Stern Talbot, P.I.—The Early Years: The Case of the Missing Body: Stern Talbot PI, #3

By Harvey Stanbrough

This is Book 3 of the Stern Talbot PI series, but you can read them in any order.

Long before he went into private practice as a P.I., Stern Talbot was a detective for the LAPD.

Some cases are better than others, not so rattling. Not so sleep-depriving. Not so insane.

But the evidence in a brand new missing persons case echoes the evidence in a three year old cold case that ended with a missing body.

Now it's time to figure things out and close them both. How could Stern know what was waiting at the end of the line?

The twists and turns of this case test the imagination and strain the emotions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Apr 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386448303

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

Book preview

Stern Talbot—The Early Years

The Case of the Missing Body

1

In his patrol car, Sergeant Delbert Blake and his partner, a rookie trainee, slowly cruised along the residential street. It was a little after 9 p.m. and darkness had settled, but the day was still warm at around 85 degrees. For Los Angeles, it was also less humid than usual.

As Blake drove, the rookie rubber necked the houses, looking for a particular address.

The houses along the residential street were nice, but not stunning. There were a few authentic but modern adobe homes—those with the foot-deep window sills—and several that were stuccoed to look like adobe. All of the homes had a low wall around the front yard, most with an opening but no gate. Those too were made to look like adobe, but more than likely they were stuccoed concrete block.

All of the homes had the address on the front wall of the home, some in stylized numerals on glazed tiles, some in numbers that appeared to be made of black iron. They all had red Spanish tile roofs. A few had solar panels on the roof. A few of the homes were white, but most were different shades of terra cotta.

One was kind of a mud brown. Part of the wall in front of that one was taller and had a black wrought-iron gate embedded in it. Alongside the gate, in two rows, the black numbers and letters read 83744 Hortencia Drive.

Jerome Jerry Polson said, There it is. As he pointed, his index finger thumped on the passenger window.

Blake touched the brake and glanced at the open laptop on the console below the dashboard. Read it to me.

Eighty-three seven forty-four. That’s it, Sarge.

Blake nodded. Yep. Okay, call it in. The unit is One Adam 17. We’ll be 10-6 at this address to take a missing persons report.

As the rookie reached for the mike, keyed it and conveyed the information to the dispatcher, Blake pulled the cruiser up alongside the curb. When he opened the door, a rush of warm air wafted into the car. It smelled of orange blossoms coupled with freshly mown grass.

The rookie hadn’t moved. It was only his second day in the car, and the sergeant didn’t always take him along.

Blake said, Come on.

Polson grinned as he worked the door handle. Routine, right?

Blake twisted in the seat and looked back at him. Nothing’s ever routine until after the fact. Remember that. Blake got out, closed the door and started around the car.

*

Just shy of 37 years old, Sergeant Delbert Blake was well-muscled but trim at 5’11" and 185 pounds. He was also well-tanned, had a square jaw and chin. He kept his dark hair cut high and tight, and had steely blue-grey eyes. No facial hair unless you counted his sideburns, which were trimmed precisely at the bottom of his ears.

In general, Polson looked like all rookies look until they’ve got some time under their belt: forgettable and new, their eyes filled with wonder at each new scene. Like they hadn’t seen anything until they looked at it through the eyes of a cop.

Specifically Polson was gangly at 5’10" and around 150 pounds, with smooth cheeks that looked as if he might have to shave once a week. He was pale with freckled skin, blue eyes and modestly cut copper-colored hair that protruded from beneath his cap on the sides and back.

By the time Blake opened the wrought-iron gate, the kid was on his heels.

As they approached the house, a yellow porch light blinked on. Then the door opened.

The screen door had a large glass pane in the top and an aluminum panel in the bottom. The yellow light reflected off the face of the man behind it. He was short at 5’7 or 5’8 and a little overweight at around 190 pounds. Mostly bald on top, 40-ish, in a white button-down shirt. He was frowning, an unasked question on his face.

Blake smiled and nodded. Evening, sir. Mr. Clements, right? Harold Clements?

Yes, that’s right. May I help you?

Blake said, You called in a missing persons report?

The frown deepened at first, then disappeared. Oh. Oh, yes. When I saw you, I thought maybe you’d found her.

No sir. Could we come inside, sir?

Certainly. He unlatched the screen door, then pushed it