Frankly Speaking - A Frank Rozzani Detective Novel (#1)

By Don Massenzio

A 16 year old girl has disappeared. The police believe she is a runaway. Her parents believe she has been taken and is being held against her will. When the parents enlist the services of Frank Rozzani, a former police officer turned private detective, a series of events begins to unfold that implicates a popular local pastor and the religious stronghold of the ultra-conservative community.

Frank Rozzani, a transplant to Jacksonville, Florida from Syracuse, New York, must find the young girl despite the obstacles launched at him from the local police and others whose interests may be compromised by his investigation. Frank enlists the help of his associate Clifford “Jonesy” Jones to find the girl, uncover the conspiracy, and stay alive. While solving the case, Frank must deal with the demons that drove him from Upstate New York causing him to leave traumatic memories and his children behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Massenzio
• Release date: Apr 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311522993

Don Massenzio

I was born in Syracuse, New York to first generation Italian American parents. I'm an avid reader. Some of my favorite authors are Harlan Coben, David Morrell, Stephen King, Jonathan Kellerman, John Grisham, and Hugh Howey. My favorite book of all time is To Kill a Mockingbird.I started writing as a way to combat the long hours of travel and numerous hotel stays that are part of the 'glamorous' world of corporate life. I use writing as a therapeutic outlet to combat my homesickness.My first published book, Frankly Speaking, rose to the top of the Amazon charts. It was the first in a series of books focused on the character, Frank Rozzani, a Florida private detective. The series is a throwback to the days of pulp detective novels with a tip of the hat to Jim Rockford from the 70's television show, The Rockford Files. I've also released a collection of short stories called Random Tales that is available for your Kindle or in paperback.Also, look for my first non-fiction book, The Ultimate Guide For Independently Published Authors: Tips for improving quality and selling your work, now available on Amazon.com as an eBook or in paperbackI moved to Jacksonville, Florida 20 years ago where I currently live with my wife, children, and two dogs.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The sun emerged from the blue-gray waters of the Atlantic off Jacksonville Beach. The rising fireball amplified the haze that hung in the sky as a precursor of the humid weather to come on this July day in North Florida.

There was a haze of a different type in Frank Rozzani's brain that slowly began to lift as he felt the moist sticky texture of Lucy's tongue on his ear as she attempted to wake him from his four and a half hours of sleep.

C'mon Lucy. Can't I just rest a bit longer?

At the sound of his voice, Lucy hopped out of bed and impatiently waited for Frank to follow.

Frank knew that it was now hopeless. Lucy, Frank's bed companion each night, was a black Labrador Retriever and Border Collie mix adopted when she showed up at his trailer soon after he moved in. It still wasn't clear who adopted whom.

Lucy enjoyed runs on the beach. It didn't seem to matter to her that Frank stumbled in at 1:30 AM after his last set at the Sun Dog, the local greasy spoon by day, jazz club by night. He played piano with his jazz trio at the venue each Thursday and Friday night. The Dog drew a small, but loyal crowd that appreciated jazz and those that play it.

Frank could never be angry at the sweet dog. Her persistence in waking him up kept him on a schedule. He needed to keep in shape for his line of work, but he wasn't always motivated, especially after a late night.

It was a night of Frank's favorite music mixed with the anticipation of another case, this one to investigate the disappearance of a teenager. Frank had spoken with the girl's desperate father as he relayed the story of his daughter's disappearance from a church retreat. The police had labeled her a runaway. The father believed she had been kidnapped and was in danger. Frank knew from experience that the police had definitely screwed up in other similar cases. Those that had cases bungled by the local authorities often sought out Frank's services as a private investigator.

After resisting Lucy’s tongue bath as long as possible, he sat up and pulled on an old pair of Syracuse University running shorts. Lucy bounced up and down in front of the trailer door.

Just a minute girl, Frank said. Old guys like me have to stretch unless you want to drag me back to the trailer when I cramp up.

Lucy cocked her head to the side as if she understood. After some halfhearted stretching, Frank grabbed a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator and left the trailer to start down the path to the beach. Lucy matched him stride for stride.

After crossing the pliable sand furthest from the shore, Frank and Lucy came to the firm, hard-packed sand at the water's edge. The sand in Northeast Florida close to the ocean was once the scene of cars driving on the beach. Thanks to sea turtle nesting and some careless drivers that used sunbathing tourists as speed bumps, driving on the beach was now prohibited in this part of the state.

At this early hour, there was a surprisingly large crowd of runners, bikers and yoga enthusiasts. Frank and Lucy fell into a comfortable pace as they ran north on their usual two mile course that took them to the guard post at Naval Station Mayport and back. In his role as a private investigator, Frank used the run as an opportunity to reflect on his cases – past and present, upcoming endeavors, or to debrief himself on a completed case. The pain from his prior life in Syracuse was always in the back of his mind. For him the adage time heals all wounds didn't ring true. Some wounds were too deep for even a lifetime to heal.

