The Case of the Blue-Haired Dog

By R. W. Nichols

A vampire with an unusual taste for geriatric blood, a sloppy attempt to assassinate a wealthy businessman, and a stockbroker looking more like an outlaw biker are some of the many puzzles Jimmy Warren, P.I. is called upon to solve.

And then there's that irritating, ankle-biting, blue-haired dog!

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. W. Nichols
• Release date: Oct 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370662760

Book preview

Chapter 2

It’s 12:10 when I pull into my slot at the back of the building and notice Izzy’s car is missing. It’s her lunch break. I’d hired the young woman on the spur of the moment, although I’m not getting enough clients to validate having a secretary. Oops, office manager. I have to remember to say ‘office manager’. That’s what she calls herself and, truthfully, that is what she is. I’m thankful to have her. My skills are more along the investigative line than organizational and my files showed this, at least until Izzy took the reins.

If I’m going to be completely honest, I hired her because I want to have her around. I enjoy her company and I might be half in love with her. But because I just received my finalized divorce papers from Ada, and because Izzy’s life is complicated with her twin sister, I haven’t even asked her out. Some days we flirt, but other days it’s strictly business. The situation is confusing, and did I say complicated?

Stifling a yawn, I put my notes and camera on the desk and wander over to the couch. It’s calling. I’ve put in two days and nights on the Towner case and the nights have been long, with me averaging only five hours sleep per night. Until today, the rich old woman had done nothing suspicious. She’d gone nowhere, seen no one. It had been so boring I’ve had all I could do not to fall asleep in my car. Even her son and daughter hadn’t bothered stopping in to visit. Except for her and Frankie walking around the block twice each day, there has been nothing to write in my little ledger. At least I’m wracking up the hours.

Lying back causes my head to throb more, probably because of the broken nose I’d gotten last week when Teeny (a black cat the size of a panther) had attacked me without warning, sinking his claws into my back and causing me to crash face first into a very solid door. When I came to, blood was streaming down my shirt and my nose was askew. The look so shocked Teenie’s owner that she felt compelled to cooperate with me in the inheritance case she’d been holding out on. Basically, she feared being sued. When this case makes it through court there will be an excellent payoff, which gives my anorexic wallet hope.

Right now though, my eyes are burning, and going over the joys of being a PI isn’t enough to keep me awake.

***

I’m shaken hard, so callously that I instinctively stick out a hand to protect my forehead from the corner of the coffee table and to catch myself before I fall to the floor. What’s going on? Anger flares. Between the rude awakening and my burning eyes, my pleasure in the day has dissolved.

Wake up, Jimmy, a voice calls from somewhere in the distance. The too-bright light causes me to squint and the couch is spinning, but the voice persists and cuts through my grogginess. It sounds angry and put upon. Get up. You have a client coming in.

Izzy stands in front of me, an irritated expression on her face, as if life was one big trial for her, as if she didn’t want to be here babysitting a poor PI who lazed away half his day taking a nap. What have I done to the woman?

I made fresh coffee. Here’s your cup. She points at the steaming mug on the coffee table. You’ve got a new case. It’s a big one and you’ll want to be alert when the gentleman gets here. With that she turns and strides back to her desk, not giving me a second look or even a smidgeon of sympathy for my still-pounding head. Why is she so cruel? I don’t understand it.

I sit up slowly, stretching carefully. Yup, headache hasn’t gone anywhere, not even with the little nap I took. I need aspirin, or something stronger, since it’s apparent it’s not going away on its own.

But wait a minute, now I get it. This isn’t Izzy. It’s Abby. Her sister. Which explains everything. Abby doesn’t care for me much. She has her reasons. It was her live-in boyfriend that I helped send away for murder. She seems to have forgotten that he intended to kill her along with the rest of us who knew him for what he was. I can’t help but wonder how I get myself into this crap. In my defense, I didn’t know about the girls’ little problem when I hired Izzy. The ‘problem’ that the doctors call Dissociative Identity Disorder. But I’m dealing with it. When you think ‘split personality’, you can’t imagine the problems it entails. On the bright side, I get two secretaries for the price of one.

Abby said something about a big case, which is interesting. I could use one. The only case I have going at the moment is trying to find out where Gladys Towner spends her money. Her son and daughter, selfish children that they are, are more concerned about their inheritance than their mother’s happiness. Remembering the very obvious pleasure she and the old fart had in each other brings a wry grin to my face.

I think about what I’ve learned. The age of the old man’s car hints that he isn’t rolling in money. But so what? If she has to shuck out a few bucks to have an elderly ‘friend with benefits’, what of it? Remembering her kids haven’t shown up while she’s been under surveillance, I can’t blame the old woman for looking for happiness elsewhere.

