Time Will Tell: The Spider-Rules

By James Walker Riley

Kneeling in the mud at the Oakmont Racetrack, Victor Quick waits for his death. His last thought is "Petey, I hope you nail this guy." Peter Quick is good at solving complicated problems. The metaphorical black spider in his brain spins strands whose nodes light up at salient, crucial points. Even Pete doesn't know how he interprets the messages, he simply does. Pete had helped his friend and brother-in-law, Homicide Captain John Pelton, solve other crimes: a child killing, several robberies. Pete, a technology genius, can't let a crime-solving problem go by without getting involved, despite being the tech genius for electronics firm PDQ (Pretty Damn Quick), managed by Victor.This time, he and his spider have more than the usual difficulties, including personal problems. The murderer is sly and ruthless. Other lives, including Pete's and his family's, are in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Walker Riley
• Release date: Aug 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370247882

James Walker Riley

Born in Tampa, Florida but grew up in sunny Michigan (the land of the white, flaky sunshine you can ski or sled on). Now living in North Carolina where sun is really sun unless it’s liquid sunshine instead of the rare flaky kind. I work in a local community college writing center helping students perfect their essays (I'm veeerry picky).

Book preview

Time Will Tell: The Spider Rules

A Peter Daniel Quick Mystery Novel

By James Walker Riley

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 James Walker Riley

Published by James Walker Riley at Smashwords

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, place, situation, or event is purely coincidental or used in a fictitious manner.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Look for other books from James Walker Riley coming to your favorite eBook Retailer soon.

Dedication and Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to my very patient wife Jean; and to Kim, Amelia, and Ella, who make life worth living; and to my first readers: Tim Peeler (who has poetry books in the Baseball Hall of Fame), Jerry Sain, and David Propst (especially for technical help).

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. A Quick Death

2. Murder Announced

3. Cages

4. Feeding Frenzy

5. Secrets Told

6. Rosemary’s Maybe

7. Ransacked

8. The Ear of Time

9. Liaison at the Lake

10. Interview with an Old Flame

11. Suspects

12. Returnings

13. Paranoia

14. Self Defense

The Spider-Rules

Afterward

CHAPTER 1--A QUICK DEATH

MONDAY 2:30 AM--OAKMONT SPEEDWAY

Forced down by the touch of a gun barrel, Victor Quick knelt in red mud beneath the stands of the Oakmont Motor Speedway. The tragedy of a long ago Sunday afternoon race sprang fresh into his mind and body.

God! Not here. Why here?

He strained against ropes that bound his hands behind him. Wrists raw and bleeding, he shivered in the August thunderstorm. As fear and despair settled on him, his fingers fumbled to find a button on his watch. The pain in his left arm and his chest and the inflammation in his throat didn't help.

The steel of a silencer pressed against the base of his head. It pointed at his brain stem. His chill seeped down his spine into his fingers and toes. Trembling racked him. A warm liquid washed down his legs. Click - the hammer cocked. It was the last thing he heard. Petey, you were right. You had better get this son of a bitch. It was the last thing he thought.

###

THREE DAYS BEFORE -- FRIDAY, LATE AFTERNOON -- OAKMONT COURTHOUSE

Peter Quick and his brother-in-law, Homicide Captain John Pelton, emerged from the main courtroom at the Oakmont, North Carolina Courthouse into the courthouse lobby where they found Sergeant Mickey Baines, her cropped blond hair neatly combed, her facial expression one of, perhaps, apprehension, and her body formidable even in a uniform designed to mask gender.

The interruption by John's sergeant at the crucial point in the trial heightened Peter's, and probably John's, annoyance--anger, really--that the trial of a child killer ended in a mistrial that wiped out a year of hard work. At least the asshole wasn't acquitted and another trial could be more successful.

Around them, spectators wearing anything from torn jeans and tee shirts to business suits spilled from the courtroom and reporters poked at cell phone buttons to call in to various media the surprising results of the trial. The trial hadn't gone well and that was big news, but Peter had no time for postmortems now.

While Peter stood by and appreciated Mickey, and guilt oozed through his veins, John questioned her. Sergeant Baines, what's this about a sinkhole?

John definitely sounded annoyed. How was a sinkhole homicide department business? Still, Peter paid more attention to Mickey herself than to her reply, until she said, Construction workers found a VW Beetle at the bottom after they dredged up the debris. Peter’s gaze switched to John.

You needed to disturb me for that? John asked.

