Something Sketchy

By Louise Cates, Connie Feltch and Jack Golden

Something Sketchy is the story of a law intern, a private investigator, and an undercover police officer. They are tasked with sorting out and solving crimes committed by some frat boys who are up to something sketchy. The story is a modern day mystery that takes place in and around the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543955439

Book preview

Eight

Chapter One

It’s true what they say out in west Texas—it’s not the heat it’s the humiliation. I had an opportunity to prove this theory firsthand just six hours ago. At this point, I should be ashamed to admit that my name is Cates. I was my parent’s last hope for a boy, and my dad wanted to keep the family name alive, so my name is Elyse Cates, but I’ve gone by Cates since birth. Jealous yet? I was born and raised on a ranch in a small west Texas town and am now a second year law student at Dallas School of Law DSOL, which is in the most inconvenient place: downtown Dallas. I was offered a clerkship at a rather prestigious firm in Fort Worth over the summer, which works out perfectly because I now live in Fort Worth. The rush hour traffic between Dallas and Fort Worth is like a daily journey into hell, so I jumped at the chance to work at Sullivan and Clark, Attorneys at Law in their Fort Worth based office.

So, my professor has this great idea. She suggested that I go to Friday evening happy hour with the Sullivan and Clark legal staff aka my future colleagues. Sounded great at first—have a few beers, really impress the higher-ups. Unfortunately, I only drink beer; whereas, they (the higher-ups) drink every concoction ever created and are not afraid to buy a round for everyone. That went on until two a.m., and here I am six hours later enduring brief and embarrassing flashbacks of my night of shmoozing the bold and powerful.

Here’s how it went:

I show up at a fashionable time ready and willing to drink a few beers. The head honcho, Randall C. Sullivan, orders tequila shots all around. Jose Cuervo is no friend of mine, but what’s a girl to do? I file through my rationale for excuses but only remember a friend telling me that she sometimes throws her shot over her shoulder while the other unassuming drinkers partake in theirs. Knowing that wouldn’t work in this environment because the lady behind me had obviously had her beauty shop day and could probably take me in a fair fight, I take the shot like a man. Then another, then another, and so on, until I’m drunk like a freshman at her first frat party, and not just cute drunk like my sister gets sometimes, but legendarily and slovenly drunk like I might have peed my pants at one point, been alerted, and replied, No, really, I’m okay.

Earlier in the evening, before circling the drunk ass drain of disaster, introductions were made all around. Currently, I was talking to the other partner in the firm, Mr. Chris Clark. We were having a productive conversation when another man came up, said Hello, brother, as he clapped Mr. Clark on the shoulder. Clark said, This is Robert Jenkins, a brother from ‘the good ‘ol days’ of Omega Phi Pi. I had already been told that Jenkins is a premier client, so I knew to put forth the best version of myself, which, at this point, wasn’t much, but it’s all I got. I stood up straight although slightly wobbly, as Mr. Clark continued, Robert here is one of our most distinguished clients.

Jenkins said, I don’t know about distinguished. I think that’s just law speak for, ‘my son gets in a shit ton of trouble, but I have the money to pay you to bail his ass out’.

Sounds intriguing, I said because I really didn’t know what else to say. I knew it was time to make my exit, so I stepped over to the bar to rest, regroup and get an Uber to get my drunk ass home. Without even registering on my radar, Mr. Jenkins, aka Robert, was right beside me with two fresh shots in his hand. I was already so drunk I had quit drinking; that’s how drunk I was. My need to survive overshadowed my need to impress Jenkins. My compromised brain was attempting to generate a polite declination of the shots offered, when I noticed Sullivan making his way over with a very intense-looking younger man. There was a brief moment in which I was somewhat frightened that these two would also have shots in hand in an effort to finish me off. They came up and flanked me on both sides, both empty handed. Mr. Sullivan looked like Mr. Sullivan, but his friend, upon closer inspection, was tall and muscular with those broad shoulders you only see on athletes and that chiseled jaw only found in Hollywood or on Lego characters. As intoxicated as I was, I will remember this particular moment forever. Mr. Sullivan introduced him as Trip Connor, the firm’s private investigator. Trying to be clever, I stole a line from Cusack’s Gross Point Blank and, with considerable slurring, said, Well, you’re a handsome devil, what’s your name? But, of course, I had just been told his name, so in retrospect the comment was actually anti-clever. At the time, I thought I was coming across as demure, sexy, and mysterious.

