Who Killed Lottie Dee????: A Stick LeMaster, PI, Mystery

By Carl E. Ring Jr.

John “Stick” LeMaster is a former Marine turned PI. When Stick is asked to identify the body of his former lover, Lottie Dee, it turns out the body isn’t hers. Suspecting a setup, Stick falsely confirms her identity and returns to his hotel, where he finds Lottie very much alive, with a query that will change the course of Stick’s life: “You in or out?”

Stick is shocked when he learns of Lottie’s true identity: she is spy, as was her recently murdered father, Hayward de Valera. Both were involved with Invictus, a privately funded agency that combats terrorism. Hayward had found four key players providing aid to terrorists, and they need Stick’s PI skills to help them find the quartet of conspirators—a task that will push him to the limit and place him in the sights of mercenaries who’d love to see another US Marine listed as KIA.

In this military thriller, a combat-hardened, street-savvy PI helps a secret organization and its beautiful operative. But can he stop a terrorist attack before it starts?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483431932

Book preview

Mancuso.

WHO KILLED

Lottie Dee???

A STICK LEMASTER, PI, MYSTERY

CARL E. RING JR.

Copyright © 2015 by Carl E. Ring Jr.

GoodRead Novels, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any relationships to person living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3194-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3195-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3193-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907895

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 06/18/2015

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1   Some Time Earlier

Chapter 2   The Eastern Shore

Chapter 3   The O’briens And Seamanship School

Chapter 4   Casting Off

Chapter 5   The Engagement

Chapter 6   The Situation

Chapter 7   The Basics

Chapter 8   Planners, Point Man, And Operatives

Chapter 9   Op Day

Chapter 10   Recall: Meeting Lottie Dee

Chapter 11   A Night To Remember

Chapter 12   Dinner

Chapter 13   And So To Bed

Chapter 14   Life After Lottie

Chapter 15   Out Of Sight, But Still…

Chapter 16   Of Course It Can’t Be True

Chapter 17   Did You Hear Me?

Chapter 18   Filling In A Blank Or Two

Chapter 19   Day Two On The Lam

Chapter 20   A Rustic Supper

Chapter 21   The Way It’s Gonna Be

Chapter 22   A New And Different Reality

Chapter 23   An Illuminating Breakfast

Chapter 24   And The Beat Goes On

Chapter 25   More Illumination

Chapter 26   Not Exactly A Harry-Met-Sally Thing

Chapter 27   The View From Maryland

Chapter 28   Bunking In

Chapter 29   Afterglow

Chapter 30   Get With The Program

Chapter 31   Back To The Streets

Chapter 32   Into The Drop Zone

Chapter 33   Trooping The Line

Chapter 34   Not Quite

Chapter 35   Well, Whadda Ya Know

Chapter 36   Some Neat Fireworks—And Not On July Fourth

Chapter 37   Even A Blind Squirrel Finds An Occasional Acorn

Chapter 38   Our Turn: First And Ten

Chapter 39   Regroup Time

Chapter 40   The Book On Foots Moran

Chapter 41   Well, What Have We Here?

Chapter 42   It’s Travel Time

Chapter 43   Hello, Shreveport

Chapter 44   What Next, Stick?

Chapter 45   A Four-Star With A One-Star

Chapter 46   A Game Changer

Chapter 47   End Game

Chapter 48   Sometimes Home Seems Different

Chapter 49   Hello Again, South City

Chapter 50   Home Sweet Home

Chapter 51   What Did She Ask Back Then?

Chapter 52   Going North Again

Chapter 53   Back To The Starting Point

Chapter 54   Are Simple Plans Really The Best?

Chapter 55   Counting Down

Chapter 56   Let’s Rally

Chapter 57   Showtime

Chapter 58   Not In A Million Years

Chapter 59   Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

Chapter 60   Settling In

Chapter 61   Take A Break

Chapter 62   Stick And Skiing—A Second Go

About The Author

This work is dedicated to Mimi—ever encouraging for some 44 years—and my three daughters. I am fortunate to have four such wonderful lifetime friends.

— Carl E. Ring Jr.

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader.

I hope you like this second time out on the dance floor with Stick LeMaster, PI, and our heroine Ms. Lottie Dee.

