And I Love Her

By Brett Wallach

How far can you push a man?

In the second Phil Allman P.I. detective novel, Allman tackles the most important and agonizing case of his career. In AND I LOVE HER, we get a noir glimpse into a marriage gone bad... and a divorce and custody battle gone worse, set against a backdrop of Beatles songs. Someone killed Allman’s ex-wife... and that someone may be Allman himself. Through twists, turns, and several other murders, the Philadelphia police force comes to believe that Allman is the most likely killer.

Because sometimes you can push a man just far enough...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Wallach
• Release date: Mar 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463349199

Brett Wallach

My name is Brett Wallach, and I'm a father of two daughters from the Philadelphia area. The protagonist in my Phil Allman, P.I. series of mysteries is a misanthropic, sentimental, bitter, funny, romantic, lustful, tough, sometimes amoral, slightly (?) insane divorced father of two daughters from Philadelphia. Any resemblance to myself is highly coincidental. I've tried to create a character who often says and does the wrong things, after reading so many books in this genre where the main character, despite quirks, is usually unrealistically virtuous. Think Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, only funnier. My favorite authors are John Steinbeck, Graham Greene, Raymond Chandler, Elmore Leonard, Dennis Lehane, and many others. I have no delusions that my novels are on that level, but as my reviews (please see them on Goodreads) show, most people seem to find them entertaining. After my former publisher recently went out of business, I decided to self-publish, and my six books (so far) in the series (Jesse Garon, And I Love Her, Young Blood, Freeze Out, Susceptible, and Torment) are all available on Amazon, and candid, objective reviews are always welcome. My seventh book, The Last MAN On Earth, is a sci-fi/social and sexual satire, and I hope you like that as well. My email address is [e-mail], and feedback is welcome.

Book preview

Phil Allman P.I. Novel

Book 2

And I Love Her

2nd Edition

by

Brett Wallach

Cover art by Jennifer Givner

Copyright © 2013/2016 by Brett Wallach

SmashWords Edition

* * * *

To Allison and Valerie

* * * *

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

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* * * *

Chapter One

Kim Basinger was unquestionably one of the most beautiful actresses to emerge during the last quarter of the twentieth century.

But when a TV interviewer suggested as much to her ex-husband, actor Alec Baldwin, he looked mystified and said, That’s what people tell me.

Divorce, especially when children are involved, can transform these people that we once loved, that we still love, into monsters. The question is whether I had the capacity to kill the beast.

I met Cheryl Diodato in a bar seventeen years ago. That was the beginning of the end.

* * * *

I was working on the ugliest case and for the ugliest client of my career at the end of the end.

My daughter’s missing, Mr. Allman, she said in the most matter-of-fact way that you can say those words. Three hundred pounds if an ounce, greasy, bleached blonde hair, a brownish, hairy mole on her chin, and a nice lady mustache going. She smelled like a day-old sandwich and hour-old beer. I was going to have to Lysol my office after she left. Not exactly Lady Madonna.

She was dressed in what could best be described as a dark green tent. I will never go camping again. Was she thirty or fifty? It was hard to tell.

I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Hendricks. Let’s start at the beginning. How long has she been missing? Her age? Anyone in your life who may have done this?

She’s eleven.

Oh, my daughter’s eleven too—

She’s been gone two days now, since she left for school on Wednesday morning. I went to the police first, but they don’t know shit from Shinola, if you ask me.

Well, I’m a former Philadelphia police officer, Ms. Hendricks. And for the most part, they actually do know what they’re doing. They have—

Whatever. They’re looking, but I want you to look too. You know. Focus on it.

That’s fine, Ms. Hendricks, I would probably do the same in your position.

She took a wallet-sized photo of her daughter from her purse. The brunette little girl was wearing a seemingly too small yellow bikini in the picture, which looked as if it was professionally taken.

Kristina’s going to be a model and actress, she said.

That’s great. How did she get into that?

My old boyfriend, Rex, Rex Guman. He’s a photographer and he suggested it.

