hand and said my last prayer. It’s all in your hands big, powerful, all-knowing Man upstairs. You can fix this or keep hiding your face from me. If you can’t see what Molly means to me, means to this world, then you’re not paying attention. The Almighty felt impotent, ignoring a mug like me digging for advantage, prying a deal of her life for mine even. None of it helped. None of it made a difference. I had nothing to trade. My life had no value aside from Molly. I cursed all those years I’d held out against a full commitment, all the skirts I’d chased, babes in webs of their own making. The whole lot not worth her little finger.

I sat watching her even breathing, hoping for a tiny flutter of the eyelids. Who would she be if she did wake? Would she still be Molly? Would she know me? Remember our wedding? Or be a vegetable, unable to speak? Whatever she was or wasn’t I was her guy, officially her husband after six years of pussyfooting. Married without the boss honeymoon we’d planned.

Though legally married I was morally empty. I would have blown the shooter away without a thought if I ever caught him. And, without Molly at home I hung on hooks of painful memories — why hadn’t I hurled myself in front of her when those two cars burned rubber around the corner of Virginia Avenue and Fourth and began firing wildly at some colored teens playing mumbley-peg on the front lawn? I’d planned on going back to Reno to investigate the shooting, but there never seemed a good time to leave Molly.

On that fateful day, Rick, my senior citizen partner and best man, rolled in the dirt and came up firing at two fleeing sedans. The colored boys scattered and were never seen again. Rick promised to poke around the town if no word came from the Reno blues.

I remember freezing at the sound of gunfire. For once my reflexes were AWOL, likely juiced by the wedding ceremony that had just taken place. Mr. and Mrs. Mike Angel, investigators. Yeah. I’d finally tied the knot and put all my worries about being good enough for Molly, all my weaknesses about other females and seduction — all of those past excuses in the toilet where they belonged. My naïve hope was I’d never have to struggle with those temptations again. Thirty-eight and hopeless. I blamed myself for not protecting her, not being who she thought I was, for all sorts of anguished arrows of pain.

After two weeks in Reno Molly was flown back to Portland, where some world-class brain surgeons and specialists cut open her skull to repair damage and plumb mysteries. Without apparent results. At least at this far date so it seemed.

The slug entered her brain above her right temple and exited her scalp taking precious tissue. They pried it out of the siding of the chapel. 7.65 millimeter, close to thirty-two caliber. Some foreign weapon.

For weeks she didn’t look like my Molly, buried under all those bandages, tubes in and out. I told her I loved her so many times it felt like pestering. I told her and told her and asked her and asked her and begged her to wake up. Nothing worked.

Then on August fourth about dinner time, her pale eyelids trembled and started to open. Then nothing. I cursed an angry demand. Either heal her or let her be in peace, I shouted to God. Get on with it.

The next day Molly woke. Confused, not registering where she was but eyes open. Hope, always a dangerous commodity, surfaced from the muck of my despair. Perched by her bed, her cold hand in mine.

Hello, beautiful, I said softly. Having any good dreams?

Her head turned. She moaned through mashed lips, then stared hard past me. Did she know me, hear me?

I jammed the nurse’s button again and again.

Hello, sailor, she said, barely audible, as if she’d had too much tequila. She often teased me with that handle, knowing I’d been a dogface in Korea, not a swabbie.

A nurse rushed in with a young intern. They checked the monitor, her pulse, asked too many questions — how long had she been awake? Only a few minutes. Did she speak? Yes.

The heart monitor sped up. Her breathing still steady.

Molly seemed oblivious to the bustle. She fixed her stare my way and said, Promise…keep working cases.

She knew me! I nodded. I said a silent thanks to the Almighty.

Then she closed her eyes. My heart sunk back into muck.

I was frantic by this time, hollering demands at the doctor, who looked like a high school kid cut from the basketball team for being too skinny.

Our neurosurgeon, Doctor Todd rushed in and checked her vitals. I told him about her talking. He lifted Molly’s eyelids and looked in with a pocket flash.

It’s not unusual in such cases for the patient to surface from a coma momentarily, then lapse back. We had to remove some damaged tissue and let the brain heal, reconnect important pathways. This is a good sign, an extremely encouraging sign.

So, she’s out of the woods after eight months?

I can’t say for sure. She’s still in a coma. We’ll check on her closely over the next few days and let you know if she takes a turn either way. It’s likely she will have more lucid moments — hopefully each longer than the last.

Then I’m not splitting, Doc. I have to be here when she comes to.

Mike, it could be days or weeks or never. I can’t offer you a guarantee but this is hopeful. Now, you look like hell. Go home and get on with your life — you can come back every day during visiting hours. Let us do our job.