Should it please you as a diversion, join me in a tip of the hat to Ms. Beth Terrill and Mr. Bill Greenleaf. Each of them a seasoned professional who has shown considerable patience and much appreciated guidance in the matter of my learning to telling a story well.

They are valued collaborators and even more valued as friends.

Prologue

Elroy Flood, captain USMC, stood tall and extended his hand. It was straight-up twelve o’clock noon as previously arranged. He was a little grayer in the face than when we were last together in the Mideast, but still looked fit, as do most Marines. He had opted to go career while I did three and out. He would probably make major in the next year or so, but I was happy with my silver bar as a retired First Lieutenant. I was pleased that the Marines had been a part of my life, but not its center. Elroy saw it differently and re-upped. To each his own.

Hi ya, Stick. Long time no see. I wish we were just having a friendly beer or something, instead of attending to this grisly business.

I nodded, but before I could respond, he gestured for me to follow.

Let’s be done with this. We’re sorry to involve you, but certain of her notes and letters made reference to you. And since her parents are both dead, you became the number one identifier and validator. I’m sorry to put you through this, and I give it to you straight: it’s truly nasty stuff.

With a steering hand on my left shoulder, he guided me into the cavernous building in Southeast DC that housed the morgue. We entered the elevator and as quickly descended to the third subbasement. The iodine antiseptic aroma that hung in the air identified every morgue in the world as to its ugly franchise, and this was no exception. The heavy-metal stench just screamed death.

Elroy moved along smartly in the Marine style to which we had become accustomed. No wasted words or motion; just proceed with the task at hand. We soon found ourselves standing before a vertical array of stainless steel doors marked G. He stood with his hand on the drawer pull labeled 3 and awaited my silent nod to proceed with the grisly business at hand, as he had put it.

He took my readiness as assent and opened the drawer, revealing the white cloth draping the corpse. He paused a second time and fixed his stare upon me, inquiring silently if I was okay to proceed.

I nodded again, but almost collapsed as he removed the sheet. My stomach knotted, and my heart started pounding. Acidic bile rose in my throat. Elroy moved to steady me, but I waved him away. Bracing myself and forcing a steadying deep breath, as I had learned in the Corps, I fought to regain some sense of composure.

I thought I had prepared myself for what lay beneath the sheet. After all, I had seen dismembered bodies and limbs strewn about in the grand folly called combat. Death, as they say, may truly be the final indignity. But nothing could have prepared me for the gruesome sight that now lay before me. From neck to toes was a naked body that no artist’s palette would ever replicate. Yet even in the grim repose of death, beneath the blood and flayed skin, I could see that this woman had once been beauty and grace personified.

Forcing my gaze against the resistance of my senses, I focused my attention upon what had once been her head but which had been battered beyond any semblance of recognition. Most likely, even identification via dental records had been rendered useless. A personal ID would be required—a very quick personal ID.

Elroy was surprisingly steady, and it was good that one of us was. I imagined he would try to get me back into the mission before us however he could. And he did. Which was just as well, because both of us wanted out of there ASAP. I certainly did.

I don’t want to get personal where I have no business, Stick, but some of her notes to you were quite amorous. There were obviously feelings between you two, so can you tell me for sure if this is Lottie?

I was lost somewhere between heartbreak and denial, and was thus only partially attentive as he spoke again.

I’m sorry to push it, Stick. This is rough on everyone. We grabbed you because—well, quite frankly—I think others would not have been able to handle this horrible situation.

I was still defogging my senses, though I was aware that we had to face up to signing off on this incident as he continued to try to get me back into the present.

If you’re not sure, Stick, you can see the mark just above her woolie where the Tweety Bird tattoo was removed. You probably heard her stock-in-trade line about that, right? You know, the one where she would ask if you wanted to see her Tweety Bird and then, showing a little skin, would say, ‘Oh dear, my pussy must have gotten him.’

My eyes tracked down to the faint ripple of scar tissue under his pointing finger—and I experienced what might best be called a reality shift. For reasons I’ll probably never understand, my head cleared immediately and I knew I had entered a very dangerous space. We PIs are a funny bunch, but we’re all pretty good at responding when we are at risk, and we are very good when it’s grave risk. It’s what we do.

