In No Way Guilty: A Richard Lacey Detective Mystery

By Taylor Jones

Richard Lacey, former Pittsburgh Steeler turned detective, is contacted by Jeanette Green to resolve the shooting of her deceased, compulsive gambling husband, Syd. Lacey tells her to let sleeping dogs lie, but she insists on an investigation.

What seems like a routine investigation turns into a sack of scorpions when both the Mafia and the State of New Jersey take interest. Laceys pregnant wife, Marilyn, is kidnapped, pitting Lacey against the mob.

Lacey finds that Syd was involved in the construction of a new center in Atlantic City. He works with government authorities to untangle the involvement of the mob in Atlantic City construction. When a hit on Lacey by the mob fails, government agencies make a clandestine move on the mob. Later, Lacey discovers that the mob was not involved in the hit on Syd Green. He finds the solution much closer to home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469754789

Taylor Jones

TAYLOR JONES was inspired to start Dearphotograph.com as he flipped through old family photos at his parents’ kitchen table. The twenty-one-year-old came across one of his brother sitting at the same table and lifted it up to match the lines of the photo to what he saw in front of him, then snapped a picture of the picture. In a moment, Dearphotograph.com was born, creating an Internet phenomenon that has captured the hearts of millions from around the world.

Book preview

1

I never work on a holiday—especially Labor Day. No way! It’s against my religion. I’d have been out on the golf course knocking that inch-and-three-quarters, dimpled, white sphere around; probably be on the sixteenth hole by now. My wife, Marilyn, stood in front of my desk with her hands on her hips. I don’t care if it’s Christmas and Easter combined. We have a client coming from New Jersey and it’s her only day off.

What about my day off? I asked.

You played golf yesterday, Bozo. She straightened a few things on my desk. I saw your score card. Maybe you need a day’s rest.

I frowned. What’s her name?

She shook her hair like she does. Her name is Jennifer Green. She’s a schoolteacher.

I shook my head. Schoolteachers not only don’t need detectives, they don’t have any money to pay them.

Marilyn patted her tummy. This baby will soon be here. She will want to eat.

He will want to eat, I said.

Marilyn puckered her lips like she was giving me a kiss. She! No doubt in my mind.

Marilyn went back out to the reception desk. Being so heavy with my son, it was more of a waddle.

The Green woman’s appointment was for eleven. It was half-passed. I read the sports page. On Saturday, the Nittany Lions, in the last seconds of the game, squeaked past Boston College by kicking a field goal.

At eleven forty-five I pushed the intercom button. She here yet? I want to play golf.

Marilyn’s voice came back on the squawk box, I think she’s coming up the stairs. I heard the door slam. I wish you would fix the darn thing.

What do you think I am, a carpenter?

She didn’t answer.

The pigeon I call Tufy pranced on my window sill and cooed to gain the favor of the scraggly blue-bar hen, Betty. He was ready to start another brood. Tuffy is a chestnut homer with white blotches that reminds me of Jenny, a tumbler I kept in my pigeon loft in my dad’s barn back in Ohio when I was an all-knowing twelve-year-old.

There’s something screwy in the brain of a tumbler. It can be flying straight as the proverbial crow then suddenly tumble, tumble, tumble—sometimes almost to the ground—as with poor Jenny. Jenny usually gave a tumble just before she landed on a perch. One day I was standing in my dad’s soy bean field telling a traveling-salesman joke to my school friend, Freckle-Face Larry, when Jenny tumbled into a power line and broke her neck. Her last fluttering tumble was to the ground—dead.

Marilyn brought Jeanette Green into my office, gave me a wow look, which client Green couldn’t see. She dropped the folder containing the forms she had express mailed to Linwood, New Jersey at the clients request. Mrs. Green had to be very serious. Marilyn went back to whatever she was doing before Mrs. Green arrived.

She was tall for a woman. It wasn’t because she wore burgundy spikes either, but designer jeans and soft white sneakers. Her hair was soft and flowed just over the shoulders of her heavy sweater with its wide collar, the colors in her hair blending in with the ochre strands of wool. She looked to me as if she were ready to board some bigwig’s catamaran or perhaps his yacht.

