Cast the First Stone: Sidney Stone - Private Investigator (Paranormal) Mystery, #1

By K.J. Emrick and S.J. Wells

Imagine seeing your future... in 3 second intervals...

Introducing Sidney Stone — Private Investigator - She's smart, she's tough and she never gives up!

Sidney Stone isn't rich, if she doesn't work she doesn't get paid. A private investigator's life can be tough in the motor city of Detroit.  

But she has a few tricks up her sleeve...

Like being able to see into her immediate future. Her very immediate future!

Returning home after completing her latest case, Sidney Stone discovers her next client waiting for her. 

Nothing out of the ordinary there except he is holding a large package addressed to her. 

She's not expecting anything so who's sending her a package? It's so large, what could be inside?

Little does she know that the package contents will change her life!

And who is this man and what problem does he have for Sidney to solve? 

Get your copy of Cast the First Stone today, to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: South Coast Publishing
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393120292

Book preview

Prologue

There are no rich private investigators.

I know, I know, you’ve all seen Magnum P.I.—the good one with Tom Selleck, not the remake—and you believe that P.I.’s like me live in the lap of luxury while taking our pick of cases that interest us. We drive hot cars and have the respect and admiration of our friends and strangers alike.

The truth of things is that we live pay-check to pay-check just like the other hardworking Americans out there, only we don’t get a pension or a paid vacation. If we don’t work, there’s no money coming in. I’ve got about seven hundred dollars in my bank account right now, and this is a good week for me.

So sometimes, you have to take the jobs that are right in front of you, whether it’s good pay or bad. You work the case that falls on your doorstep because if you wait for something better, it could be days or weeks before it comes along. If ever. You take what you can, when you can, and you thank your lucky stars to have it.

Even if the job is finding a stolen dog.

Yup. Dognapping. All the crime there is in Detroit, and I’m working on finding a stolen dog. This job isn’t going to make me rich, or famous, but it is going to pay me my standard fee of two hundred dollars, plus expenses. Know what my expenses are in the case of a stolen dog? A new leash, tucked away in the back pocket of my faded jeans. Fourteen-ninety-five from the local WalMart. I figure it’s a good precaution, though. Never know if the dog you find will try to lick your face or bite your hand.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like dogs as much as the next girl. I had one growing up and we were best pals, me and her. So, yeah, I don’t mind trying to find a dog for a little girl who’s heartbroken over losing her favorite pet. It’s not going to pay me much and it felt like a dramatic underuse of my skills, but it was the case that landed on my doorstep yesterday, so it was the case I took.

In this case, however, things got a lot trickier when I found out who the dognapper really was.

At a house on Griggs Ave, I stood on the doorstep and held my breath before knocking. The place is a little run down, the siding falling off in places, the windows in need of a good wash, the shrubs along the front overgrown and badly neglected. And the smell. Ew, the smell. I’m not being sexist when I say it could all use a woman’s touch. We care about things like that more than men do. Tidy home, tidy life. Something like that.

Then again, I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve never owned a house of my own. I live in an apartment that I moved into three years ago. It suits me, especially since it’s just me who lives there. You’d think a woman like me, with the lithe figure of a three-time marathon winner, honey-blonde hair and clear blue eyes, would have a man in her life. I’ve had boyfriends, sure, just nobody who was worth keeping. If a man ever fits into my life, I’ll make it work, but until then I’m happy just being who I am. Sidney Stone, Private Eye.

Of course, there are other reasons why I live alone, but that’s a story for another time, as they say.

Letting out that breath I was holding, I knock on the door again.

This time I can hear someone moving around, and something that I’m sure is a couple of beer cans toppling over to the floor.

Hold your horses! comes a rough male voice booming from inside. I’m coming.

The door flies open in front of my face revealing a hallway with peeling wallpaper and a yellowed ceiling. The guy standing in front of me fits right in with the rest of the house. Plaid shorts. Dingy t-shirt over a portly belly, stained with what I really hope is coffee. He needs a shave. And a haircut. And mouthwash.

What d’you want? he snaps at me. His hand is still on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in my face. I’m not buying anything, and I don’t care about Jesus, and I don’t want to do no surveys.

Articulate man, ain’t he? I put a smile on my face and hook my thumbs into the loops of my jeans. Jonas Finley? Hi. My name’s Sidney. I’m here about a dog.

Dog? What dog?

