The Ford Chronicles: Off Track: The Ford Chronicles, #2

By C. Steven Ellis

Ford Edwards's cozy little life has been turned upside down.

He is damaged goods, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress over the fact that a couple of months ago, he had killed someone. It was in self-defense. The classic him-or-me scenario, but the fact is he had taken a life.

Now Ford has a chance at redemption, working as assistant to a celebrity chef on a wine train that is traveling from Los Angeles to New York.

Only there's a murder, his boss is accused. Can Ford and his amateur sleuth friends solve the mystery? Will Ford's psyche handle the stress of all that has been dumped on his lap? Find out in Ford Edward's latest adventure, The Ford Chronicles: Off Track.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Steven Ellis
• Release date: Dec 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540191120

Book preview

FRIDAY

CHAPTER ONE

BANG, BANG, BANG.

It was the sound of a gun firing three times. I’d been told that I only fired it once, but like a song stuck in my head that repeats one phrase over and over again, the sound of the gun’s report kept replaying. My eyes were shut tight, and my body shook with each blast.

Bang, Bang, Bang.

I opened my eyes. There was no gun, no danger, only the dully-furnished room. Bookshelves to my left were lined with medical volumes like Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or A Unique Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness.

I sat in a comfortable leather chair that squeaked when I moved. If I gyrated my butt just right I could squeak out the song, Three Blind Mice.

Opposite me in an equally squeaky leather chair was my therapist, Dr. Ling. A woman in her late thirties or early forties I would guess. I’m pretty bad at estimating a woman’s age, I just knew she was older than me.

Her face had this open blankness to it that really annoyed me. She should be seated at a poker table. She probably played poker to supplement her therapist income. I bet she was good at it.

Right now, however, she sat silently in her chair and stared at me across her desk. I knew she waited for me to say something, so I said the first thing that came into my head.

This is bullshit.

Why would you say that? she replied.

This was a typical therapist retort. Always answer a question with a question. I wondered if they were taught this in school. The class would be called Questions with Questions 101. I imagined that final examine consisted of one question.

Why do you want to be a therapist?

If you answered, why do you think I want to be a therapist, then you passed and got your degree and license. Perhaps if this cooking thing doesn’t work out for me, I may have a new career.

Dr. Ling waited, and for some unknown reason I felt compelled to answer.

Because, I don’t want to be here. If the court hadn’t ordered me to attend these sessions, I’d be home happily watching television and not worrying about what did or didn’t happen.

You don’t think it’s important for you to remember what happened?

Not really. I hardly think my happiness depends on it.

You really think you’re happy?

This was a trick question, and I knew it. I weighed my potential answers.

Yes? I said tentatively.

It came out like a question. I hadn’t intended that.

Really, she said. You think the court sent you here because it had nothing better to do? Don’t you think that maybe we’ve had some experience with what you’re going through? Maybe, just maybe, we’re here to help you?

I felt like I had been scolded by my mother. That was if I had grown up with a mother, but let’s not go down that road.

Dr. Ling continued.

Ford, whether you believe it or not, you’re suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s manifesting itself through little cracks in your psyche. Today you can’t remember—but tomorrow? Who knows what cracks will open up? You haven’t been able to hold a job since you got fired from The Olive Tree.

That wasn’t my fault. My boss was gunning for me.

But why haven’t you been able to find work since?

Maybe I haven’t found the right job, I said defensively.

Maybe. But maybe not. Ford, you haven’t been sleeping and when you do you have nightmares. Can you tell me what any of those nightmares are about?

I can’t remember them. I just wake up all sweaty.

Un-huh. Ford, you’ve taken a human life and it’s profoundly affected you. My job is to help you re-live it, to talk you through it and show you that there was nothing you could have done.

I can’t re-live it if I can’t remember it, I said angrily. Nobody seems to understand this. Isn’t there a pill you can give me that will not only make me feel better, but will also make me smarter?

Dr. Ling shook her head.

There are no easy cures. Besides I’m a therapist, not a psychiatrist. I can’t write prescriptions.

Well isn’t there a manager or someone I can escalate this to?

Ford, you don’t need drugs. You need to trust yourself and remember what happened. You need to remember the details that led to Greg Hacket’s death.

She sighed.

Let’s go over the last hour leading up to the incident.

Incident. You mean killing. Why don’t you say it?

"Why do you say it?"