I dropped the folder on the desk and stood as she approached. I shuffled around the desk to greet her. She gave a troubled smile, but her grip was firm, her long fingers with slightly swollen knuckles barely reaching around my boxing-glove hand.

Her hair was darker along the part. I could smell a faint wave of lilacs. I was mesmerized for a minute.

She stood there quietly, her sweater swelling slightly with her breathing, the light dancing off her high cheekbones. She gave my hand a slight squeeze, her emeralds eyes peering into my privacy. I took the hint that I was holding her hand too long and waved her to my guest chair.

She looked at the chair like it might taint her clothing—perhaps not even support her weight. I leaned my head to the side and she sat down.

She perused my office, taking things in with her curious eyes. She didn’t seem to be impressed by the photograph of me shaking hands with the head of the FBI, not even in my Steelers uniform. She was use to better surroundings. I surmised that she wished she had called another detective agency.

Linwood? I said.

Now she was looking at my person. Evidently my flowery shirt didn’t look too professional for a detective having my lack of stature. I’d gained a few pounds and the pearl buttons were struggling to hold the shirt closed. She said, It’s near Somers Point, the first town north.

Oh, I’ve been through Linwood. A nice Mainland community with a slogan—’Linwood Pride.’

She was very serious. My oldest son, Mark, thinks it’s corny. He’s not the only one. I like it, myself.

Her hands betrayed that she played the piano. Her voice betrayed something else. It was the tone and rhythm. Are you a singer as well as a school teacher?

You are perceptive, Mr. Lacey. I teach music as well as physical education. Maybe you can guess why I’m here. She laughed. Her’s was a soft laugh, not sarcastic, a rippling laugh that complemented her first smile.

I felt more relaxed. You’re a long way from home, Mrs. Green. One hundred and forty miles from York to be exact.

She cocked her lovely head to the side, her hair shifted with the move. I don’t want to use a local detective and the police have given up—

I raised my hand. Slow down, Mrs. Green. I’m still guessing.

She smiled again. Everybody knows everything in our community. I thought an out-of-town detective might be able to keep things more confidential. I have a business and I don’t want to embarrass or anger my clients. My husband was shot in a casino garage and the police have decided it was a robbery, an unsolvable robbery at that.

He had enemies?

He was a compulsive gambler, Mr. Lacey. We co-owned a real estate agency, an insurance business, and part of a real estate development. He gambled away the profits and left the creditors hanging. Yes, he made enemies. You know that all gamblers do.

She rose from her chair in a graceful manner and walked to the window and interrupted the pigeon nuptials. Tuffy and Betty fluttered off. My husband wasn’t killed, Mr. Lacey, not then anyway. He died of a heart attack a year later when he underwent surgery for a complication from a chest wound he got in the shooting. You can read about it in the forms I filled out and brought with me.

I stood up. So he was hit in the chest. Didn’t he recognize the assailant?

She came back from the window. No. He was hit in the head too. That was the wound we all worried about. He had absolutely no memory of the shooting.

And the memory didn’t come back? I said.

No. At least he never admitted it. Syd could deceive an angel.

I nodded my head. Compulsive gamblers seem to have that skill highly developed.

She stood up for no reason and placed her hands on my desk. But in fact, the head wound changed his personality for the better. He wasn’t able to take excessive stress after that, but he was much less compulsive and he stopped gambling all together. He became a very gentle man.

I could see from her facial expression that she wasn’t completely pleased by her late husband’s personality transition. I stood up and pushed my hands into the small of my back. Too many bumps on the gridiron. Like a different person?

She sat down again. He worked in our insurance business, just selling. I quit teaching for one school year to help him get reestablished. I handled the real estate agency and the business end of the insurance agency. We regained most all that he had lost in gambling and repaid all of his debts.

I sat down. How did you ever do that? I said.

She stood up again and went to the wall and looked at my pictures, touching them with her fingers. "We were separated just before he was shot. He hit a progressive slot machine for four-hundred thousand dollars and I learned about it. That’s why I went back to him. My children and I needed that money. Syd and I met in the Knife and Fork restaurant on Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City the night he was shot. I laid down the rules for reconciliation and he agreed to follow them. We had separate cars. He walked me to my car in the open lot and then went to the garage for his. He was shot while I was driving home."

I said, So that’s how you paid off the creditors, from the win and operating your businesses together when he recovered?