Daisy called, Abby continued, bringing me back to the here and now. Her boyfriend, Roland Trimble, has a daughter that’s raising concerns. He thinks she’s being taken advantage of and wants you to investigate the guy she’s dating.

Another rich man trying to hang onto his money. There seems to be a pattern here. I suppose I have to take every client who walks through the door. I’m smart enough to know that I won’t like every case, but I’d hoped to hang onto some shred of self-respect. I don’t want to get the reputation of being the lapdog of the rich and famous. Of course, if these well-heeled clientele have a genuine problem, that’s a different matter. I’m certainly not against being paid. In fact, it would be great. Past Due decorates the envelopes of most of my correspondence lately. Although colorful and certainly dramatic, these little pieces of art are something I prefer to do without.

I told her to send him over, Abby is saying. He should be here around 2:30.

The clock on the opposite wall reads 2:10 p.m. I need to scurry. I swallow a big gulp of coffee hoping to wake up, only to realize I’ve committed a huge mistake. Abby said the coffee was fresh, what she didn’t say was it’s still boiling. I know I won’t taste anything for a week. Every one of my taste buds must be damaged. Swallowing quickly to protect what’s left of my tongue, I wait in misery as the scalding burn travels down my throat into my stomach to lie there in a puddle, simmering. Cursing under my breath and trying to hide my agony from Abby, I jump up, stumble to the bathroom, cup my hand under the faucet and quickly slurp up a half-gallon of the tepid, fluorinated city water. The torture is soothed by half. That’s the best I can hope for, as I haven’t time to drop by the ER. So, resigned to my pain, I splash water on my unruly hair and make an attempt to comb it down. Thick, curly, and heavy like my mother’s, my mop has a mind of its own and nothing short of complete drowning will make it lie flat. Considering the way the day has gone, my appearance is better than expected. And it could always be worse. I could have a hunchback, walk with a limp, and have a name like Igor.

After my eyes quit watering I slink back to my desk. Abby waits until I’m seated then asks if I’ve had any luck with the Towner case.

Oh, yeah, I say, rolling my eyes, remembering the haunting vision of those athletic oldsters.

About time, Abby sneers. I was beginning to think that old lady had gotten the better of you. She narrows her green eyes. Set in that oval face, surrounded by a mane of auburn hair, she’s as pretty as her sister. But mean.

Yeah? Well, she didn’t, I finally say lamely, wondering how the sisters always manage to put me on the defensive. I am a grown man, a mature man. Actually that’s the problem. I’m 43 and they’re only 27. Kids. And I’m a foolish older man almost old enough to be their father, with the hots for a pair of twins who reside in the same body. What’s wrong with this situation?

I’ve got a license plate number to run down, I blurt out, anxious to prove to this young woman that I actually can accomplish something. It seems our Ms. Gladys is seeing a man. On the sly. Here I tweak my eyebrows suggestively, knowing I probably look the buffoon, but unable to help myself. Pretty women do this to me.

Abby looks at me blankly.

I get the impression she doesn’t want her family to know.

Why not? Abby asked, her voice reflecting boredom. She glances at the papers on her desk. I haven’t impressed her much; she’s more interested in her spreadsheets.

I’m not really sure, I say, pretending she’s fascinated. Probably because her kids don’t want to share the family fortune with a stranger, if the fling turns out to be serious.

Abby nods and picks up her pen. The wall clock ticks. And tocks.

There’s a pretty big purse involved, I push on stubbornly, even though now I’m only talking to myself. I think there is enough for everyone, but what do I know?

Not much apparently. She doesn’t bother to answer or even look back up. The woman is definitely efficient, and her efforts make it much easier to bill clients. Her system has absolutely nothing in common with the little pieces of paper I’d previously used to jot down the hours spent on stakeouts, the scraps that invariably hid under the seats of the Crown Vic, or fluttered off in the breeze from the office window before I could get them filed. My accountant will be impressed. The stink the man raised last tax season was bad. The promise I gave him to do better will be one heck of a lot easier to keep this year. But, still. It would be nice if the young woman pretended to care.

Glancing again at the clock, I see there’s time to dial Chase, a hacker I use, before Trimble arrives. Chase can find out in ten minutes something it would take me hours, or weeks, to find out. I need to know the owner of the old green Lincoln, the man who rocks Gladys Towner’s world. This should prove to be no problem for someone with Chase’s talents. Compared to his skills, the security for the D.M.V. was set up by a pair of feuding first graders.