His brow furrows and his jowls quiver in thought. Seriously, has this guy ever done a sit-up in his life? Your daughter’s dog, I clarify. The one that the court gave to your wife in the custody agreement during your divorce. Little Jack Russel terrier? White with brown patches? Goes by the name of Dixon… which, in my opinion, is kind of a stupid name for a dog but your daughter just loves that Disney show about the robot and the alien. Ever watch that one? With Willie Dixon playing the little kid?

His frown deepens, and I had to fight not to laugh. Uh, no. Never seen it. Why would I?

It’s not bad. Kind of childish and not really my thing, but anyway. I’m here to get the dog.

Now his eyes light up with understanding. You can’t take Dixon. He’s my dog. Who walked him when my daughter was in school? Huh? Who took him to have his nuts snipped off? Me. He’s my dog. Mine. The court might’ve took away my house and my retirement and gave them to that tramp of an ex-wife of mine, but they can’t give her my dog. No, sir.

I don’t think that’s your call to make, I tell him, just as calmly as I could but with absolutely no room for argument from him. This was happening, whether he liked it or not. The court ordered it this way. Now, it took me exactly four hours to figure out you snuck back to your old house in the middle of the night and took the dog. It’s going to take the police less than a day to figure out the same thing. It’s not that I’m smarter than they are. It’s just that they’ve got a lot more on their plates than I do. They’ll get around to you eventually, though, and then you’ll be arrested for violating a court order. That’s a lot of words that simply mean you’ll end up in jail, and the dog will go back to your daughter anyway. You really want that?

Behind those piggish eyes I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he thought about what I’d just said. Most sane men will do what’s right, at least when they get threatened with going to jail if they don’t. I know there’s good men out there, but in my line of work I hardly ever see them. No. I bump into men like Jonas Finley here, who probably hasn’t been able to see his own feet past the girth of his belly for more than a decade. A guy who thinks he can do whatever he wants without any blowback.

Well. Blowback’s my middle name.

No, not really, but wouldn’t it be cool if it was?

Finally Jonas nods, a vein in his temple pulsing in time to his racing heartbeat. He knows he’s done. Dog’s in the back room. Wait here a minute.

Then he turns around, leaving the door open, and strides away from me into the house. The back of his shorts need to be pulled up over that plumber’s crack he has going on.

Wait here, he says.

Like hell.

I might have been born in the dark, but it wasn’t last night. I’m not staying out here while Jonas jumps out a back window or calls some of his friends to come and rough me up, or whatever he’s planning. Stepping inside, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of cheap sixty-watt bulbs, I follow him through his house. You’d think the guy would hear the creak of worn floorboards under my feet but maybe he’s just too busy muttering to himself about how everyone’s against him, and no one wants to hear his side of things.

We pass by other rooms on our way to wherever he’s keeping Dixon the dog. The kitchen’s on my left, dirty dishes piled up in the sink. Closet. Bedroom, where I can just see the sheets piled up at the end of the single mattress. Living room with a beat-up coffee table and a recliner that has a spring sticking out of the seat cushion…

And a dog crate with a small white dog with brown patches inside, standing there watching me with sad eyes.

The crate wasn’t very big, not that it has to be for a dog this size, but what little space was left for him to move around in is being taken up by a tattered old coat that must be his bed, and an empty food dish. The dog’s head hangs low. His tail is tucked in between his legs.

Worst of all, Jonas had put a muzzle on his snout.

I wondered why I didn’t hear any barking. Now I knew. This dog was definitely Dixon. I’d memorized the photos of him that Jonas’s twelve-year-old daughter showed me. She’d described him as a good dog, a friendly dog, just a little hyper. Prone to barking when strangers were around. That had been my first clue that the dognapper had been someone Dixon knew. The neighbors hadn’t heard so much as a yip during the night when he was taken. No barking meant no strangers. That, and a few other little details, had led me here.

Now that muzzle was keeping Dixon from barking for help.

He whimpered when I stepped closer. He’d been traumatized by all of this. Scared to death and probably wondering what he did wrong. Don’t worry, boy, I tell him in a gentle voice. We’re going to get you home to your real owners. To people who will love you as a member of the family, instead of like a possession…

I trail off as a new thought occurred to me. There are times when I’m a lot slower about things than I like to admit. Jonas isn’t in here with me. He was never going to his living room. But, if Dixon is here in the living room, and not in some back room of the house like he said, then why did Jonas go all the way back there to look for him?

Turning back around just a moment too late, I find Jonas is standing there, filling up the doorway with his fat self, one arm out with something in his hand, pointed at me.