Ugh. I crashed my head into the back of the leather chair in frustration. Okay, so that’s the game she wanted to play. I could play along. I decided I’d use the same techniques as she did.

Why do you think I say it? I asked.

Why do you want to know what I think?  We’re talking about you.

Hmm. She was no amateur. She’d played this game before.

I tried again.

Why are we talking about me?

I knew that was a mistake the moment I’d said it. I had backed myself into a corner. She didn’t say anything but held a look of triumph. I had lost this verbal volley, and we both knew it.

Fine, I replied, I had accidentally discovered that the woman I dated was in fact in love with her brother, and that he was responsible for bombing the clinic where she aborted their baby. Three people were killed in the bombing, including a woman I really, really liked. In order to keep me quiet they decided to kill me. They tied me up and threw me into the back of their car. They drove me to Griffith Park, where we got out of the car.

Bang, Bang, Bang.

I shut my eyes in a futile attempt to make the noise go away.

And then? she asked.

I opened my eyes. She sat there expectantly.

And then what? I don’t remember.

What do you remember?

I remember someone screaming. I remember Brady, Saul and Jenny helping me up the hill to the road. I remember police helicopters.

You remembered enough to give the police a report.

Then why don’t you read it and tell me what I forgot? I asked angrily.

Dr. Ling’s countenance didn’t change. Her face was a mask of serenity.

It doesn’t work that way, she said.

That’s fairly dismissive, I countered. Do you want to help me, or just keep collecting my money?

Ford, I understand your hostility, but you must remember two things. First, your anger is really just your frustration at not being able to remember. You’re not mad at me.

Feels like I’m mad at you. What’s the other thing?

You’re not paying me, the city is.

I struggled for a comeback.

Well—it’s coming out of my taxes.

It would be, if you had a job.

Now you’re intentionally trying to anger me.

She looked at her watch.

I’m sorry, Ford. Our time is up. I’ll see you next week.

A thousand thoughts filled my mind, but first and foremost I wanted to leave.

I got up and left through the second door. Dr. Ling’s office had two doors, one allowed you to enter her office from the waiting room and the other forced you to exit her office into the hallway. This way, you avoided seeing who was on deck for therapy next. 

Someday I think I’m going to go out the first door and have a spastic fit in front to whoever was waiting to see Dr. Ling after me. I’d fall to the ground in convulsions and shout.

She did this to me, she did this to me.

Someday, not today.

My name is Ford Edwards. I was named after the Ford dealership my mechanic father worked at when I was born. Up until a couple of months ago, I was a line cook working at one of a chain of restaurants called, The Olive Tree.

Technically, I got fired for insubordination. The real reason was the restaurant’s dickhead manager, Stanley September, had it in for me and wanted me gone. So I guess he won.

I’d had two other jobs since then but they hadn’t worked out either. I’d like to say it wasn’t my fault but it was. Ever since the shooting, I’d been quick to anger. I hadn’t let things roll off me like I used to.

It wasn’t just in the workplace either, my friends have noticed too. And being my friends they’ve been quick to voice their opinions and let me know when I’d been acting like a jerk. A couple of times, when I’d been particularly snarky, they’ve just gotten up and left the room.

They all know I see my therapist on Friday’s and they all always ask the same question.

How did it go?

I knew they wanted me to report that I’d had a major breakthrough and that things would return to the way they were. But because I hadn’t had a breakthrough, I feel like I’d disappointed them or let them down. I knew they wanted things to get back to normal but, deep down, I wondered if that was really possible.

Dr. Ling’s office was in a mini-mall on Van Nuys Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley. There were shops, restaurants and plenty of parking. Her office was on the second floor above a Mongolian Barbecue.

I opened the door of my 1998 Honda Civic and slid behind the wheel. This was my latest ride courtesy of my father, Finlay Edwards. He worked as a mechanic for a BMW dealership in Santa Monica. Since he gave me this car last month, it’s been in the shop three times, but my Dad always fixed it, and it didn’t cost me anything other than gas and insurance. Not that I could afford either. I’d paid for the minimum insurance; compensation and collision, but that didn’t leave much, and my gas indicator constantly flirted with empty.

My car before this was a 1974 Jensen Healy, but after being in a police impound yard for three weeks, and despite my father’s ministrations, it never ran again.

It was a quick drive through the canyon to my apartment, which was located on a small cul-de-sac just off of Sunset Boulevard.

