Devil at the Crossroads: The Casefiles of Pythagoras Consulting

By Gregg Schwartzkopf

Pythagoras Consulting-nontraditional problem-solving methodologies.

When corporations, governments, or wealthy private citizens have a vexing issue that just won't go away, Neil Pythagoras can solve their problem… for a generous fee. The secret to his success is his invisibility. No one knows what he looks like, so he could be anyone.

When Neil agrees to impersonate a missing dog trainer so a regular client's pampered pooch can appear in a dog show, it results in his encountering bounty hunters, assassins, escaped convicts, and an old enemy who's been lurking in the shadows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregg Schwartzkopf
• Release date: Jan 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386239314

Gregg Schwartzkopf

For someone who has a great marriage, adult children, two grandchildren, and a stable day job, Gregg Schwartzkopf spends a fair amount of time in realms of fantasy. He's been an amateur magician, role play gamer and, yes, a delusional Mets fan (YOU GOTTA BELIEVE). Recently (that is, within the last decade) he decided to try his hand at creating stories in imaginary worlds that other people might like to share. To find out more about him and his writing life, check out his site at www.gs1word.com

Book preview

Case File 101-The Problem with Show Dogs

CHAPTER ONE—SPARKLE

All of my cases start with a problem, and this one started with Sparkle.

Sparkle, a male cocker spaniel bred for a social, friendly demeanor, knew I wasn’t his regular handler and was facing that truth with sullen resignation. The balding man in the Brooks Brothers tuxedo was charged with identifying defining characteristics of dog breeds, so when he made a small hand motion indicating my animal and I could leave the competition floor, it was no surprise. Instead of disappointment, I felt relief.

As I led Sparkle back toward the cluster of other fallen competitors, my phone buzzed. Removing it from my breast pocket, I saw a text message in bold capitals.

GET OUT NOW!

I’ve never been good at taking orders. Just ask my former military superiors. But Opal White, my office manager and the only person with my number, was rarely hyperbolic. If Opal said get out, I was leaving.

A few of the other handlers offered back-handed condolences that I accepted with a nod and wan smile. One portly fellow stepped out in front of me and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I hope you won’t be in trouble with the little heiress, Clive. She does dote on this dog.

Matilda’s a big girl, I replied as I escorted Sparkle into his carrier. She’ll get over it. Every dog has a bad day occasionally. I lifted the carrier and moved to the exit quickly. I tried to look like a man who was escaping humiliation rather than someone with instructions to run.

I loaded Sparkle into the back of my rental car and navigated the streets of Roanoke until I approached the entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway. A gas station with a convenience store presented itself, so I parked the car and called Opal.

She was not her normally controlled self. Please tell me you are clear of Roanoke, Neil

I’m almost on the Blue Ridge, but I parked to call you. What’s the matter?

You’re parked. You should have used Bluetooth.

I’m not risking it. This rental car might have malware. Do you know how much I paid for this phone?

I keep your books, remember. You have bigger problems. Clive Thorndyke’s body washed up on the shore of the Connecticut River near White River Junction, Vermont about two hours ago.

It took a minute for that to sink in. That’s really inconvenient, given I’m wearing his face right now.

My thoughts exactly, said Opal. As the police inquiry expands, they’re going to wonder how a dead man was at a dog show in Roanoke.

Have you reached Matilda?

Her phone keeps going to voice mail. I haven’t had any luck reaching her father either.

The Mastersons had hired me for this impersonation, so I was reluctant to contact the police before speaking to one of them. I’ll head for Winston-Salem tonight. I’ll need you to book a flight for me to New York under the name of Alan Rhodes.

Do you have a disguise kit with you?

Not being me is what I do, Opal. I always have a disguise kit on hand.

What about Sparkle?

I looked back at the cocker spaniel curled up asleep in his carrier. He wasn’t going to like what I had in mind.

STEP ONE OF MY VANISHING act involved Opal arranging to buy the car I was driving from the rental company. We charged it to Reginald Masterson, as he’d originally rented the car for Thorndyke. All my clients agree to cover my expenses in addition to my fee, but expenses on this case were going to exceed my usual lodging and meal receipts.

I waited in the gas station until someone drove in with an older midsize sedan. My luck held, as the driver was a college kid who’d inherited dad’s nine-year-old ride. The kid was happy to exchange his beater for my late model luxury car. I signed Masterson’s name to the registration and he signed his over to me.