Mickey did not seem intimidated by John's tone. No, sir. The VW may contain a body. Also, Ian's checking DMV to see if we can get a lead on whose body might be there.

The VW caught Peter's attention. Maybe a long-standing, personally mysterious disappearance was about to be solved.

John seemed to take the news in stride and his voice cut through the general clamor of the faux-marble floored lobby. Pete, have ya met Mickey Baines?

No, but I've seen you around, Sergeant, he said and locked his gaze onto her Aegean-blue eyes.

Mickey extended her hand.

He grasped her surprisingly strong but gentle hand and a jolt raced down to his groin. That hadn't happened since he'd first encountered Rosie many years ago, except he and Rosie hadn't even touched that time they met way back then. This isn't right. What’s going on? He felt a twinge of heat: embarrassment. His brain pumped more guilt into his veins. He hoped she hadn't noticed his reaction.

But she was looking into his eyes. My pleasure, she said. I've heard much about you.

After a short brain stutter, he managed to formulate a reply. Don't believe it, especially if Captain Pelton said it. Weak, damn it.

Mickey chuckled, a kind of purr mixed with bright tones that issued from a beautifully arched, cupid’s bow-like mouth.

Let's get going, John said. Pete, with me? John called over his shoulder as he plunged into a new challenge, the disaster of the trial apparently shoved aside.

The morning sun shining through the glass doors and windows during the trial had disappeared, and the sky had darkened to a dark gray. Managing to break his attention away from Mickey, Peter said, Yeah. He and John left the hubbub of sharp-suited lawyers, jean-clad wanderers, cheap-suited reporters, and uniformed officers hawk-eying the whole mob.

As soon as they hit the courthouse doors, a thunderstorm unleashed its fury.

Not long after leaving the courthouse, John slid to a stop at Bison's Restaurant, the sinkhole site. Peter noticed Mickey pull in beside them, adding to the profusion of blue, yellow, and red lights flashing in the voluminous, swirling rain. She stepped out, a surrealistic kaleidoscope of color flashing across her face, and surveyed the scene as she slipped on regulation yellow rain gear.

Umbrellas on the back seat, John yelled over the thrumming of hail on the roof of the car. A crane was lowering the VW to a muddy but stable section of parking lot. Forensic techs swarmed around the vehicle, like ants attacking a beetle.

Peter twisted, retrieved the umbrellas, and handed one to John. The hail beat on the umbrellas like they were arrhythmic drum skins. Mickey joined them as they sloshed up to the yellow tape.

How could a Beetle wind up in a sinkhole that wasn't here two hours ago? Peter asked.

I guess it was deliberately put there fifteen years ago at the time the first landfill was dumped. I believe the killer and cohorts bulldozed enough to fill in the hole and hide the Beetle.

And nobody noticed that activity? Peter had to yell over the gusting of wind that dispersed normal words the instant they formed.

Apparently.

That's about the time your dad and my grandpa disappeared. Grandpa owned a red Beetle--modified; what he called his super beetle.

Pete, don't jump to conclusions.

Yeah. But I would like some kind of closure.

It's not yer Grandfather.

You know that how?

Pete, you have yer intricate mind webs, I have my gut feelings. Besides, we ain't identified the car or the body. That'll take some time.

Peter's brain-web insisted he knew the VW. That's Grandpa's car. I was young, but I remember that car.

John shook his head and smiled weakly. Hell, you probably remember being born. Let's wait until the techs and an autopsy have concrete information for us.

That'll take weeks. Maybe months. And wind up like today's mistrial, Peter told himself.

I repeat, it's not yer grandfather in that car. It's my dad.

His dad? And I repeat. Why are you so sure? For many years, he'd wondered whether his Grandpa or John's father were still alive.

I can't tell you.

Why did John always have to be so mysterious? I guess we'll find out. But, he had an idea John was right. He had too many hints through the years that Grandpa still lived - somewhere. Yet, finding Grandpa's Beetle cast doubt on his suppositions.

They waited, Peter's shoes getting soggy and spattered with mud, while Mickey slogged over to the techs through the sludge. In a few moments, she slogged back to him and John.

Not much to go on, boss.

She calls him boss? Did John insist on that?

What do you have?

Mickey read off a plastic-covered, digital note pad, which the wind made difficult and the rain fogged. The plates are twenty-five years old. Registered to Frederick Lane Quick-- Mickey glanced at Peter.