This was starting to feel creepy. The girl didn’t look like model material to me, but what did I know?

Could Rex have had any part in your daughter’s disappearance? Is he still around?

She gave me a look like I was the stupidest man alive. She reminded me of Cheryl. He’s up in New York now.

How about Kristina’s father?

Same look. He’s been out of the picture for a long time now. It’s not somebody I know. If it was, I wouldn’t need to hire you, now would I?

Keep your cool, Allman. Good point. My rate is five hundred dollars a day plus expenses. And I would need a two-thousand-dollar retainer.

Okay.

After she gave me a check and a few more details were worked out and questions answered, she waddled out of my office. And I was going to search for a little girl who deserved better, no matter where she was that cold January afternoon.

After Sheila Hendricks left, I drove over to my ex-wife’s house to pick up my daughter, Jessica. She took the school bus to her mom’s because my apartment wasn’t quite on the route. I called the house on the way so that Jessica would be ready to go when I got there; Cheryl didn’t want me inside the house, despite the fact that I was still paying the majority of the mortgage. Choose your battles, Allman.

Jessica was wearing her new navy blue winter jacket with jeans and sneakers. She locked the front door of the house and walked towards my car. Hi, Daddy.

Given the creepiness of my chat with Ms. Hendricks, this may sound amiss, but I thought that Jessica was the prettiest girl in her school. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, deep blue eyes, her mother’s pretty facial features and her father’s good nature – sorry, it’s that Alec Baldwin syndrome coming through. I unlocked the passenger door, and Jessica got in, hauling her overstuffed book bag and an overnight case with her clothes and assorted girl stuff for the weekend.

Hey, Jess. How was school?

She rolled her eyes. Not bad. I’m glad the week’s over.

Me too. I have to pick up Anna from the sitter’s. Anna was the nine-year-old girl that I’d adopted the previous year after Anna’s mother, a former client and old flame, was murdered. I was more than happy to take her in, and Jessica loved her almost immediately like a little sister. I’d be remiss if I didn’t add that Anna was tied for prettiest girl in the school.

Lot of homework this weekend, Jess?

Yeah, plus I have two tests on Monday. Monday tests.

Weren’t teachers ever children?

Okay, but I hope that we still have time to catch a movie or something.

I don’t know. I have that sleepover at Beth’s tomorrow night.

I had forgotten. She had some nerve to have a life of her own. Especially since I didn’t. Well, we’ll see how much free time you have. It’s the weekend before the Super Bowl, so I have plenty.

I know, she said. Was she referring to the football schedule or my lack of a life?

We drove over to pick up Anna from a friend of my mother’s, who lived a couple blocks away from my apartment and on the school bus route. Poor Anna was fast asleep on the sofa with the television on. She was a pretty, round-faced, brown-eyed, brown-haired little girl with a sunny disposition, especially given all that she’d gone through. She was wearing an Eagles’ sweatshirt, jeans and boots; it was yet again the only appearance the Eagles would be making in late January.

It’s okay, Mrs. McElleney. I’ll just carry her to the car. I didn’t want to wake Anna up, but she came around as soon as I placed her in the car seat in the back of my car.

Hi, Daddy. It still broke me up when she called me that.

Anna, go back to sleep, sweetheart.

She grudgingly obliged. When we got home, I made spaghetti and meat sauce – okay, the sauce was from a jar, but I was doing my best – along with a salad and grape Kool-Aid, and the girls and I ate dinner. They watched TV and gossiped for a bit while I went to my little home office – actually just a desk in my bedroom – and pondered about little Kristina Hendricks. I hoped that she too was somehow having a nice dinner and watching TV with people who cared about her.

But I knew enough to know enough that such a pleasant scenario was unlikely.

I went back out to the living room, turned on the local six o’clock news and heard the story about Kristina Hendricks’s disappearance. A pretty blonde reporter interviewed the dry-eyed and plain-spoken Sheila Hendricks. The unfortunate bikini photo was shown on the screen and viewers were asked to call the Philadelphia Police Department Hotline with any pertinent information. No reward was mentioned.