A gun. A revolver, to be precise, with a round in each of the six chambers.

Nobody takes what’s mine, hear me? Jonas bellows at me. Not the court, not that waste of flesh I used to call a wife, and not some little girl claiming to be a private investigator! That dog’s mine!

No, I calmly argue, he’s not. Dixon belongs with your daughter. Now, why don’t we all just take deep breath and those of us who are pointing guns at other people can just slowly put them away. Let’s talk, okay? We can talk this out like rational adults, can’t we?

Sometimes talking works. Sometimes you can reason with people who are being unreasonable.

Not today, apparently.

I said he’s mine, Jonas practically screams, and you can’t have him!

The gun aims straight at my chest, his finger tensed on the trigger.

Lean left.

The gun went off, impossibly loud in a room this small, and the bullet misses my right shoulder by fractions of an inch as I move, continuing on to smack a hole into the drywall.

Dixon whimpers and tries to hide his head under his paws.

Spin right.

I turn sideways, blading the opposite side of my body to Jonas, just as he pulls off a second shot. The bullet goes through the space where I’d been standing and destroys a lamp on a side table. It shatters and falls to the floor in pieces.

Jonas actually turns the gun in his hand to look at it in surprise, maybe suspecting that it was defective or something. I can understand his confusion. On the other hand, I’m not going to stand still to get shot when I don’t have to.

Which I don’t.

Listen, Jonas. I try to sound reasonable and try not to shout over the ringing in my ears. Can we just put the gun away? This isn’t going to work.

Grinding his teeth together until his jaw muscles popped, he shoves the gun forward again, aims, and squeezes off three shots now, one after the other.

Left.

Left again.

Duck.

Each of the bullets misses, one of them a lot closer than I was comfortable with but hey, a miss is a miss. Each one hit the wall on the far side of the room instead. This time, when I stood up again, I snagged a heavy glass ashtray off the corner of the coffee table and threw it like a frisbee, aiming for the spot between those piggish eyes. Spent cigarette butts and ashes go everywhere.

It hit the target, just hard enough to break his skin open and send blood rolling down into his eyes. It surprises him more than anything, I think, and he cries out in alarm, bringing his hands up to his face to cover the wound. It was such an automatic reaction that he doesn’t even realize he’s dropped the revolver until it hits the floor with a thud. And by then, I was already there to pick it up.

Holding two fingers to the injured bridge of his nose he gawks at me through a thin mask of blood. I don’t believe it. His voice is nasally from his injury, and high-pitched from the fear that’s started to take hold of him. No way I missed you every time. No way. No way!

I flash him a smile. Yeah, I know. Annoying, isn’t it?

Remember me saying there’s another reason why I live alone? This is it. Imagine living your life, knowing everything that was about to happen to you… in three second intervals. See, I know my future. I know everything that’s about to happen to me. At least, the next three seconds of it. It’s kind of like living your life on fast forward. I don’t know the winning lottery numbers for next week’s draw. I don’t know who will win the next presidential race. Hell, I don’t even know if the Dodgers are going to suck this year like usual or pull out a halfway decent season.

What I do know is everything every boyfriend I’ve ever had is going to say to me before he even says it. Every place they were going to touch me before a hand even moved. Kind of takes the romance out of it when my guy can’t ever surprise me when we’re in bed. It ends up leaving him frustrated and me sort of unfulfilled, if you know what I mean. I even tried blindfolds for a while, and trust me, the experience is nowhere near as kinky as it sounds. Plus it doesn’t work. I can be blindfolded with the best silk tie money can buy—don’t judge me—and I’ll still know where his lips are going next.

So for me, it’s become easier just to stop trying, and just accept the single life.

On the other hand, this gift or curse or whatever it is comes in real handy when I need to dodge a few bullets. So… yay me.

I had the gun in my hand now, and that drastically changed the dynamic in the room. Putting the barrel up against the side of his thick neck, I pressed it in hard, leaning in to whisper in his ear. One bullet left. Maybe you should’ve tried hitting me from this range. You just can’t miss when you’re this close.

Beads of sweat began crawling out of his messy hair, running down to mix with the blood on his cheeks. Fine. Take the dog. Take him! I never liked the mutt anyway.

Oh, I’m going to take Dixon with me. That was a done deal. I twist the hot end of the barrel into his skin, getting a perverse kind of pleasure from the way it sends up a trail of smoke. This guy deserves a whole lot worse. However, before I go, I’m calling the cops. They’re going to arrest you for attempted murder. Oh. And dognapping. I’ve always wanted to see someone get arrested for dognapping.