My grandfather, he said simply. No need to go into details.

Sorry, Doctor Quick, Mickey said with a frown and a glance into his eyes.

He nodded. Thanks.

Go on, Mickey, John said.

Her elliptical face seemed lost within the oversized hood of the yellow, black-striped slicker. The body is zippered into a suit bag, a piece of luggage that has the initials JCR on it.

Did Mickey wince when she read those initials?

Nobody in my family has those initials, Peter said. So the body could be the person with those initials.

They belong to Jaime Castro Rubeiro, a mob boss who died in prison recently. In fact, he was murdered, John said.

Mickey definitely winced at that. But if Rubeiro died in prison, he wasn't in the Beetle.

John continued. My predecessors suspected he had a hand in Dad's and your grandfather's disappearances.

John would know that. Being just as curious as he was, John must have examined the old records as soon as he could. You never told me any of this.

They were only suspicions, Pete. No hard, cold facts.

"You know what? It probably isn't Grandpa. He's still alive, isn't he? That's why you're so certain. That's why Eli, Rosie, and I get mysterious cards and packages, never mailed from the same location. You know that for a fact, don't you?'

Settle down, Pete. I can't say anything to confirm or deny that.

That statement in itself confirmed it.

Mickey leaned in and interrupted. Boss, they haven't found any ID on the body. It could be anyone. Mickey had managed to control her expression and make it cool and professional.

Peter realized one person above all needed to know about the Beetle. I need to call Dad, he said.

All right, but tell him we have no idea whose body it is, just that it's Fred's Beetle.

You admit that much, at least. He pulled out his self-designed cell phone and dialed one-handed. The wetness had seeped up his pants legs, and he almost lost the umbrella in the stiff wind. Too bad he couldn't use his new project, but that would be premature. The phone rang three times.

Dad, are you sitting down?

Is the news that bad, Petey?

Dad's voice had a strained quality. Dad needs to get away from the business more, he thought. Dad, Grandpa's Beetle has been unearthed. Literally. They just hauled it up out of the sinkhole. I'm there now with John.

Why? Is a homicide involved?

Dad's voice sounded much cooler than he'd expected. It contained a body. John insists it isn't Grandpa. He thinks it's Ben.

That's possible. Ben borrowed it a lot. Your grandfather and John's dad hung with each other, despite the difference in ages.

It'll be a while before a positive ID can be determined.

Keep me up to date.

Of course. He flipped the phone closed and turned back to John, shedding torrents of water off the umbrella. He didn't seem too surprised. Does he know something I don't?

Nope. Listen, Pete. I'm gonna have to stay here a bit longer. Mickey's going to take ya back to the courthouse, okay?

Yeah. Although, riding with her could be nerve-wracking.

As Peter was getting into Mickey's car, he heard John shouting, Get away from there! Hurry!

Peter looked in time to see another section of parking lot crack and tumble into the sinkhole, and people scrambling to safety. And the beetle teetered on the edge of the new cliff-side. Nerve-wracking, indeed. If not dangerous. Or fatal.

###

SATURDAY--PDQ INDUSTRIES--MID AFTERNOON

Peter decided he didn't want to be working on a Saturday afternoon, especially when yesterday's events at the sinkhole kept rattling in his thoughts and twisting his mental web in contortionist forms that would challenge topologists. He'd accomplished enough for the day. He started down the hallway to the lobby.

He didn't get there. He was drawn by his dad's raised voice. He went through Hanna Edwards's office and positioned himself in the doorway beside the sign that read:

VICTOR QUICK, PRESIDENT & CEO, PDQ:

PRETTY-DAMN-QUICK ELECTRONICS.

The sun coming through the light tube in the office glared on Dad's shaven head.

Dad slammed down the handset of his PDQ-made phone and scowled the way a provoked yellow jacket, antennae quivering and stinger shaking, might if it could scowl. A crash followed the slam.

What's going on, Dad?

Dad reached down and picked his phone up off the floor. He thunked the phone down on his antique oak desk. Someone's trying to screw with my head. I just got a death threat.

He spoke the words almost as though bored. Almost. They had a sharp edge Peter knew he wasn't supposed to catch. Dad's scowl remained and tics spasmed at the corners of his eyes, revealing anger mixed with the despair of a rabbit cornered by a cat. Oh, hell. Another one? The discovery of the VW in the sink hole seemed to have triggered these threats. Either that, or the calls were one hell of a coincidence.