I was determined to recover, but, while my brain said, Nice to meet you, my mouth said, You’re cute. Having already said a few stupid things, I hoped I had fallen victim to tequila goggles, and it wouldn’t really matter in the long run because no one is that hot. And, Lord knows I was wasted.

At the time, I tried to make the best of this bizarre situation, but now, laying in an aura of my own stench, in last night’s smoke stained clothes, and with a large hang-around, I realize that I came across as the stupid new intern who can’t handle her liquor. Putting the pieces together, I recalled that Mr. Sullivan asked Trip to give me a ride home because it was obvious to everyone that I could not drive myself. That is all I remember of the remainder of the evening. Oh please God, don’t let me have thrown up, in, or out of his car! P.S. God, please don’t let me have tried to kiss him, especially if I threw up, in or out.

My only happiness at this point is that it’s Saturday, and I can drift off into unconsciousness and forget this ever happened for a few more hours.

Chapter Two

An incessant ringing is drifting into my sleep. I live in a decently refurbished, private apartment complex in downtown Fort Worth, and I have very few friends, none that would stop by on Saturday morning. This better be important.

I open the door and there he is. Trip Connor, looking way better in his skin than anyone deserves to. And me, looking and smelling like a pair of old shoes he once threw away in high school. Any hope of redeeming myself is lost.

I told you I would be back for you at nine. Why aren’t you ready? he asked.

He was just as breathtaking as the previous night (yeah—no tequila goggle fiasco!). He wore Levi 505’s, a Texas Rangers T-shirt, and brown cowboy boots. The slight hint of DG’s Light Blue did me just right. This whole situation should be illegal. I was clearly at a disadvantage, plus, I thought there was a chance I was dreaming. I stood there idiotically.

So, it’s straight up nine. Are you ready to go get your car?

I stood utterly still in an attempt to be invisible while waking myself up from this unrelenting nightmare.

Trip didn’t vanish or fade. Instead, he said, Hello, anybody home?

Um, yes, I replied, Of course I was expecting you, and I’m ready.

This is your ready? he inquired without being overly rude.

I just have to freshen up, I said.

That’s an understatement.

Only take a minute, I replied as I rushed into the bathroom to brush my teeth with whatever harsh abrasives would restore that minty fresh taste. Oh no, oh no, oh no. My second strike already, through no fault of my own. I was so hoping our next meeting would include me in an upscale business suit, knockout hairstyle, and some semblance of intellectual ability.

I was able to wash my tits, pits, and lady bits, apply deodorant and perfume, mold my curly hair into some kind of dignified form, and find a decent outfit all in the scope of ten minutes. Not quite a vision of loveliness but worlds away from the gal that opened the door.

Chapter Three

Trip led me to a vintage ’69 cherry red mustang convertible and without thinking I said, Not exactly an inconspicuous ride for a P.I.

This isn’t exactly my work car. This is my baby. Built her myself from the ground up. It took me over three years. You rode home in my conspicuous P.I. car last night, or don’t you remember leaning out the window screaming, ‘This one time at band camp’?

God please, either let me die now or rewind the last 12 hours of my life. Well, I aim to entertain. Now, I’m making shit up? Of course, I remember. I was just commenting on the awesomeness of this fine automobile. Awesomeness?! Fine automobile?! Am I really this lame? Recognizing my surroundings, I realized I had precious few minutes to prove myself as a person worthy of his attention.

So, how long have you been at Sullivan and Clark? I groveled.

"About four