A Time for Dying A Phil Pfeiffer Thriller Book 2

By Oliver F. Chase

Phil Pfeiffer, former Army Ranger agrees to protect a lovely singer from an unpredictable and savage ex-boyfriend. Followed and threatened at every turn, the two manage to slip away unscathed only to find themselves beset by their own demons and disappointments. Evil forces remain to drive a wedge of suspicion leading to a wild west shootout and a jail. A chance encounter uncovers a plot to murder those who would stop the theft of a billion-dollar industry and destroy any hope of America’s greatness. Phil must weigh his own life against that of the killer and chooses to take both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver F. Chase
• Release date: Aug 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780996756471

Oliver F. Chase

Oliver grew up along America's coastline on military bases and like the rest of the kids played good guys and bad. Later, coaxing him into an afternoon of sailing Lake Erie, hiking the Southern California’s hills, or paddling a canoe in the North Carolina's backwater didn’t take much unless a book found him first.An old manual typewriter accompanied him overseas where the electricity proved spotty and the locals objected to his presence. He tried not to take the rejection personally and survived to do a bit of earning and finding stories in the most interesting of places.When the weather or friendly bookstores beckon, Oliver hits the road tucking laptop under an arm and looking for a story or a shade tree. As he likes to say, some characters just need writing.~Pearl River Publishing

Book preview

At first, Pfeiffer mistook the knock for the alarm clock and jolted forward. His startled arm sent the astronomy book to the floor.

The knock repeated.

In the gray haze of his mind’s half-sleep, he thought Maffesanti just returned from some gruesome crime scene. They’d been friends since the Army, even if one made his living as a cheap private detective chasing bail skips nowadays, while the other headed a premier police lab cracking some of the city’s most heinous crimes.

Maffesanti usually dropped by if he saw the lights on, but Pfeiffer had killed him, just as sure as if he’d pulled a trigger.

Knock, knock.

Though only a year had passed since he’d taken the Greyhound from Los Angeles, Pfeiffer knew night-thoughts mixed past and present. The thick police report he’d read that evening came from Maffesanti. A year ago, his friend died retrieving a similar one from the rental trunk. Maffesanti thought he could crack the case. Instead, it killed him.

Knock, knock.

Copies of twenty-year-old investigations, dips into the criminal database at Quantico formed up chronologically, logically, but without Maffesanti’s guiding thoughts. Pfeiffer pieced the work together, and yet he could not tell a living soul. The secrets he held must be carried to the grave.

Knock. Knock.

Bolts of heat lightning chased one another across the Sonoran Preserve. He ignored the show outside and the noise at the door. His mind’s eye read a Missouri investigator’s report about an unhappy teenage girl trumping up a molestation charge against the male teacher.

A childish action with grave consequences.

Her brother took revenge, blowing up the teacher’s mailbox, scarring a face and mangling a hand. When hallway whispering eventually drove him mad, the teacher committed suicide.

The fourteen-year old brother barely ticked a mark on the anthropometry charts. Sharing the womb’s few nutrients with his sister took a toll on both babies. He didn’t stand a chance in a child’s penitentiary.

Knock. Knock.

The incarcerated son of a mob captain chose to protect the little boy, but not out of philanthropic zeal. Eventually, the boys taught one another key survival and life skills. The reformatory’s librarian kept a password under the keyboard and at night, the boys often devoured stories of crime, occult, and evil genius. To each his own, as they say. The one boy learned planning and execution, and infallible escape. The crime boss’s son hyperlinked Enron and ran columns of figures in his mind bettering the best government analysts.

Knock. Knock.

Pfeiffer roused himself, called out, A moment.

The night remained, deep and black. The clock, two fifteen. He pulled the .45 semiauto pistol from the coffee table drawer. They’d found him, finally, and it was payback time.

The hammer, notched at safe, thumbed back to lethal. Seven in the magazine, one in the chamber. He clicked off the only light in the room and peered out the side window.

She stood on the apartment’s concrete walkway, illuminated by moonlight, a coat collar little protection against the desert’s gritty wind. Her face, vaguely familiar, rang alarm bells in his brain.

She spotted him at the window. Large, dark eyes locked his. For a long moment, they both stared.

Her lips formed a single word. Please.

The curtain slipped from his fingers, and he stood motionless. She’d worn a bikini in the Las Vegas sun then and bedeviled his dreams since.

He cracked the door, his foot wedged tightly.