Dad began shuffling papers on his desk. It's nothing. A crank call.

Avoiding. Dad, you need to do something about these threats. Take them seriously.

Dad looked up, acorn brown eyes flashing. I do. There's not much I can do about them.

Arguing probably would do no good, but he couldn't hold back. His concern came from his gut, and his mind-web told him that the probability of disaster leaned heavily toward certain. Yes, there is. Tell John.

Captain Pelton is a homicide detective. I'll call him when I'm dead.

Did Dad always have to be so stubborn? He can set up a wiretap and trace the calls.

No.

He'll go out of his way to help. It's what family does.

Dad glared at him. I can take care of myself. I've done it before.

You walk with a limp. Being careful didn't help you much in Nam. Hoping he wasn't being too insistent, against which Dad would rebel, he removed his watch. If you won't talk to John, at least wear this. He set the watch on the desk, took a booklet from the pocket of his blue blazer, and dropped it on the desk. Instructions.

No.

Peter sucked in a deep breath and slowly counted to three as he let his breath leak out. What do you think will happen to the rest of us and our employees and their families, if these calls aren't idle threats? I'm no businessman. You know damn well I couldn't keep the company running. We'll go bankrupt. And I certainly can't hand it over to Casey. Hanna, maybe. Speaking of Hanna, if you get killed, what's that going to do to her?

In typical fashion, Dad didn't answer. He looked down and jumped back to the topic of the watch. I thought it wasn't operational yet.

I took it live this week. You didn't read my weekly report. Again.

Dad shrugged, picked up the watch, and examined it.

This is probably useless, but I’ll wear it if it makes you feel better. Dad strapped the watch on next to his Rolex. When can we go into production with it?

A bit of progress, then. Two months, if all goes okay. And ditch the Rolex. Two watches look ridiculous, especially when one seems inexpensive by comparison. Production model will challenge the Rolex, though." He began to go through the instructions in detail.

Halfway through, Dad glared at him. I’ve got it. Don’t you have lab work to do? He put his Rolex in his suit coat pocket and the instructions in his shirt pocket.

It’s Saturday. I’m going home. Remember, Rosie and Eli expect you and Hanna to come tomorrow for Eli's and Pip’s eleventh birthday party.

Dad cast him an Elvis sneer. How can I forget? With this miracle on, I’ll be subject to your every whim.

I wish. See you tomorrow. He hesitated. One more try. "Talk to John. He can do something about that call. Remember

Spider-Rule Twelve. Avoid Becoming Prey." He didn't wait for an answer.

When he left, he still wasn't easy about the way the strands of his mind-web were vibrating. Spider-Rule Seven: Be Sensitive to All vibrations. He'd give Dad a chance to do the right thing before interfering. But, if Dad didn't call John or talk to him at the party Sunday, he would.

###

1:45 AM MONDAY--HANNAH'S APARTMENT

Bathed in a pleasant tiredness, Vic rolled off Hanna Edwards and let a moan of satisfaction and release rise from deep in his chest. Hanna's heavy breath echoed his in the dim light.

She grabbed his left hand. Did you enjoy Eli’s birthday party this afternoon? She always loved cuddling and small talk after sex, and he expected that. It was good, he said. I like being out on the lake. It’s so much cooler out there.

I noticed you and Peter had a conversation on the side. Settle anything?

He braced himself. This wasn't going to be small talk. She picks the worst times to engage in discussions like this. Is this the time to have this conversation? It’s almost two a.m.

I can’t catch you any other time. She sat up in bed, the sheet falling into her lap and exposing still firm breasts.

He glared at the ceiling. You needn’t have gone behind my back to Peter.

Her voice sharpened. You didn’t seem to be doing anything about it. And he has a right to know. He’s got a huge stake in the company.

Determined not to be at a subordinate level with her, he let his face relax, and he sat up so they would be eye to eye. I know that. But, he knows nothing about financial matters.

The right side of her mouth curled. I didn’t say he did, just that he has a right to know. And he loves you.

Enough. He emitted a sigh, like a puff of air from a rubber ear syringe. Maybe. But I'm not sure he likes me. He threw back the sheet, bent down and picked up his clothes, and stood. I’ve got to go. Today will be a busy day. He pulled his Van Heusen mint-blue dress shirt over his body and jammed his legs into his boxers.

He pulled his slacks up and tucked his shirt in. Then, he zipped up his fly and buckled his belt. Not really angry with her, but a bit annoyed, he kept his voice gentle as he spoke. You’re nagging again. He slipped on his suit coat.