What’s up, man? a cracking, adolescent-sounding voice asks. A vision of plaids and stripes fill my thoughts, which is pure supposition on my part. I’ve never seen the kid. Chase is paranoid about his privacy. Since there is nothing in the world off-limits to him, it’s understandable that he would protect himself any way he can. I suspect he stays holed up in his room; a room never permitted darkness because of the constant on-light of technology. Wherever this is, it will be cluttered with energy drink cans and empty food cartons, someplace registered under a false name, where the sun is piped in, and the air is still and close, permeated by the odor of dirty socks and stale pepperoni.

I shake my head, irritated with myself. The kid is doing what he wants. Living his own life. After all, everyone’s different. Besides, Chase always comes through for me. I’ve even begun to enjoy the challenge of our brief conversations. Brief – due to Chase’s penchant to not staying on the phone for longer than three minutes at a stretch. I know from past experience to come right to the point with the young man.

Got a new case. Need you to identify the owner of a Lincoln. I got the plate.

Shoot.

I rattle off the number and am amused when the line abruptly goes dead. This has to be a new record. It’s only been seven seconds. Chase’s fee will be hard for Abby to bill. But his technical support, although fleeting, is invaluable to me.

Barely one minute later the phone rings. Abby looks up and I shake my head not to answer. I know it’s Chase.

Delbert James King, 4223 Kalkaska Lane, Cincinnati, Chase mumbles, his voice telling me that in addition to looking up the old man’s identity he’s taken time to scrounge up some food in that brief sixty seconds. He speaks with his mouth full. I looked up his stats and he’s seventy-two and been married twice. A recent widower, four grandchildren he’s raising, wealthy. Do you need more?

Nope, that’s plenty. Wealthy, you said?

"That’s from his last Federal return. Very wealthy, if you want to get right down to it."

Thanks, Chase. Expect the usual.

Too easy, man. Make it harder next time. Chase’s nasal, snorting laughter ceases abruptly as the line goes dead.

Twenty seconds. Time sure flies when you’re having fun. I vaguely wonder what Chase does the rest of the day, since assisting a private investigator seems to require so little effort on his part. Does he spend the other twenty-three plus hours playing video games? Watching porn? Inventing a solar powered engine that fits in your back pocket? I don’t know the young man well enough to know, which I find sad. The world is full of people I’ll never know. Like most of us, I travel in a very small circle.

As I place the phone back in its cradle, there is a knock at the door. Abby goes to welcome the caller in, while I quickly dry-swallow two aspirins and grab my sport coat, pulling it over the lilac polo that is my current favorite. Although it’s a wasted attempt, I run fingers through my damp hair trying to smooth down a few unruly curls. I’m ready to meet the new client.

Chapter 3

I’m Daisy’s fiancé, Roland Trimble. We met at Janet Hilton’s memorial, a tall, immaculately dressed, silver-haired man says, holding out his hand.

As I take it, I note that the man’s grip is firm. You can tell a lot by a person’s handshake. The firmness implies he’s self-confident and the single shake means he’s used to getting his way. His ice-blue eyes and expensive hairstyle, with not one hair out of place, cause a twinge of jealousy. I glance over at Abby to get her reaction. Not that I’d blame her if she were attracted to the other man. Roland Trimble is the kind most women are drawn to. But Abby is seated at her desk, head down, apparently still involved in paperwork. There is no denying the little feeling of relief, or the frustration that follows over my lack of self-confidence. My recent divorce really did a number on me. I’m now glad Abby is here and not Izzy. I wonder if split personalities tell each other about their day. I fervently hope not. Today I get the feeling I don’t size up well.

Trimble is staring at me with a quizzical expression on his face. He’s waiting for a reply. I need to bring my focus back to the business at hand and not think about the twins. The girls really have me rattled, and it’s not good for business.

Yes, I remember, I finally answer. Have a seat. Would you like coffee?

No, thanks. A little late in the day for me.

It’s late for me, too. But that won’t stop me, I admit. My job doesn’t allow much sleep, anyway.

Roland nods, seeming to understand this negative aspect to my career.

So, what can I do for you, Mr. Trimble?

Rolly, Roland Trimble says so automatically that I know it isn’t a rare privilege. It is part of his persona to be on a first name basis with everyone he meets. I wonder if this brings me up a rung or if the man has come down a few to meet me.

I’ll get right to the point, Rolly says.

Of course. I expect nothing different. My interpretation of his handshake is correct.

I have a daughter from my first marriage.

How many times have you been married? I interrupt. I know it has been several. The information will go into the file, although my curiosity is contrived. I only ask the question to put Trimble off balance. Sometimes shaking up a situation gives you details that, if left to their own devices, few people volunteer. It’s a disappointment when Trimble answers readily and without embarrassment.

Four times. It will be five when I can convince Mitch that Daisy will be my last.