It’s pretty late, he said, a harsh whisper but not from neighborly consideration. His mouth made no spit.

Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. She tried to see into the dark wedge of door. Mr. Pfeiffer? Did I make a mistake?

He readied the pistol behind the door. Frigid wind whipped in the apartment’s corridor. He’d lived a lifetime since seeing her last.

Do I have the wrong apartment? I’m—

Lisa Calendar. What do you want? His voice wasn’t unkind.

Could I please come in? It’s the coldest night of the year, and I’m freezing.

She wore slender heels that had them looking nearly eye to eye despite his six-one. He readied himself for a pair of Vegas thugs.

None appeared.

Please.

Not that long ago, she’d set her companions on him, just for a ten-minute conversation at poolside. He dropped the chain and stood back, tightening his one-handed shooting grip. He had reason to be cautious recalling the black hole and downward spiral that became his life on the day he met this woman.

She stepped quickly in and he threw home the deadbolt. She looked down at the pistol.

Pfeiffer checked her empty hands but didn’t relent. What do you want?

He eyes skipped around the apartment. To talk. I won’t take much time.

He followed her gaze and sighed. Okay, have a seat … if you can find one. Papers and books covered every flat surface in the cramped living room.

She offered a tentative smile and stepped between the stacks. He gathered Maffesanti’s research and placed it face down in its cardboard box.

I’m sorry to impose, Mr. Pfeiffer, but I’ve got to talk to you. Wind-mussed dark hair left her even more lovely.

The furnace kicked on. His sleeping mind conjured her so many times in the Bahamian prison, burning with fever in the Miami halfway house, and even in the okay-times since. The guilt for thinking only of this woman so overwhelmed him after the explosion, he’d let Gloria, a longtime girlfriend, go away without a struggle or an explanation.

Okay? she asked, indicating a chair holding a single book.

Make yourself at home.

She didn’t mistake his tone. I’ve disturbed you. I’m sorry. And your wife, she added with a glance at the dark hallway.

Do you mind? she asked, letting the coat slide off, and reading the well-worn book’s binding. "Astronomy and Astrophysics. She looked up. Are you a student?"

There was no wife and she wasn’t armed. Still, he didn’t relax.

No, he said. I’m curious, that’s all. Secondhand bookstore. I recall you reading some pretty heavy stuff at the pool that day.

Yeah. Getting ready for finals and seeing if I could remember anything after so many years. She looked up and set her jaw. Mr. Pfeiffer? You barely know me, but … I hung on to your card. I’m in trouble and I need help.

I gathered. Why me? Your friends tried to kill me back then.

The intake of her breath answered raspy and uneven. I didn’t have anything to do with that. You seemed like a nice guy. I don’t know anything about later. Honestly.’ She pulled a worn and dog-eared paper from her coat pocket. Your old landlord told me where you’d moved. The internet did the rest.

Wouldn’t it just be easier to find someone in Las Vegas? To help you, I mean.

She smiled grimly. Vegas might look big, Mr. Pfeiffer, but it’s a small town. She fumbled in her purse.

He gripped the pistol and readied himself.

Her eyes stayed on the purse. You can’t do anything in Las Vegas without someone knowing your business. She riffled her pockets too. Terrible time to quit smoking. Do you have a cigarette?

He shook his head. Do anything like what?

She took a moment longer, and then gave up. Maybe I should just start at the beginning. She dropped a gold lighter back into her handbag. It looked expensive.

Start from wherever you want, he said. Would you like something to drink? I have beer.

No, thanks, she said, standing. Her face told him this wasn’t the reception she expected. Maybe this is a bad time for you.

She glanced toward the bedroom, then looked at him, large brown eyes filling with involuntary tears. She wasn’t a kid. Maybe early thirties, the not-so-wonderful transition between anything goes and reaping one’s misspent youth. He recalled wasting time there, too. And now, instead of enjoying and taking life as it came, she was here with him, a washed-up detective in an Arizona dirt storm.

As if on cue, wind whipped against the sliding patio glass.

She drew a deep breath. That’s what life is about, isn’t it, Mr. Pfeiffer? Timing, I mean. Nothing works without good timing. I’m a singer, or I used to be. I wanted to record a song that would make me a star, but it was never the right time. Or, I guess, the right song. I’m not too bad, actually, but I never really clicked. She gathered her London Fog from the chair. I should know about timing, and mine has been pretty miserable.