A sound just like Dixon’s whimpering gurgled up from Jonas’s throat. The sudden unpleasant tang of urine fills the air and lets me know that the man wet himself. Who… who are you? he stutters.

I told you once. Sidney Stone, private investigator.

His eyes blink up at me. Sidney? Ain’t that a boy’s name?

I sigh. I couldn’t help it. Yeah. I get that a lot.

Chapter One

My apartment is on the east side of the city, close to the Edsel Ford Freeway and about a five-minute drive from the East English Village. My place isn’t much. Just a one-bedroom with a kitchen-slash-dining room and a bathroom that’s got as much space as the closet next to it. It’s mine, though, and it’s rent controlled. My fish likes it. How can I complain if a goldfish named Spot is okay with it?

With the money from my dognapping case safely deposited in my checking account, I was driving back home. Jonas was on his way to jail, and his daughter had Dixon back, so I’m going to call that a win, even at just two hundred dollars plus expenses.

Actually, I told them to never mind the expenses. Did I really need another full tank of gas in my old Ford Mustang? Well, actually yes. I did. My gauge is just about on empty now as it is. But money isn’t everything.

When I saw that little girl get her dog back, and how happy she was, I just didn’t have the heart to charge them the extra. I get like that sometimes. Some people call it having a big heart. Others call it being naïve. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

I know that other people have to make their way through the world same as I do. They have bills to pay, same as me. Mouths to feed. Netflix subscriptions to maintain. So maybe they need that little bit of extra more than I do. That girl got her dog back and that’s what really mattered to me.

Just another reason why I’ll never be rich.

The Mustang coughs and the engine sputters like it’s been doing recently. Behind me in traffic I could see a plume of black smoke rolling up from the tailpipe, blowing quickly away. Come on, Roxy, I coax her, smoothing my hand across the faded leather of her dash. Just a few more blocks and then you can take it easy for the rest of the day. Okay? Just a little farther.

Roxy lets me shift her gears and with a little more gas her engine starts purring again under her red hood. She used to be all red, back when I first got her. A red Mustang hardtop, put together right here in Detroit over fifty years ago. Now the door on my side is blue, and just last week one of the fenders got replaced with a green one. Some of my jobs—in addition to how they don’t pay very much—are what you might call hazardous to my health. My mechanic loves me. Finding parts to a 1968 Mustang is just as hard as it sounds. His expenses get passed on to me, but George cuts me the same kind of breaks that I cut my customers, whenever he can.

See? There are still good men in the world. The kind you take home to mother for Sunday brunch. Hardworking, attentive, quick with a joke. George will make someone a good husband someday. George isn’t my type, though. Or rather, I’m not his type. He’s into men, not hot female private investigators.

It’s just a few more minutes before I’m at my apartment building. There’s a small parking area in the back reserved for the residents. My parking space is still open which means Mrs. Anderson in 2B must be out and about somewhere. She always steals my spot when she’s here. It’s become something of a turf war with us, and I’m not ready to give up. Once, when she parked in my space, her windshield ended up coated in whipped cream. If anyone ever asks me if I was involved in that, I’ll deny it. Just like I deny knowing how the two dozen frogs ended up inside her car that other time.

The universe is just funny like that, I guess.

Roxy’s engine sputters to a stop as I pull the keys from her ignition. For a moment I just sit here, wondering what’s going to be next. I don’t mean what I was going to have for supper or whether I wanted to do my laundry. I meant, what was I going to do next for work? I didn’t have any cases pending. Didn’t have any calls to return or leads to follow up on. This girl was out of work as of right now.

Not that I wouldn’t mind a couple of days off but in my business if you don’t work, you don’t get paid. My landlord is a pretty understanding guy but he’s not going to let me slide another month on my rent. I have my military pension, but our country’s soldiers don’t get paid anything close to what people think they do. If I want to keep living in my apartment and get Roxy repaired and, oh, I don’t know… maybe eat something other than Ramen this week, I’d better find the next big thing, as they say.

Thankfully, I have friends in low places.

Whistling a tune to myself, I lock up the Mustang and take my phone out of my back pocket. I’m up on the third floor—the top floor of the building—and taking the stairs gives me just enough time to pull up my contacts list and tap the button to dial my friend’s number. Just like always, he answers on the second ring.

This is Caine.

Sure, I say, a smile in my voice. But are you able?

He sighs, and I could almost picture him kicking his feet up on the corner of his