Responding to my raised eyebrows, Trimble explains. "Mitch, Daisy’s father, is an old buddy from college. There’s a considerable age difference between his daughter and I, and Mitch isn’t keen on the situation. Daisy wants to wait another year, until Mitch is more used to us being together, and I agreed, although I’m not happy about it. I doubt he’ll ever accept us as a couple anyway… But that’s not why I’m here.

My daughter, Vicki, is seeing a man. That man, Giorgio Prova, isn’t who he says he is. My gut says he’s a con man and he’s just after her money.

Why would you think that? I ask. I don’t operate on suppositions. Just because Trimble doesn’t like the young man in question (a typical father reaction), doesn’t mean there is anything wrong. My nature is to ferret out the truth, which is why I’m a PI. (Also because, at the moment, no one will hire me as a homicide detective.)

"I have a friend in Spain who’s been checking around, which is where the kid says he’s from. This has been done discreetly, of course. It has to be discreet, he speaks in frustration. Anyway, he can’t find anything on him. I don’t mean anything illegal; I mean he can’t find anything. It’s like Giorgio Prova, or whoever he is, doesn’t exist."

If your suspicions are correct, he probably doesn’t, I reply, suddenly concerned with the likely threat of a for-ransom kidnapping – Roland Trimble is temptingly rich. Hell, it’s almost enough to tempt me. Kidnapping is an angle I’ll need to investigate, if I take the case. ‘If’ I take the case. (I suppress a smile because I’d swear that in my pocket I felt a twitch as my wallet just hyperventilated.) So what do want to know about him?

I want to know everything. I want to know about his family, who his friends are, when he was potty trained. Anything you can find out. Rolland wears a resolute expression and his ice-blue eyes flash. I get the idea those eyes can cause real terror in a boardroom. This is my daughter we’re talking about. I’m not going to let some smooth-talking bastard use her. And I won’t let the jerk break her heart.

I admire the man’s single-mindedness and my opinion of him jumps up a notch. Obviously, it isn’t just about the money. He plainly loves his daughter. I try to bury the bad impression I’d developed regarding Roland and Daisy’s age difference. I’d thought him just another rich playboy, one who has money and looks enough to attract younger, beautiful women. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe… (I’m not good at admitting mistakes.) The jury is out, but with my line of work I can expect a verdict soon.

Still, it does make me think the number of years between, say, someone my age and Izzy’s, isn’t so many. Those fifteen years now feel minor compared to the three decades between Roland and Daisy.

My spirits lift somewhat and I ask, How deep do you want me to dig on Prova?

As deep as it takes.

Since you understand he’s from Spain, the investigation could take a while. Just so you know, I charge two hundred dollars a day with an additional fifty dollars an hour for surveillance and background work. Expenses separate. And that includes foreign assistance. Any investigator I use over there will need to be paid separately for his time.

I always state my rates up front; although from what I know about the man, my effort is simply lip service. Roland shrugs. As I expected, he isn’t worried about money.

Here’s Prova’s address here in Cincinnati, Roland says, handing me a piece of paper. I read the man’s name, spelled out in printed block letters, the address of a swanky apartment building on the south side that I know overlooks the Ohio River, and a series of numbers and letters. At the bottom Roland has written his own name and address, with a date. It’s the seventeenth, this coming Friday.

He drives a candy-apple Audi, Roland volunteers. That’s the plate number. The car’s flashy and works well at attracting young women’s attention. Roland’s face turns sheepish and he grins as he adds, I know. I used to do the same thing. Except my bait was a ’Vette.

I grin back. At least the man is embarrassed over his past indiscretions. What’s that expression? ‘It takes one to know one.’ This cancels all doubt I have about Roland’s intuition. A sly old wolf can always pick up the scent of his own kind. Predators, of any kind or species, recognize predation in others.

This isn’t much to start with, I say, frowning, referring to the paper. It would have been helpful to at least know where the young man spends most of his time, if he works out of his apartment, who his friends are. Since there is none of this, the case is going to take time. Probably hundreds of hours. (My wallet does a happy dance, vibrating in my hip pocket.) I assume the date is when he’ll be at your home?

Yes. He’s coming to dinner. Roland doesn’t sound impressed. I couldn’t get out of inviting him without hurting Victoria. She’s being very stubborn about this. I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got to share with you, he shrugs his shoulders in frustration. I haven’t been able to find out much, without risking getting into deep shit with Vicki. She is already angry with me, because I don’t see what she sees in the young man. But I won’t welcome the boy with open arms. I just can’t. There’s something crooked about him. And I just plain don’t like him.

Okay, Rolly, I say, agreeing to take the case and using the man’s nickname as if we are old friends. We seem to be headed that way. "I’ll see