The second step was my transformation from a middle-aged British expatriate into an older Midwesterner with a scraggly mustache. Alan Rhodes was one of my semi-regular aliases, and he looked nothing like Clive Thorndyke. I’d written a few self-published travel guides under the Rhodes pseudonym. It didn’t bother me that few people read them. I just needed a cover identity with an excuse to travel widely.

The last element was the most complicated. I purchased two medium-sized hot teas from the service station, pocketing the tea bags and allowing the water to cool down as I drove. The tourist information station on the Blue Ridge nearest to Roanoke was closed for the night. There were two napping semi-truck drivers parked there, but no other people to observe my odd behavior. I found an exterior spigot and an empty window-box planter. I retrieved my disguise kit from the car plugged the holes in the bottom of the window-box with facial putty, and dug out the black hair dye. I poured the tea water into my makeshift tub and added some cold water from the spigot. I woke the sleeping canine and muzzled him, also removing his monogrammed, padded, Italian leather collar so I wouldn’t accidentally stain it.

The dog already disliked me, so restraining him and scrubbing black hair dye into his fur didn’t spoil a beautiful relationship. While he squirmed and I lathered, I wondered anew why I’d accepted this project. I’m not a dog person. In truth, I’m not a domestic animal person. Ravens like me better than cats and dogs.

I’d done a lot of work for Reggie Masterson in the past. His daughter, Matilda, was a model with great fashion yet horrible business sense. Her father had me quietly vet agents, designers and potential boyfriends for red flags. I’d even looked into Clive Thorndyke’s background when Matilda hired him to train Sparkle for shows. I never expected I’d end up impersonating him or that someone might want him dead.

I finished with Sparkle, rubbing him all over with a make-up towel to insure the dye set before putting his collar back on and removing the muzzle. Opal checked in with me once more just after midnight. She still hadn’t reached the Mastersons, but the car and the early morning flight out of Winston-Salem were set. So Alan Rhodes and his pitch-black cocker spaniel drove down the Blue Ridge Parkway headed for a flight to New York.

That was the plan anyway.

CHAPTER TWO—BLUE RIDGE

Unlike me, Clive Thorndyke loved dogs. Training and managing show dogs was more than his job; it was his passion. He was less talented with people. When I vetted him, I looked at endorsements from his client list. All of them expressed satisfaction with his dog handling, but a few noted he was terse in his communications with them.

Clive was openly gay, but I didn’t find any long-term relationships in his background. There was no indication of acrimonious partings. Partners left when they realized he was married to his work.

I couldn’t think of any reason someone would have to kill him. He was honest in his business dealings and his dogs won more than they lost. Puzzling over the problem frustrated me, but at least it served as a distraction from Sparkle’s intermittent whining. I also had to fight highway hypnosis. Overnight traffic was light on the Blue Ridge. I was scrupulous about maintaining the speed limit to avoid attracting unwanted attention, so the few other cars I saw were mostly passing me.

The dark-colored Suburban came out of nowhere, headlights off and accelerating. I swerved, but it clipped me on the driver’s side hard enough to trigger my airbag. That prevented me from hitting the windshield, but I went off the road and slammed into a tree, so the glass shattered anyway.

I was slumped in my seat recovering from the impact when the other driver ran over and put fingers against my neck. He seemed to be feeling for a pulse.

Please be alive. I don’t get paid if you’re dead.

I reassured him that I was still breathing by grabbing his arm and yanking hard. He pitched forward and hit his head on the roof of my car. I pushed open the door and threw him backward onto the grass. As he struggled to stand, I landed a punch and then pinned him to the ground with my weight.

He relaxed as I sat on his chest, even managing a crooked smile. You shouldn’t exert yourself. You may have a concussion.

Your concern for my health is touching. Who’s paying you to take me alive?

You are Neil Pythagoras, aren’t you? I’m really screwed if I rammed the wrong car.

Really screwed describes your situation nicely, no matter who I am. Who hired you?

Then Sparkle came bounding out of the car, jumping over both of us and heading for the woods. My captive started to laugh. Well, there goes the dog, so you are who I think you are.

I mentally gave myself a kick in the ass. I’d taken every precaution to disassociate from the Clive Thorndyke identity and vanish from the radar again, never suspecting Sparkle as the weak link. I’ll help you find him if you let me up.

I wanted to beat him bloody, but I settled for knocking him out. Searching his jacket I found car keys and a pair of handcuffs undoubtedly meant for me. I lugged him back to his car and dumped him in the passenger seat. Looping the cuffs through the headrest, I locked both of his hands over his head. He recovered while I was searching for the receiver he used to track Sparkle’s collar. If you are trying to track a faceless man, one famous for being invisible to the public, saddle him with a recognizable cocker spaniel wearing a tracking collar.