As Frank and Lucy approached Mayport, the guard climbed down from his perch to the beach. As Lucy ran toward him he put a hand into his pocket. When she reached him, she rolled onto her back, and wagged her tail kicking up a spray of sand. The guard gave her the treat he had pulled from his pocket.

Hello Lucy. Hello Frank, the guard said. Beautiful morning for your run.

It definitely is, said Frank.

Beautiful mornings in Florida were so numerous that they were almost expected. As Lucy and Frank turned to head back, Frank's stomach began to rumble.

Let's go to the Sun Dog and get some breakfast, Frank said to Lucy.

As they approached the stretch of beach where Atlantic Boulevard ends at the ocean, a familiar figure emerged from the water. Clifford Jones III, aka Jonesy, was just finishing up his morning ride on the waves. He headed toward Frank and Lucy with his long board under his arm.

Jonesy's love for surfing bordered on obsession. He was known to brave the water of Jacksonville Beach every day, rain or shine; hot or cold. The only exception was when he took surfing trips to some exotic locale like Costa Rica, Hawaii, Australia, or other parts unknown in search of the perfect wave.

Jonesy was the drummer in Frank's trio as well as an attorney who had put his shingle on a rundown old building in Jacksonville Beach. It became the area's first surf shop and law firm combination. His clients were the poor and unfortunate that could not afford legal help. His law practice attire was mostly board shorts and a t-shirt, usually with a funny slogan or picture. Shoes were always optional. When a court appearance was necessary, long pants and shoes might be thrown in to make a good impression.

As Frank, Jonesy and Lucy sat at an outdoor table, their usual breakfast, cheese omelet for Frank with mushrooms and hash browns, and an egg white and spinach concoction for Jonesy arrived. Not to be left out, a healthy bowl of last night's chicken gumbo was set down for Lucy. Fat Sam knew his clientele so well that they rarely had to order.

Jonesy exuded his usual morning glow. He truly enjoyed his life. Whatever had driven him to turn his back on a promising and prosperous corporate law career clearly gave him no cause for regret.

How do you do it, Jonesy? Frank asked.

Do what? Jonesy replied in his Georgia accent.

Play the drums until one AM and then hit the ocean surfing at five as if you slept for eight hours?

The ocean provides me with meditation time that beats the most comfortable deep sleep. Plus I knew I would get to see your smiling face this morning.

Okay. Whatever you say, Frank said as he took a large gulp of high-octane coffee.

As the two friends tore into their delicious breakfast, they naturally settled into the business at hand.

Do we both need to meet with the Bullocks today? Jonesy asked.

I'd like to get your take on the situation, especially in terms of the truth about what happened to their daughter.

So am I the good cop or the bad cop this time?

You're the Zen cop. Try to focus your new age powers to see if you can spot any holes in their story.

Hey, don't knock the new age stuff until you try it. It's relaxing and the yoga chicks are hot.

Whatever, Frank said. I'd rather eat a pretzel than end up looking like one. I'll stick to running with Lucy.

At the sound of her name, Lucy looked up from her food bowl long enough to see if she was needed and then went back to cleaning up every last morsel of gumbo.

The potential case had landed in their laps the previous night between their second and third set. Fat Sam summoned them to his private table where they met a fifty-something man with a desperate look in his eyes. The man was Travis Bullock, Jr., an attorney from the wealthy Jacksonville suburb of Ponte Vedra known for its McMansions. After introductions, Bullock, looking haggard and tired, relayed his story to Frank and Jonesy.

My daughter Maggie is missing. She's 16 years old and was attending a church retreat when she disappeared. The church called us today to tell us that she didn't show up for breakfast. The staff checked her room she was gone, Bullock said, as tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes.

Did you call the police? Frank asked.

We called them right away. They took a report from us, did a quick search of her room, and told us that she probably ran away and that we should wait to hear from her.

And you don't believe them? Jonesy interjected.

Maggie is a straight A student, literally the perfect child. She wouldn't just disappear. It's not like her to do something like that, Bullock replied.

If we take this case, Mr. Bullock, we’ll need more than just your intuition that she didn't run away. It wouldn't be fair to you to take your money if this does turn out to be a simple runaway situation. Also, the police don't generally like us poking around in open cases trying to prove them wrong, Frank said.

I understand, Mr. Rozzani. What I'm asking is for you to find my daughter.

Frank agreed to follow-up with Bullock and his wife at their home the next day so that they could explore the situation in more depth and determine if the Jacksonville Police Department had overlooked some key piece of evidence that might point to a scenario other than a typical teen runaway. Frank thought that he and Jonesy should come up with a strategy first thing in the morning which explained their breakfast meeting.

There was no question of paying the bill. They had an understanding with Fat Sam. He provided them food and a place to satisfy their desire to play jazz and he received services from them for himself and his patrons in need. Neither side abused the privilege.