My roommate, Jenny Franks, was a waitress I’d met when I worked at The Olive Tree. She came out to California from the east coast to be a big-time Hollywood actress. She’s certainly had the looks for it. Brown hair, brown eyes, a beautiful figure and a winning smile. But, of course, I’m not supposed to notice any of that because I’m her roommate and were just friends.

She took care of her excellent body by taking yoga classes at the YWCA in Hollywood. She went to acting classes three times a week, but in the six months that we’ve lived together, I’d never seen her go out on an audition.

She managed to keep all would-be suitors in her life at a distance by waiving around a Harvard Law School fiancé. He was supposedly in his third year, but other than an old picture, I’d never met him or talked to him. My other friends and I suspected he might be made up. Once or twice a week, she received a phone call from someone she claimed was him, but she always went into her room and kept her conversation private.

I reached my apartment, and parked in the carport. I walked the three flights of stairs to get to my apartment. All the units in my building looked down into a central courtyard, which was really just a collection of grass, chairs and a charcoal barbecue that had seen better days.

Today, the complex was quiet. Usually, the apartment across the courtyard had a lot of activity. The girls who lived there always seemed to be entertaining, but today the drapes were drawn tight, and there wasn’t any music. I had no idea who they were, but I’d fantasized and called their apartment the Playboy girl’s apartment. I, of course, had no idea if they were really Playboy models, but they were hot, liked dressing in tight clothes and liked to have lots of parties.

Parties, I might add, I’d never been invited to. They played their music loud, had lots of men over, and generally had more fun than anyone else in the building. Since things were silent today, I had to assume they were either at a hot girl convention in Las Vegas or working on their latest photo shoot.

I walked into my apartment and saw that the mail had arrived and had been tossed into a stack on the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to look. I knew there would be bills that waited for me to pay them, and since the only money I had came from my bi-weekly check from the Unemployment Office, they would continue to wait.

I decided that I wouldn’t think about that since it only deepened my depression, so I opened the door to the pantry and rooted around for something to munch on. I found a bag of Crunchy Scoops fastened with a clothespin that acted as a sealant to protect the chips and keep them fresh. The chips probably had more chemicals than a pharmacy and would remain fresh for the next twenty years, but I didn’t care.

I plopped down on the couch, kicked off my shoes, and turned on the TV. I really didn’t have anything in mind to watch, I just needed noise to fill the apartment.

Maury Povich was on screen and apparently I’d missed most of the show because Maury had that serious look he used when he was about to make a pronouncement that would change someone’s life. Today a young couple squirmed in the seats in front of him, waiting for him to read whatever was in the envelope he held.

Maury opened the envelope flap and pulled out a white piece of paper.

Thomas, he said, dramatically. You are the father.

The audience cheered or jeered, depending on what poor Thomas had claimed when the show had started. In this case he looked happy, so I guess he had claimed to be the father all along.

Jenny’s bedroom door opened.

How did the counseling go? she asked.

First time I’d been asked. I made a mental hash mark.

Just peachy, I said.

It came out more sarcastic than I had intended.

She shook her head.

You know Ford, I’ve heard that what you get out of therapy is what you put into it.

That angered me. Did she really think I was just slacking my way through?

Really? You know a lot about therapy, do you?

No, I’m just telling you what I’ve read.

Well stop reading. You have no right to judge what I do or do not put into my therapy sessions. So leave me alone.

God, you can be such an ass. Rent is due in three days, I don’t suppose you have the money to cover it?

I couldn’t look at her and kept my focus on the television.

No, of course how could you? she continued. You’d first have to be able to keep a job to make money, and what little money you have you spend on junk food.

Right at that moment my hand was deep in the bag of Crunchy Scoops. I just left it there.

Have you taken a look at yourself lately, Ford, she continued. I mean a good look in the mirror? Nice belly you got there.

I couldn’t help but look down at my belly. She had a point. I was only 24. I thought at this age my metabolism was supposed to protect me from poor dieting choices. I guessed that was as fucked up as everything else was in my life.

Jenny waited for me to say something.

Well? she asked?

Well what? I demanded.

The therapist had rubbed off on me.

Don’t you have anything to say? she asked.

What do you want me to say? That I’ve let myself go? That I’m depressed? That I can’t hold a job? You’ve managed to say it all for me, thank you very much.

She made a disgusted sound and grabbed her keys.

I’m going to work, she said. Try moving every once in a while so you don’t get bed sores.

She left and slammed the door behind her.

I yelled at the closed door.

Well— oh yeah?