My captive was carrying a Smith and Wesson .38 in his waistband, so I relieved him of it. I examined the damage to the SUV and determined that it was still drivable. The only risk was attracting attention for a broken headlight. My captive started groaning.

Now I think I might have a concussion. Could you drop me at the nearest hospital?

I walked over to the passenger side. You’re a cocky bastard. I may just drop you off the nearest cliff.

He started to shake his head, but apparently suffered for the effort. You have a reputation for being invisible and unstoppable, but not murderous. I suspect you’ll deliver me to the police, if you can figure out what crime I’ve committed.

How about attempted kidnapping?

Then you’ll have to admit that you’re the famous Neil Pythagoras and everyone will know what you look like.

I smiled evilly, which is a specialty of mine. I won’t look like this tomorrow.

For the first time he looked worried. I continued. You wait here like a good captive. I have to find my dog.

As much as I wanted to separate from Sparkle, I needed to retrieve the little cur to make a clean break with the Mastersons. The only way this setup worked was if Reginald knew he was putting a tracker on me. I needed to find out if my client had turned on me or if a third party was coercing him.

My car was not drivable. The dog carrier had come open during the crash and the catch was broken. I needed to jury-rig it to stay closed. I deemed that a problem for later. Taking kibble from the bag of overturned dog food on the floor of the car, I set off into the woods tracking Sparkle with the receiver.

The paranoid pooch led me on a merry chase for nearly an hour. He saw me approaching twice and, remembering me as the dude who dyed him black, he bolted both times. At least he stayed parallel with the road. Eventually, I waited until the tracker indicated Sparkle was moving in my direction. I put the kibble down in a clearing and found a good hiding spot to observe the bait. He stopped to eat and I grabbed him. Initially he growled and snapped, but soon realized I was not easily intimidated. He relaxed into his brooding sulk as I carried him back toward the cars.

I removed his collar as I headed for my vehicle. I needed to secure him in the carrier somehow and retrieve my disguise kit. I casually tossed the tracking collar under the wheels of the Suburban as I walked by, intending to crush it as I drove away.

If not spotting the tracker in the first place was my first mistake, throwing it away without examining it was my second.

CHAPTER THREE—AUTHORITIES

The explosion knocked me off my feet, but I didn’t lose my grip on Sparkle. I curled around him as a shield against falling debris. Small fragments peppered me, but nothing large, heavy, or flaming struck me directly. I stood as soon as I judged it safe and ran with the protesting pooch to my wrecked vehicle. I put Sparkle in the back seat, secured the doors and turned to survey the scene.

There were twisted pieces of metal burning on the road and on the shoulders. It was early spring, so the woods were damp and green. That reduced the possibility of a raging forest fire, but it resulted in a lot of smoke. Police, rangers, or firefighters would notice quickly. I had to act fast. I called for emergency services, stating that another driver ran me off the road just before his car caught fire. While making the call, I looked around for any sign of the handcuffs, as they would be hard to explain. I found them, charred and bloody still attached to the remains of a hand. Were it not for my combat experience, I might have vomited on the spot. Keeping rigid control on my stomach, I managed to bury my would-be kidnapper’s cuffs and gun several yards from the burning vehicle before a state patrol car arrived.

Two officers came up to me with flashlights playing over the terrain. One was a medium-build Caucasian man with graying temples. The other was a young African-American woman who stood half-a-head taller than her partner. She spoke first.

Are you hurt, mister?

I just have scrapes and bruises, but the other guy was in his car when the gas tank went up.

The man directed his flashlight at some of the larger debris. I’ve never seen a car go up like this. He must have been hauling something flammable.

If my suspicions were correct, the poor devil had been riding on dynamite or C4 without even knowing it. Whoever hired him rigged the bomb to go off when Sparkle’s collar was within a certain proximity, thus killing me, the dog, and the hireling. Regardless of what the kidnapper was told, the idea was never to bring me in alive. Alan Rhodes wouldn’t have guessed any of that, so I had to play dumb and let the police figure it out for themselves.

The female officer kept attention riveted on me. May I see your license and registration?

I handed her the documents and said, My name is Alan Rhodes and I’m a travel writer. I’m trying to get to Winston-Salem to catch a plane.

I’m afraid you’ll need to make other plans, Mr. Rhodes. Sparta is the base for my partner and me. You should probably be seen by a doctor at Alleghany Memorial.

I’m fine, officer. I don’t need medical attention.

You can sign off with the paramedics when they show up. Who signed this registration?

I looked at the back of the form. "Um, James Carter. I bought it from