CHAPTER TWO

Frank and Lucy headed back to the trailer that Frank rented from Fat Sam. It was on a secluded patch of land among the low sand dunes with easy access to the beach. Lucy bounded through her doggie door ahead of Frank who unlocked the front door and went in after her. He checked his answering machine. The number that connected with the machine was a land line that he put into a small yellow page ad. Although he gave in to carrying a cell phone and had a computer, his cell phone number and email address were only known to a small group of trusted individuals. His business card had the answering machine number. No website for Frank. To him, technology was an intrusion and a pathway to finding him that, given his past, he did not need.

Today, the machine's message light was not blinking. He had been receiving hang up calls on his machine sporadically for the last month. They were always at the same time and from the same number. The number, according to the area code on the caller ID, was from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Of course, with today's disposable phones and Internet calling capabilities, the area code might mean nothing.

After taking a shower, Frank put on his unofficial Florida PI uniform, khaki cargo pants and a dark pullover polo shirt. The ensemble was completed with a pair of black tennis shoes as they were called in the south. Frank still preferred calling them sneakers. He had a meeting with the Bullocks in four and a half hours which gave him about four hours to research the man, his family, and his associates.

Frank sat at his small desk and logged in to his computer. Lucy settled in at his feet and let out a long sigh. As with any search, this one began with typing Travis Bullock's name into Google. The initial search for Travis Bullock received well over 1,000 hits. Adding the term attorney reduced the results to 300. Adding Jacksonville brought the number down to a manageable 57. Ten of those hits were from the web site for the law firm of Bullock, Bullock and Cobb. The firm turned out to be a small, but prosperous firm that Mr. Bullock owned along with his wife Margaret Susan Peggy Sue Mathis-Bullock and firm founder Stanton Cobb.

A quick check of the firm's web site brought up brief biographies of the partners and associates, a mission statement that indicated a southern conservative flavor, and contact information. Mr. Bullock's biography indicated that he completed his undergraduate and law degrees at Florida State University and was very active in their alumni, donor, and sports booster groups.

Well Lucy, we know which side of the fence the Bullocks fall on, Frank said.

Lucy lifted her head and gave Frank a knowing look.

You're either a Gator, a Seminole, or a Bulldog in this part of Florida. Looks like the Bullocks fall in the Seminole camp.

Lucy cocked her head at this important revelation.

The site also contained a mention of Travis Bullock's position on the board of the Ponte Vedra First Baptist Church, a wealthy offshoot of Jacksonville's First Baptist Church which jump started many of today's mega churches. First Baptist Church in Jacksonville regularly seated 10,000 for services where the faithful were serenaded by a full orchestra and a 250 member robed choir. This church is viewed as the headquarters of the Southern Baptist movement. It also has an iron grip on what was and was not deemed acceptable in Jacksonville.

Peggy Sue Bullock also attended Florida State through law school. According to her bio, she met Travis there and married him soon after graduation. They had always worked together when she was not busy having their four children. The law firm's primary specialty was family law.

Stanton Cobb was the founding partner of the firm. Also a graduate of Florida State, his graduation date put him at about 78 years old. His original firm was in downtown Jacksonville and was founded on providing adoption, divorce and other related family law services.

After perusing the firm's web site for any further insight, Frank moved on to the other search results. Most of the entries were society type stories, fund raisers for new wings at Baptist Hospital, various Republican event photo ops including a picture of Peggy Sue with Sarah Palin during a campaign stop that was part of the ill-fated McCain/Palin presidential bid.

There were also brief articles that referred to Travis' membership on the Baptist Church board and various opinions were made public by the board on the issues of the day. None of the opinions or quotes, however, was attributed to Travis or his wife who served on the Ladies Auxiliary. The church related articles mentioning the Bullocks were fairly constant until 2008 when they stopped completely.

It was amazing how much information could be gleaned, even by the casual investigator, from the Internet. Frank believed, however, that police databases were still the best source to dig up the true dirt, or lack thereof, on an individual or group. The truly deep search would wait until after the meeting with the Bullocks and until after the case was a paid engagement.

Frank stopped by the drive-through barbecue shack and picked up two pulled pork sandwiches and then drove to Kahuna's Surf Shop to pick up Jonesy. Jonesy's surf shop was a front for his law office. He enjoyed modest sales, but not enough to call the business a success. For him, it was more of a hobby, as well as a place to employ some of his more promising ex-clients while they got back on their feet. The real business was in the back in Jonesy's office where he transformed from a younger version of The Dude from The Big Lebowski into a sharp-minded legal scholar.

Frank pulled up in his 2004 Lexus IS 300. As Jonesy got in the car, he smelled the savory barbecue sauce from the sandwiches.

Pulled pork? Are you trying to kill yourself?

Does that mean you don't want yours?

"No, no. Give