I’m at my eloquent best once someone has left. Of course I didn’t really have anything to argue about. She was right on all counts. I was in pain. She knew it and deep down I knew it. I just wanted to make the pain go away.

Suddenly the thought of being alone and watching TV didn’t appeal to me. I needed to be with friends who would watch TV with me.

I got off the couch, picked up the phone on the kitchen counter, dialed, and waited for someone to answer.

Hi it’s me. Are you busy?

A little, the voice on the other line said. I’m helping with the lunch shift. You want to come by?

See you in ten, I said, and hung up.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO MINUTES LATER I was in my car and headed down Doheny Drive to Melrose Boulevard to a bar called 221 Melrose, where I’d meet my friend Saul and my other friend, Brady. Saul’s parents owned the bar, but were never in town. It’s located at— well—221 Melrose Boulevard.

Saul’s parents made their living going around the world opening bars in exotic places like Bali or Glasgow. 221 Melrose was their first project, and Saul usually took care of things when they were out of town, which was often.

As I drove I thought about what I would do with the rest of my day. I didn’t have a plan. At the bar I usually sat, drank beer and watched television. There were worse ways to spend a day, I rationalized to myself.

I arrived to find the parking lot behind the bar full. This lot was supposed to be used for 221 Melrose patrons only, but I’ve seen people park here, leave their cars and not go into the bar. There were signs posted that threatened to have your car towed, but Saul and his family were too nice to actually carry out that threat.

Parking on Melrose was limited by two-hour meters and parking on the side streets was limited by parking passes for the residents who lived on that street. That didn’t leave a lot of options.

I decided to drive around the 221 parking lot a couple times with the hope that I’d see someone going to their car. On my third spin around I was rewarded. It was an elderly man who didn’t so much walk as he shuffled. I patiently waited for him to get to his car and wondered if he represented my future. What can I say? I was depressed.

Once he was inside his car, he must have adjusted every mirror he had, plus he must have checked every radio station, because he took forever.

Finally, when all adjustments were done, the white backup lights went on, and I knew he was ready to leave. He decided to back up in my direction and apparently he also decided that I hadn’t given him enough room, because he stopped in mid-backup. I sighed and put my car into reverse to give him more room. Which he took.

I put my car in gear to drive forward, but the old man didn’t move. Suddenly someone driving a blue Nissan Sentra pulled into the parking space from the other direction. The wrong direction, I might add. The old man waited for the Sentra as it took the spot he had just vacated. Then, sensing that all was right with his world, he finally put his car in gear and left. Meanwhile, I had just had a perfectly good parking spot stolen from me.

I wasn’t in a good mood to begin with, and the fight with Jenny had only added to my annoyance, but this was too much. That was my spot and there was no way I was just going to let it go. I positioned my car so that it blocked the usurper and rolled down my window.

A young woman, with short brown hair got out of the driver’s side. She was attractive, probably early twenties, and seemed in a hurry.

Excuse me, I said.

She closed her door, chirped the lock and completely ignored me.

I raised my voice.

Excuse me, but you just stole my parking spot.

She looked up, stared at me and said nothing.

Goddammit, at least have the courtesy to answer me.

I opened the car door and had taken two steps toward her, when her hand went into her bag and pulled our some kind of cylinder. In one deft move she aimed it at my eyes, and a stream of pepper spay found its mark.

My eyes were on fire. My arms were extended to prevent me from crashing into anything. Unfortunately, my feet did not have the same protection. I tripped and fell forward right into the woman who had sprayed me. We both went tumbling to the ground. I on top of her and she under me, my hand resting right were it landed. On her right breast.

There was a momentary pause and then she screamed.

Rape! Rape!

No, no, I countered. No rape, no rape.

She pushed me off of her, and I rolled on to my back, still unable to see. My car’s engine still ran, but all I could concentrate on, was the burning in my eyes.

Goddammit, why’d you do that? I screamed.

No one answered.

Why’d you do that? I asked again, but I was pretty sure she was gone.

I got to my feet and felt my way back to the driver’s seat of my car. I used my shirtsleeve to wipe my eyes. I could open them, but my sight was limited. The world was a complete blur.

Suddenly, I heard someone behind me honk their car horn. I needed to move my car but my eyesight was so bad I was afraid I would hit something. I signaled with my arm that they should go around me. Which they did, but as they got parallel to me I heard a male voice shout out.

Dumb ass.