I felt like punching the sawbones. Any place away from Molly wasn’t my life any more. I was married but not married, if you catch. A hellish purgatory. Screwy, even, for a mug like me. Molly’s words and momentary break left me hopeful. I don’t remember going home or falling into bed, but I slept halfway through the next day, a Tuesday, only to be awakened by the phone ringing umpteen times.

Got your message, partner. Great news, even if only brief. It portends a resurrection for the wondrous bride. Rick Anthony, my now-retired partner, calling from San Francisco, where he’d gone sailing with a wealthy new woman friend, still cursed by his over-educated vocabulary, something Molly loved to tease him about. Would Molly ever tease him again?

My mind was scratchy, grouchy. I didn’t recall sending him a message but must have. God sure fiddles answering prayers.

So, she made you promise to keep working cases? That’s our Moll, always thinking about the business and how to keep you busy. Can you measure up after eight months away? Shed all that rust?

Maybe. No desire to investigate beyond my navel, but one of our insurance companies might offer me a bone, maybe Bob the brother-in-law. Robert Ellsworth had hired Molly some time back and always was good for a case or two, even if they were tedious insurance frauds.

Good man. Don’t let Molly down. Leave her with those medical pros. And while I’ve got you on the line, anything new from Reno?

Nothing. I doubt they have a clue down there. Chief Briscoe said they thought it might have been drug gangs visiting from California, likely trying to claim new turf. No idea why the shooting from rental cars — who does that? Those target boys were barely out of puberty.

At least he doesn’t think the shots were aimed at us. Didn’t seem like they were aiming directly at the kids, either. Merely a scare perhaps.

I yawned and stretched, kicking a pile of dirty clothes to pull out a chair. Aimed or no, one of those slugs tore into Molly. If I ever find the bastards it won’t be their best day.

I’d be glad to follow any gnarly leads you or the good Chief might uncover. I can swing by Reno on my way back. I’ve got the new Olds convert Roxanne bought me.

Gnarly? You borrowing surfer talk now? No, no clues yet. You’d have more luck in the casinos. Captain Briscoe promised to ring me if there were any similar incidents there. You’d think the ‘Biggest Little City’ would invite that sort of action. By the way, he got nowhere with car rental outfits. They may have brought those wheels from anywhere.

Some female giggled next to the phone and Rick signed off. I realized how much I’d missed my old partner we called Sherlock, so good at analysis and untying twisted cases. Maybe I’d eventually miss working again, but it didn’t feel like it. Something in the deep recesses of Molly’s brain felt it was important enough to wake up and challenge me. God’s answer to my prayers? A sneeze might have been better.

The kitchen radio was playing Angel of the Morning. Molly. My angel any time of the day was finally showing up. Even if only a snippet of consciousness. Thank you God. I’ll take it and pray for more.

***

It was well into September when I finally sucked up the courage to call Bob Ellsworth and see if there were any cases he might throw my way. He’d called me when Molly had her brief moment of consciousness and offered me a fraud case, but I begged off, telling him it was too soon, but I’d let him know. Bob and wife Susan tried to offer hope. Kept inviting me to dinner, that sort of thing. But I had no words to offer them, no real hope. Limbo of the spirit. We all just waited for Molly Ann to wake up and join life again.

I sat in Bob’s outer office dragging on a stale Lucky and reading old magazines. His secretary, Molly’s replacement, finally leaned through her glass slider and said he would see me. I barely looked at her on my way past to Bob’s office. A year before I would have checked out her too-short hemline and other features. Could I be a cured womanizer? It felt strange.

I got a call this morning from Doc Todd who tried to reach you. Guess you were on the way down, Bob said.

Yeah? Sawbones offer anything newsworthy?

Molly had another lucid moment. This time she was awake for five minutes. He said it was a very good sign and quite unusual at this late stage. She asked for you.

I’ll haul ass up there after you lay out what the case is you need help with.

Bob opened a folder and read me a concise timeline on a loss for jewelry. He leaned back and punched the folder with his index finger. Chew on this one, Mike. The lady in question has unsavory connections. Be extremely careful here. She has one brother in Alcatraz doing life for multiple homicides, another on the lam somewhere in Canada for counterfeiting on a large scale. Not to mention a few cousin grifters. As far as we know she’s Hungarian by birth, with drug connections in Columbia. We think the theft is bogus. I had one man on this but he got the willies and quit cold. Max Eastman. He wouldn’t discuss it. Never saw the guy so pale.

He handed me a synopsis of the case with Eastman’s contact info. The name at the top: Rhonda Ramone. If she was Hungarian that wasn’t her real name.

Greta Goulash would be more like it. Ramone? Latino.

We thought it might be an alias, but if so she’s had it twenty years or more.

Time frame for cracking this nut?

It’s past due now, but I don’t expect much more than a summary opinion. If the woman committed fraud, I’d like your take, is all.

Well, a shamus, even a good one, can’t tell the color of a dame’s skimpies simply by staring in her eyes. An opinion? Pretty low bar, isn’t it?