Elroy was only partly right in his assertion. Yes, the bit about the Tweety Bird was her old line, but there never had been a tattoo. That I knew for a certainty.

That realization led me to another certainty: I was now in something that had no good aspect to it. Not one. I was being pulled into a game where I had nothing to gain and a lot—maybe everything—to lose. And old Elroy was part of it.

And why was Elroy the only person around this large and imposing building? And just what was he doing playing Mr. Morgue Director? Where was the resident pathologist? The joint had been cleared out. And not for my benefit.

My inner senses unified quickly in screaming, It’s a setup! Move out! This wasn’t the first time I’d been taken by a friendly who was anything but. I would regroup later. For now my priority was full retreat mode—on the double.

I reached into my many alter ego personas and feigned recovery. Taking Elroy in full eye-to-eye, I said, Yes, it’s her. Let’s get out of here.

Elroy, ostensibly relieved but totally unaware of my new near-term agenda and urgencies, then replaced the cover and slid the stainless steel rollout back into its closed position. We took the elevator back up to the lobby. Once above ground, Elroy asked me to join him for a quick bite with some of the folks I might remember from our service days.

Lying as convincingly as I could, I begged off with the old previous engagement thing. He persisted, which only increased my resolve, so I took his hand firmly, muttered something about the tragedy, and said I’d be available if he needed anything more. Before he could insist further, I was out the massive doors and down the marble steps.

I was in my rent-a-car in record time and doing all manner of instinctive evasive maneuvers before I dared pull in at my motel just across Key Bridge in Virginia. Continuing with my latest cautionary behavior, I parked around a corner several doors away from my room and debated whether I should retrieve my few belongings or leave them for some lucky fellow and just split.

While still on my personal autopilot, and without minimizing the risk of my every prospective step, I decided to grab my stuff.

I opened the door and stood back for a few seconds, waiting for the expected intruder to play the next card. All was silent, so I stepped into the room with my snub-nosed thirty-two at the ready.

I didn’t get to the next step in my careful entry as the chillingly calm voice said, Close the door, Stick. Leave the lights off and just let your right arm dangle freely. My Beretta is leveled right on you, and I’ll do whatever I have to.

I just gaped into the penumbra of empty space as my hostess spoke again.

Yes, Stick, it’s me—Lottie. You’re in, too, but good. So just tell me as truthfully as you usually are, how’s it gonna be. I’ll only tell you that it’s a table stakes game. There will be more bodies before it’s over. You in for real, or what?

I nodded. There was no doubt that I was in. In what, I didn’t know, but I was most definitely in . . .

CHAPTER 1

Some Time Earlier

I had taken on my first really big-time assignment with some heavy-duty professionals out of NYC, and we had sprung the ditsy socialite daughter of a well-known and highly regarded world-class industrialist from virtual imprisonment in Al Kazara. I took two bullets in the process; neither was life-threatening, but, of greater significance and sadness, we had lost one of our strike force—an ex-SEAL who was double-crossed. It was an envelope-pushing assignment, and for me it will always be the Engagement.

It had been some six weeks since we’d beat it out of that miserable area, and I was just about fully recovered from the two small-caliber wounds in my left leg. One went right through fatty tissue, but the other lodged in my femur, where it remains. Luckily, it missed my femoral artery by a whisker. Both entry wounds were papered over masterfully by a world-class plastic surgeon provided by the mastermind of the Engagement. They managed my rehab in a high-security locale, which remains unknown to me, and, in that same six weeks later, I was walking just about naturally without a cane or other props.

During my rehab, I was debriefed by Maxie, the field operative in the snatch. I was pleased that they gave me highest grades and that they would consider me for other high-intrigue assignments. I was also quite pleased at their opinion of me, but I was getting more appreciative and comfortable with the less adventurous assignments on behalf of my growing list of wealthy clients in and around my home turf, good old South City. A healthy PI is a happy PI, and I like being healthy. A good way to be.

They felt they owed me—probably for stopping the two bullets—and insisted that I take on a very low-level, no-risk assignment with an exceptionally high retainer and success fee. After some serious conversation, I acceded, and they set about prepping me for my return to South City, where I would receive the no-risk assignment. I liked these folks, but had to wonder if there was any such thing as no risk.

That for another time. For now, consistent with their paramount concerns for security, I was sedated and delivered safely home.