It took another ten minutes before I could see well enough to drive my car. Luckily, in that time another parking space had opened up.

Negotiating the actual turn into the space was another matter. It was hard to keep my eyes open. I gently eased my way into the spot, afraid I would side swipe the vehicles on either side of me.

My parking successfully accomplished, I went straight to the men’s room of 221 Melrose and splashed water into my eyes. I got a good deal of the water on my shirt, but I didn’t care. I just craved the relief the cool water gave me.

The bathrooms at 221 Melrose were environmentally green bathrooms, which meant they didn’t have paper towels. Instead, hanging on the wall were several of those blowers that activate when you stick your hands between the guides of the blower. The space was designed for hands, not for my face, so I left the bathroom, with water that dripped everywhere and covered my clothes.

Saul was at the bar and expressed surprised at my appearance.

What happened to you? he asked.

Can you give me a towel?

He grabbed a bar towel and threw at me. Fortunately, I caught it and wiped myself dry.

Some crazy bitch stole my parking spot and then pepper spayed me, I told him, as I dried my face.

Pepper spayed you?  What did you do to her?

Nothing, I confronted her about taking my—

I had finished with my face and was about to throw the towel back to Saul, when I saw said crazy bitch coming out of the back storeroom, tying an apron around her waist.

Oh my god. It’s you, I spat out.

She looked up and was afraid.

Call the police, she said to Saul. That guy’s crazy. He attacked me in the parking lot. He tried to rape me.

There was no rape! I said, emphatically.

Saul turned to her.

Cate, did you just pepper spray my best friend?

The fear on her face turned to confusion, then to alarm.

Best friend? she asked.

Saul turned back to me.

You attacked her?

No, I didn’t attack her. She stole my parking spot. When I confronted her she pepper sprayed me.

He got out of his car. I thought he was going to attack me, she pleaded.

I wasn’t going to attack you, you attacked me, plus you stole my parking spot. You’re a parking spot thief. Saul, call the police and have her arrested.

I didn’t steal anything from you. I saw a car leave, and I took his space.

A space I was waiting for.

Saul threw up his hands.

All right, everyone, let’s stop for a second.

We did, but it looked like Saul hadn’t thought past that moment because he didn’t know what to say next.

Okay. First, Ford I’d like you to meet our new server, Cate Costas, he finally said.

I nodded my head at her.

Cate, meet Ford Edwards. He spends a lot of time here, so you should get to know him. Now Ford, I’m sure Cate didn’t intentionally take your parking spot, she probably didn’t see you. Isn’t that right Cate?

She nodded.

And Ford, he continued. You weren’t going to attack her. Were you?

I shook my head.

Good. Then we can all be friends. And Cate, try not to mace any more customers today, okay?

Her face flushed red. She nodded.

Saul pulled an empty pitcher from the top shelf and filled it with beer.

I just got this keg of Sierra Nevada Big Foot Ale, he continued, Take this, and I’ll join you in a minute.

I took the pitcher of beer and went to our usual table, which gratefully was empty.

I grabbed the remote control from its hiding place, on a shelf behind a potted plant and surfed the channels. A moment later Cate showed up with two empty beer glasses and put them in the center of the table.

I’m sorry I peppered your eyes, she said.

And?

And what? I said I was sorry.

What about stealing my parking space?

I didn’t steal anything. I didn’t even see you.

I was right behind the old guy leaving the spot.

The old man in the big car?  Did you see the size of his car? It was practically a building. No wonder I didn’t see you.

I smiled.

It was a pretty big car, I agreed

She smiled back.

Yeah, and it was like fifty years old.

Probably the first car he ever bought.

Saul sat down opposite me and slid one of the empty glasses over, which I caught with my right hand.

Oh, good we’re all friends now, he said.

He picked up the pitcher of beer and poured us each a glass.

Cate turned and left.

Saul lifted the glass to his lips and tasted the beer.

Tell me what you think.

He took a much longer pull and finished with a satisfied sound.

The beer was amber in color and smelled of hops. I took a sip, enjoyed its coolness and its flavor. I nodded my head.

Not bad, right? he asked.

No, not bad at all. I like it. What does Brady think?

He hasn’t tried it yet. But I expect he’ll be in later. I told him you were here.

How’s he doing?

He’s still raw. He knows it was right, but I don’t think the heart knows what the mind does. Besides, you and I both know that Mercedes was an acquired taste.

Mercedes was Brady’s latest girlfriend. He actually met her when we were being questioned by