You’re right. But frankly, the chairman doesn’t want us to spend a lot on this one. He met the lady once at some cocktail bash and was jazzed, though that’s my take.

Maybe he bought her the stolen rocks.

Bob smirked then laughed. Doubt it, Mike. He’s fairly henpecked. Besides, I doubt the old boy would get it up without a coronary. Bad ticker. Don’t quote me.

I took the folder and turned in the doorway, anxious to beat it up to Pill Hill and see Molly, hoping she was still conscious.

I trust your big boss has life insurance, I said.

I left Bob to appreciate the irony.

***

My stop at the hospital was a bummer, as the kids say. Molly had submerged again. I left after kissing her forehead and whispering love. I was growing to hate the place and every doctor and nurse in creation. It felt like they were teasing me with all their techy babble. I was pissed at God, too.

Chapter 2 - Back on a Case & Temptation

Rhonda Ramone looked like she wanted to get laid and paid. Well paid. She had slippery, dangerous eyes that looked right through me. Eyes that could count the bills in a guy’s hip wallet and eat him at the same time. Dark pupils leaving little room for whites. She knew how to flirt with those eyes but didn’t show concern that I wasn’t biting.

Even though I hadn’t had sex in nearly a year, my gullible factor, even for luscious babes, was at an all time low. I’d been faithful all that time, that is, if coma-assisted counted. Still, things were different, and I knew they were — the way I’d ignored checking out Molly’s replacement at Excelsior Insurance. Could be I’d finally left puberty in the rear view mirror. Could be the snuffing of great men like King and Kennedy earlier in the year turned me sour on believing in dreams, fantasy dames, and loser escapes. Could be contemplating wedded bliss in the great Pacific Northwest changed me into a tree-hugging practical gumshoe. Could be. I’ve never been high on introspection. I know all the high ground and all the swamps. My navel’s not that interesting.

Behind Rhonda’s stunning showcase danger waited — a trap hiding bad intentions. I was having none of it that afternoon; keep it professional, Mike. Don’t investigate where you’re too sure of yourself. Stick to beating off — it’s far safer.

But those eyes would stick in my daydreams. Other things, too.

Framed by flowing auburn locks sassy enough for Breck ads, her charisma assaulted my pleasure zones threatening to submarine my hard-earned resolve to stay faithful to Molly. But only a heel could take advantage of her condition. Temptation thumbed at has a way of sneaking back around, rationalizing, explaining cheating as pure maleness until all that’s left is need of forgiveness. Old story, but this time the shooting had changed the equation some.

Such dames are hot poison, and yeah I’d been in denial since tying the knot, thinking that the perfect woman for me at home would be perfect safety on the job, even though forbidden fruit tastes best, as a dead client once said, which explains why he bought the farm. So I’d learned — even mousy types can threaten. Rhonda was no mouse. More like a sleek fox. I had to be Ulysses lashing myself to the mast.

Excelsior’s file said it had been a home burglary. Fifty long ones in stones had been hustled in broad daylight while she was at the mall buying fuck-me shoes, likely sliding smirks on other suckers. Excelsior sometimes pegged me to sniff out big dollar losses. So, the suits wanted to make sure the theft was jake before shelling out that much cabbage. The police file held the usual garbage, except Ramone had filed one other claim three years before for a measly five thou. Fool me twice, and all that.

I knocked on her door, a cutesy bride’s bungalow in Lake Oswego with white picket fence strangled by pink roses. The ritzy Portland suburb boasts a fake lake and fake folks with too much dough and too little to do beyond snooty charities that soften their guilt. Somewhat.

Faint music leaked through an open window, stuff I recognized as Chopin. My semi-retired partner Rick Anthony always listens to the guy; says it’s good seduction music. I wouldn’t know. I don’t need tunes.

No answer. No peephole. I leaned to the window and peered through lace curtains. At the far end of the room a backlit figure stepped through a doorway. Not so backlit I missed she was nude and made no move to retreat or cover herself. I felt like cursing the curtains.

I fisted the door, imitating an FBI drug bust. Chopin gave it up. The door swung, confidently, as if pounding was a common way of announcing one’s self.

Not quite naked now. Tall enough to look me square in the eye, something unnerving about a female. My first dive into those big browns froze me. Then I broke away from her gaze and gave her the once over. What I saw shot high voltage to my small brain, the one that hadn’t been foolish for the past year.

She was trim. Barefoot with bright red toenails. The sash on her sheer wrapper cinched her waist so small I wondered how she could breathe. It was one of those sheer smoky negligees that might have been a month’s work for a family of silkworms. Assets in the right places in the right amounts, but were they real? I’ve always been a breast man since my early PI days in Newark, but hadn’t seen such a dominant smoldering pair. I always imagine tits to be smoldering — or is