Yes. After he died, I hired an experienced man as office manager and went back to teaching school. I had more than enough money from Syd’s insurance. I still go to the office after school everyday to help with any problems.

She twisted her hands.

I decided that she was one schoolteacher who could pay a detective. I see that you prefer to teach. Coffee, Mrs. Green?

No thank you, Mr. Lacey. Yes, teaching is what I love to do. That’s what I studied at Rutgers, music and education.

It was time for my speech so I stood up. Mrs. Green, I suggest you go home and forget this whole thing and get on with your life. It’s not always profitable to explore the caverns of the past. Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.

She looked at me like I was crazy. She sat down and twisted in her chair.

I was sorry to be the one that had caused the agitation. Do you think that you are in danger, Mrs. Green?

She leaned her head to the side. No.

Then why?

It started the night that he was shot, Mr. Lacey. I had to know who shot him and why. I still feel the same way. I can’t help it. I’ve got to know. I want the truth. I want to know who shot my husband. Tears formed in her eyes and droplets formed tiny streams that flowed over the flawless skin of her cheeks.

I stood up and walked around the desk. Marilyn kept a box of Kleenex tissues on my desk for such occasions. I offered her one and she took it. If I find the truth, the killer, and we can’t prove it in a court of law, will you be satisfied enough to forget it?

I’d slapped her into Befuddlement Land. After a pause she said, I just don’t know.

She was honest, but I knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until the killer was either dead or wished he were dead. It was time to prevaricate, to mislead, to get her out of my office. I stood at my desk and walked toward the door. She followed me like a sad puppy. I said, I’m not licenced in New Jersey. I can’t leave my clients here, either. I’m sorry, Mrs. Green.

She wasn’t going to give up. I could see it in her eyes. Her silver earrings flashed the light from the window, swinging pendulums that, if used in a fishing lure, might land a lunker trout. There’s another reason that I can’t use a local detective. Do I have to tell you why now? I’ll give you a five-thousand dollar advance.

I tried not to gasp at the offer. I wondered, What does she really want me to prove? I decided to guess. I said, Perhaps you would be satisfied to know that a certain person didn’t kill your husband.

Her face flushed. She hesitated before she said, I think you’ve walked this road before, Mr. Lacey. Please take the case.

She probably has a lover, I thought. She wants to make sure he didn’t kill her old man. I said, I think I’ll be able to get right on it, Mrs. Green—as soon as I get permission from the State of New Jersey to operate there. My attorney can handle it for me. I’ll study the information you provided on these forms. You can make additions before you leave if you like. Any questions on how we operate?

She walked toward the door. You’ll have questions after you read the forms. I’ve got to get back to the shore now. I imposed on my neighbor to watch my children. Thanks, Mr. Lacey.

Now she was a client. I never lie to a client. I just don’t take back the old lies. I walked back to my desk and stood in front of it.

She came back to the desk and pointed to the forms, then tapped the desk with her finger. I think that most everything is there.

I thought, Everything isn’t there.

She said, I guess money does talk. I’ve always wanted to try that.

I sensed that there was a cache of fun inside her, but it was now buried in her despair. Maybe that was my job, to bring her out of it. I laughed my new-found-money laugh. Questions?

She was too close to me and her lips were full, her lipstick a fade into her lip’s natural color. I just hate temptation. She said so softly, Not now, I guess. Then as if she were reading my mind, she said, But maybe there are some things I should have written and didn’t. You’ll have questions.

She left my office and I watched from the window until she came out onto Duke Street below. She looked both ways, crossed the street, and climbed into her car. It was a red Corvette and the polished chrome glistened in the sun. When she got into the fun machine, I thought of her

as a rose gliding back into her rose garden. How appropriate for her visit to the White Rose City.

Marilyn came in. I was still gawking out the window.

A rich widow. Nuts!

Competition?

I’m seven months pregnant and I walk like a kosher goose. What do you think?

I turned. You’re right, at least seven months, I would say.

She puckered. Why didn’t you invite her to lunch, cheapskate.

She was wearing her even-day, multi-colored smock over a pair of gray slacks with the front cut out. Her odd-day outfit wasn’t much different. She refused to waste her good money in the maternity shop on Market Street. I said, Where’s your shoes?

My feet are like watermelons.