Relax, he said, making a decision to hear her out. Stay and talk. I don’t mean to be callous, but a lot’s happened since we first met.

He poured a beer into two glasses. Sorry. My last.

She sipped and sat. That day at the pool? My ex-boyfriend told me to make up a story if you showed up. At first, I got most of it right, but you weren’t what I expected. Victor told me you were a cop. He owns people in the police department, and I thought we were just going through the motions. You know, for the paperwork. But then you turned out to be a real detective. Victor didn’t own you. He never involved me in his business before, and that made me scared. When you started interrogating me, you looked right through me. Her jaw set. And then you tricked me.

He recalled stumbling around an amazing creature in a skimpy bathing suit, but not the trick. He said nothing.

She seemed to relax a bit. "When you demanded to know the name of Heather’s boyfriend, I couldn’t think of anyone else. So, I said his name. It was the truth, and he was so furious."

Victor Elephante, he said.

She swallowed hard and glanced at the black glass of the patio door. You see? You even remember his name. After all this time. She lifted the glass to her lips. He noticed the tips of her fingers quivering. Victor is Family in Las Vegas, Mr. Pfeiffer. I know you understand ‘Family.’ He also has friends. Some he pays, some who pay him. He has lots of them.

He did understand. Do you remember the photos I showed you? She nodded. Was Elephante one of them?

Oh, no, she said, too quickly. Victor’s very Italian, very masculine. I always believed they’re the second-best men in Las Vegas. She looked up, but he didn’t fill the silence. The best ones ride white horses and live in fairy tales.

Her words grew a hard edge.

The best ones, Mr. Pfeiffer, take care of you and protect you from all the rest, the pimps and thugs and creeps. She stopped, taking a deep breath, and sipped the beer. I thought for a long time Victor rode a white horse. He was my boyfriend, after all. One day, he told me to join a couple of other girls to meet some Los Angeles studio types. I wasn’t beautiful and young like the others, but I was thrilled anyway. This is how people make the important connections. I have a nice voice, but that’s not enough. The connection turned out to be some businessmen from the Coast looking for a good time. I don’t do that. I’m not a bimbo, and I told Victor. We argued.

Pfeiffer finished his glass, knowing the answer before he asked the question. What happened?

She sighed. The standard. I said a lot of things. I said one too many. He hit me and threw me out. Literally, like in the movie. On a Saturday afternoon in full view of God and the neighbors. He had his housekeeper throw my clothes on the front lawn, too. I had to pick up my underwear and bras in a plastic bag. An armful of clothes with no place to go. That’s pretty humiliating.

Pfeiffer winced.

She continued, her voice cool and introspective. I was lucky he didn’t kill me. I’m sure Victor’s Mafia, even if he never told me. I heard him on the phone lots of times. And of course, there’s pillow talk. Bragging. She looked around and sighed. I really need a cigarette.

Sorry. Do you know who he works for?

No. Well, yes. The Golden Desert Casino. It’s owned by the Civella family.

He had a crazy idea. Does he have anything to do with accounting?

How did you know? she asked, admiration in her voice. For all his masculinity, he runs the cash room, and the banking for the casino. For a couple of casinos. An accountant. Go figure. He’s excellent with numbers. He listens to the news and can predict what a company’s stock will do. He buys and sells all the time. He could calculate our grocery bill standing in line without touching a pencil. He was never wrong.

She looked away in embarrassment.

That was a few years ago, of course, then something happened. He became a big wheel and he didn’t care about restaurant tabs. He just threw wads of bills on the table and walked out. She drained the beer glass and fidgeted.

Pfeiffer said, Sorry. That was my last one.

She ignored the apology. Let’s be clear about something. If he wanted to impress someone, we went to restaurants and he’d bring me necklaces or earrings from the casino store. Sometimes he’d bring a dress. You know how this works, right?

Help me out.

She took a deep breath. I was the window dressing for whoever he wanted to impress. He never asked me to marry him. That was never in the cards. I’m not Italian or Catholic, so I wouldn’t qualify even if he was what I wanted. Everything I wore went back to the store the next day, including the dresses.

Elephante’s an idiot. The thought jumped unbidden from his mouth. Sorry. Why are you scared now?

She smiled. This is kind of a long story. He nodded, and she went on. Okay. You might remember the name Heather Price?