But at least the mom was getting the story out there. Luckily, the girls were oblivious to the television. Jessica went to the girls’ bedroom to study, and Anna did some homework on the dining room table. I was left to my thoughts.

I ordinarily didn’t work on my custodial weekends so I could focus on the girls, but I had to get right on the case while the leads and clues, if any, were still warm. As usual, I had a Beatles CD playing to help me think, Help appropriately enough. I called Mrs. McElleney and asked if she’d be able to look after the girls for a few hours for each of the next two days. At ten tax-free bucks an hour, she wasn’t doing me any huge favors, but she was nice enough to say she’d be happy to help out. Goddamn if I was going to bring them to Cheryl’s even though that would be free and probably better for all concerned; this was a competition, dammit, and this was my time with Jessica. Why do the right thing?

Back to Top

* * * *

Chapter Two

The beginning of the end of the end. As the girls continued to watch TV, I began my prep work for Sheila Hendricks. My mind and memory were a little fuzzy, as they inexplicably had been for a few months. Too much caffeine? Too little? Something was awry, but I was too manly – i.e., afraid – to go to the doctor to find out what. I turned on my laptop in my poorly lit home office to do some Internet research, mustering up whatever earnestness I could; yet after a few minutes, I found myself on YouTube, watching portions of old Beatles’ performances. I looked around my spare office-bedroom for inspiration, opened a drawer where I’d jotted down the girls’ probable future college costs, and found some. It was during this half-awake reverie, slouched on my office chair, that my front door intercom buzzed. And I jumped in a flash like a young Mick Jagger, John and Paul’s friend and rival.

Who is it?

Mr. Allman, could you please come downstairs for a minute?

I took a deep breath. Something told me this was trouble. I’ll ask again. Who is it?

There was a brief pause. Police, Mr. Allman.

My pulse began to race even though I’d done nothing wrong. The hell with treadmills. This should be the standard stress test at doctors’ offices. I’ll be right there.

I hurried down the two and a half flights of steps to my building’s front door. The two young, burly officers stood at the dirty entranceway for all the world to see. Both looked a little sheepish. The older of the two handed me some paperwork.

What is this?

We’re just here to deliver this to you, Mr. Allman. Have a good evening. And with that, they left. And with that, my life, as I knew it, was over.

I won’t recount the ten pages of legalese here; in a nutshell, Cheryl was claiming that I was an abusive parent. I had just received a Protection from Abuse order. In her own handwriting on the last page of this mess was a list of my atrocities. To her credit, she didn’t say anything completely false, although I know that happens in many of these cases. Cheryl’s too clever for that.

The inferences, however, were troubling. Walked in on our daughter and his adoptive daughter when they were getting dressed. Had it ever happened accidentally over the years in my small apartment? I didn’t recall such an incident, but it was possible. Likes to do things with the girls. I like to go places and spend quality time with Jessica and Anna, which I think makes me a good parent; the implication could be something else. Doesn’t give the girls privacy.

Subjective, but again, in a small apartment with three people, what can anybody do? Hurt my daughter’s thumb, causing it to swell badly. Several months earlier, I accidentally, as Cheryl knew, closed the car door on my Jessica’s thumb. Again, a judge could interpret it differently.

At the end, she wrote that she didn’t want me to have any physical contact with Jessica. She also recommended that I shouldn’t be with Anna either until this matter was resolved.

The clerk or judge or whoever looked at this assertion thankfully crossed out any verbiage in the document which suggested that. There was a hearing date set for February ninth at nine a.m. downtown at Philadelphia Family Court. Less than two weeks.

When I got back into my apartment, both Jessica and Anna looked at me with fearful faces.

What’s wrong, Daddy? Jessica asked.

I must have looked how I felt. Nothing, girls. I, um, don’t feel all that good. Maybe I’m coming down with something.

Who was that? Was that the police? Anna asked.

They must have looked out the window. "Yeah.