So are your breast but you don’t take them off. Did you take your medicine?

She didn’t laugh. It might hurt the baby.

Who told you that? Not Dr.—

Lunch? Why didn’t you invite her. That’s no way to treat a client that hands over five grand in cash. She shook her hair again.

Cash? Why have you got your hands behind your back? She didn’t hand me any—

Marilyn waved the cash in my face. I tried to get the money, but no luck. I kissed her and felt the baby move. I tried to snatch the bills from her hands behind her back. I said, She was a two-hour luncher. I don’t have time for that. Not on a holiday. At least, let me feel the money.

She smiled, We’re off to the Roosevelt Tavern for guess what?

A two hour lunch? No! Besides they might be closed for lunch today—you’d have to put on your shoes too.

If so, then the Green Tree. It’s open. And that’s no way to talk to the mother of your first child. Besides you can have your favorite, a crabmeat omelette.

Now, how could I resist such sweet talk? I said, No, the Reliance Café. We can grab a sandwich and I can hit the links.

She said, Now I know that they’re not open today. Tuffy, the cock pigeon, was back cooing and strutting. Betty, the hen, seemed to be very interested.

2

My attorney, Ray Fitzpatrick, got me cleared for a thirty-day operational period in New Jersey. He called a friend at home who would handle the matter, just as I had called him at home. The next morning, Tuesday, I drove to Ocean City, the one in New Jersey, not the one in Maryland with the good french fries.

I took the southern route through Red Lion that followed the Susquehanna to I-95 through the Port Republic speed trap. I pealed off I-95 onto Highway 40 to Mays Landing and then took the back roads to Somers Point. I dreamt that I was in my red corvette with the top down, cruising through Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania, the wind rushing through my hair. I had to stop the dream only once to add two quarts of oil to my old Thunderbird.

The traffic on the Ocean City Causeway was lighter than in midsummer because the kids had gone back to school. I remembered to slow down almost too late. The cop sitting in the patrol car on the Ocean City side shook his head but didn’t pull me over. I slowed down and watched the birds glide in the wind—the boats bucking the waves—the churning green waters of the bay.

I found the bed and breakfast on Plymouth Place that my friend, Al Grove, just bought. There was no place to park but on the street. I parked on the other side of the narrow street.

Al was placing flashing on the roof of the third story of the Sea Parrot Inn. He yelled from his perch. Be right down, Rich.

I knew he was crazy to be up that high. Crazy Al. Pretty steep. Don’t fall off that ladder. You don’t have to come down just for me.

The cumulus clouds passed overhead like a silent parade of living creatures, a blot here, a blot there, each to be interpreted. He said, The sun’s winning the battle here, but I’ll be done in a couple of minutes.

I looked up the street toward the boardwalk, just row houses and apartment rentals. When he climbed down the ladder, he said, I wish to heck I didn’t buy this place. Too much maintenance to do and the house is full of strangers every morning looking for a free breakfast.

I said, And I guess you make the beds and clean the johns too?

He took off his painter’s hat. Now that you’re here, you can help me. What do you want, the johns or the beds? He wiped the perspiration from his sunburned forehead and looked at me with his ever-searching eyes. I didn’t tell him why I was there.

Al is a retired parole officer. His wife, Anne, is still a gun-totting deputy sheriff. I shook his hand, gave him a hug, and patted him on the back, Marilyn called, I guess.

Yes she did. Congratulation on the baby! November? I put you in the big room. It’s the first room to the right on the first landing. The shoebees can take what’s left.

In the early days, the Philadelphians took the train to Atlantic City carrying their lunches in shoe boxes. Now anybody not from South Jersey is called a shoebee, especially the men that walk the beach in shorts, black socks and street shoes.

Al rubbed his nose. "What brings you down here? How long can

you stay.

Same stuff. Maybe a week. I said. Any problem?

He twisted his neck like he had a kink in it. No problem. The season is slowing down. A working trip? I didn’t know you worked outside of Pennsylvania… I’m hungry from all that climbing. How about you.

Ever-curious, Al. I asked, Anything open on the boardwalk? Maybe I would tell him why I was there later, but not now.

He answered, "Sure. Most everything’s open. September’s the last big month. Lot’s of old folks. Let me wash my face and put on