He remembered well. He’d been sent to Mexico to retrieve a death certificate for a wayward husband killed in a boating accident. Heather Price, likely the man’s girlfriend, had died with him. She’d been the first of many people to die in the shadow of Howard Trimble.

Lisa continued. I didn’t know Heather Price all that well. Victor told me to put her up at my place when she first came to town. I didn’t really want to, but you don’t refuse Victor. One day, she bumped up my internet service and doubled the cost. I got the bill and said something to him. He handed me a hundred dollars and said never to talk to anyone about her. Ever. And I haven’t, until now.

Okay.

Then, he wanted us to work together. So, I had to get rid of Mia, the other girl in the act. Heather joined me and a friend who played piano. The Calendar Girls, version two. Heather wanted to do a little standup comedy along with singing. I couldn’t say no. She was … not good. The jokes were all dirty and she used four-letter words to get laughs.

He recalled the photograph of them in over-the-shoulder glamour poses.

She didn’t like to rehearse, Lisa continued. When we scheduled time, she showed up late or not at all. It got us into trouble.

What do you mean?

Right after Mia left, we got booked to open for Randy Vale, a great Elvis impersonator. The best in the business, and a friend until Heather arrived.

What happened?

"Well, the Calendar Girls didn’t. A critic gave us a lousy review, said we didn’t do Randy any favors. I know the newspaper guy. He’s okay, and never hurt me before. But this time he really kicked us for screwing up. We hadn’t rehearsed, and he was right. Randy had just been named Time magazine’s Elvis Impersonator of the Year. When Heather read the review, she came unglued. Randy’s a sweetheart and never said a mean word."

You got fired?

Yes and no. You shake off bad reviews because you can’t please everyone. But there was no excuse for us that night. We really sucked and Bobby, he’s the guy who wrote us up, was right. I talked to him, and he was sorry, but meant every word he wrote. I told Randy to get someone else. He didn’t try to talk me out it.

Pfeiffer wondered where the conversation was taking them.

The Vegas cops raided the newspaper the next weekend. They arrested Bobby for rape. A little girl in Seattle. He never seemed like that kind of a guy, and he said he’d never been to Seattle. They kept him in jail because he was wanted in Minneapolis, too. Serial rapist, DNA, everything. For six months, he was in jail. The paper fired him, of course. I heard he lost everything, wife, family, all his money. She watched her hands. He was finally cleared. A computer screw-up. A hacker got into the system. He wasn’t a bad guy, Mr. Pfeiffer. Someone went after him big-time. If they could do him like that, I’d be child’s play.

You think it was Heather?

Her frightened eyes shocked him. I don’t think. I don’t ever want to go there. I had to work with her, and she scared the hell out of me. After that, I was careful never to rock the boat.

Please. Continue.

She took a deep breath. We kept getting gigs. Amazing because we still didn’t sound good enough. We opened for Jersey Boys and did the MGM lobby for the dinner crowd. Usually, singers pay their dues first. They put up with the rough stuff, you know, dirty dressing rooms, and roaches the size of cucumbers. Heather was new to the Vegas scene and she was playing the Strip. Unbelievable. Our manager, one of Victor’s friends, got us these week-on, week-off gigs. We never sounded any better together. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t fault Heather. We just never meshed. You can’t force chemistry. I tried to tell Victor, but he wasn’t having any of it. I was obligated, he said … so, I went along, collected my money, and kept my mouth shut.

I see.

At first, I tried to play mama because she looked like a little kid. Pretty, with big blue eyes and white, silky hair. She could wear a vamp wig or French curls. I thought she was fragile, like crystal, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I tried to give her tips but she made it clear she didn’t want my help. Besides, she had a scary temper. More than once … She looked up. Never mind. Victor told me I was responsible for her. There was nothing I could do."

Pfeiffer remained silent.

She misunderstood. Look. I’d already blown my chance to use some great opportunities. Long story, but when you use up your reputation, that’s called the end of your rope. That’s where I was at. If you want to sing in Vegas, Mr. Pfeiffer, you’ve got to get along. It’s just the way things are done. Do you understand?

Yes, he said. I know about getting along. Heather was apparently not the only one with a temper.

Lisa seemed to accept this and took a deep breath before continuing. "One night, Heather didn’t show up for our gig. I went on without her. The owner was royally pissed off. During the break, the piano player called a friend of his. Heather had died in Mexico. I got scared. I watched the club’s door for three hours that night, knowing if he came in, I’d be