You look good in blue. Anyway, I have a right to nag in my own bedroom.

He knew that tone. Strained. He glanced back at her. Only if you’re alone. You’re over-reacting, Hanna. I’ve got it all in hand.

She squinted. So. Are you going to talk to Pete or not?

Yes, he hissed. We've set up a meeting. I’m seeing him later today. Satisfied?

She nodded. All right. But, I think you’re hiding something from both of us. You know I’ll support you, no matter what. Just let me help, that’s all I ask.

Patience. Patience! I’m not hiding anything, damn it. I just haven’t worked it all out, but I’m getting there. I need a little more time, that’s all. Then you’ll know all about it. There really isn’t anything you can do. Neither can Pete.

I gave him a file. He said he would show it to Rosie.

Oh, yeah. That would help. Rosie? She’s an economist, not an accountant.

All right. I’ll drop it. I’m still worried about the crank calls you’ve been getting.

Does she ever stop? She’s been taking lessons from Liz? The calls are harmless.

Someone threatening to kill you doesn't sound harmless. She got out of bed and wrapped her arms around him. I love you. I’d be devastated if anything happened to you.

He softened and returned her embrace. I appreciate that. If I didn’t, I’d be yelling at you.

She huffed a curt laugh. I should be ecstatic. It took a zillion years, but I finally got you to propose. She slid a hand to his ass and rubbed.

He grinned. I guess I was still afraid of committing to someone. Because of Liz. But I love you. And I’ve never shirked taking risks, when I’m prepared for the consequences. I think I'm ready for the consequences of marrying you. I hope Pete doesn't find out our secret too soon, though.

You want to keep our engagement a secret?

No, our other secret.

She seemed to shiver. She moved her hand from his butt. Me. too.

He nodded. He needed to go, but he had to tell her one more thing. I've been meaning to tell you--I’ve already started the pre-nup.

You did?

Thank you for suggesting it. You made it easier for me. I would have proposed without it.

I wanted to make sure you knew I was after you, not your money.

He glanced at the bedside clock. It’s two o’clock. You need to rest as much as I do.

I suppose so. I won’t be worth a damn at work if I don’t.

He held her tighter, kissed her earlobe, and then whispered, See you tomorrow. He moved back and smiled at her. Back to bed.

All right. But it’ll be lonely.

Hanna's well-toned body, at sixty, rippled as she returned to bed. Her body wasn't her only attraction for him. She had brains, competence, and personality, too. Best, he had stolen her from his worst enemy and set up her child with a reliable protector—the big secret, that.

Minutes later, he emerged from the cocoon of Hanna's apartment into the night. Far off flashes of lightning signaled another storm coming on. About twenty feet away, a car flashed its headlights. What was this?

A man unpacked himself from the car and approached. Sorry, sir. I think I’m lost. Can you tell me how to get to the Speedway? The man had a strange, yet vaguely familiar, voice.

That’s not hard.

Why don’t you just show me? You drive.

He suddenly faced a gun pointed at his belly. Pete’s last words came to mind. Avoid becoming prey. Too late.

CHAPTER 2--MURDER ANNOUNCED

MONDAY 2:30 AM PETER QUICK RESIDENCE

In a dream, Peter breathed hard through his mouth trying to suck air out of the suffocating seawater and into his lungs. He had to hold out--he heard the rescue boat approaching fast, its alarm wailing. He was sinking faster. Lightning struck all around him and its thunder rolled on and on. He hated dreams like this.

The sound changed. He opened his eyes. Lightning still flashed. That much was real. Sweating and still gasping for breath, he reached out and grabbed the handset of the bedside phone. Wha-? Oh, that's intelligent.

Noise--a faint, high-pitched sound like a modem dialing or a fax machine. Idiots. Oops. Don't slam the phone down. Rosie's sleeping.

He plucked a tissue from his nightstand and tried to blow out the gunk damming up his breathing. God! Two-thirty in the morning. He'd never get back to sleep, not in this storm and with his sinuses clogged. Useless. Might as well get up.

He rolled as lightly as he could off the side of the bed so he wouldn't wake Rosie. He snatched up his asthma inhaler and took a good hit from it. The medicine slowly took effect.

Rosie sat up. Who the hell was that?

He jumped. I thought you were asleep. His voice rasped from phlegm.

"Who can sleep with thunder booming and