The assignment was a total gimme, as advertised, and was much appreciated. It was obviously their way of saying, You done good, kid. Sorry you stopped a couple. Here’s a bonus. While an easy assignment, the client was especially sensitive to publicity and even more so to notoriety.

Because the Mideast assignment was open-ended as to time frame, I had cleared my home-based South City calendar to the extent that I now had a week or ten days all to myself if I so wished. And I did so wish, as it was self-appraisal time. The time off was most welcome; I hoped to use it well.

CHAPTER 2

The Eastern Shore

Over the years, I had heard much of the Eastern Shore of Maryland as to its idyllic, picturesque setting, and that seemed just what I needed for a peaceful interlude in which to finish my rehab. It was what any good doctor would have prescribed, and, being a good patient, I accepted—willingly, cheerfully, and obediently, as we used to say in the Corps.

Just first blush at Eden Cove, my home for the next week, affirmed its billing.

It was late September, and the rave reviews were borne out splendidly. The native foliage was only heightened in colors and hues by the sun’s brilliance as it moved ever lower away from its summer highs. But then I have always found autumn a particularly evocative time, almost wistful as it bids summer farewell so majestically. In any event, I had made a good choice; this was going to be all that I had hoped for. And more, as I would be blessed to meet that unforgettable creature.

I’m fairly gregarious and sociable, so I have taken note of the four sports that would assure fun and fellowship year-round irrespective of geography and weather. Having had some success in baseball at the near professional level, I found golf and tennis to be naturals, and in short order, I got decent enough to be a good club player in each.

Skiing was another matter. I like the imposing mountain settings, although cold weather and I are not a marriage made anywhere near heaven. The après-ski with fun folks, snow bunnies, and a nice cocktail are enjoyable offsets, but falling down, which I manage to do more frequently than most, is not my idea of times to remember. So skiing went on hold. Maybe another day.

For now, I would try my hand at the fourth member of the quartet: sailing. I was really looking forward to it. I was sure that it required some focus and attention along with coordination and respectable reaction times, but if twelve-year-olds could cross great bodies of water, like that British kid who recently did the Atlantic solo, old Stick would do okay.

It would be yet more pleasurable, as I would have a considerable cadre of instructors and pals led by the redoubtable J. Saltzman Salty Benton, a retired thirty-year Marine and the proprietor of Salty’s Marina Saloon right on the shores of Eden Cove. He’d acquired and held seniority early on in his career and was a first sergeant (E-) for over twenty years. In his last tour, he was the Top—sergeant major, the senior NCO—in an infantry battalion. He was always a vision. Outstanding military bearing, spit, polish, and razor-sharp creases all around with service-year hash marks and combat citations that left little room on his service blouse. Still crew-cut and standing tall, he could have stepped in at any time as one of John Wayne’s senior troopers—right out of central casting.

We’d collaborated on several occasions in that Mideast wasteland about which I still wonder to what purpose—and more importantly, to what avail. Collaborated is a euphemism for saying he saved my bacon on at least two occasions. He was proficient with just about every killing device available to our field forces, but was especially adept—lethally so—with the stovepipe known as the four-point-two-inch mortar, more familiarly known as the four deuce. It’s fired at very high angles—around sixty degrees or higher—such that the shells come down almost vertically. Thus, even if you’re dug in, the four deuce can erode your sense of well-being—and you—in one puff. Old Salty used to say, None of our esteemed adversaries should be worried about the four deuce shell with his name on it, because I take greater pride in my everyman shells—the ones that say, ‘To whom it may concern.’

He had capped off his most distinguished career with a tour at Pendleton as a DI (drill instructor) that accorded him time and space in which to effect the change from barbarian to barkeep. And he did that well, although he remained a bear of a man and one on whose side you would always choose to be. He was nothing less than an extraordinary leader, a man’s man, and the real deal in every respect.

So there I was, facing his new establishment—a saloon—about which I was sure he would give me the four-star tour. It could have been a battalion headquarters with its neatly raked gravel walkways bordered by painted, well-maintained white rocks, each about eight inches in diameter, and all dressed right and covered down in the best Marine tradition.

The building itself was cedar-shake sided with a subtle terra-cotta roof and smartly deployed awnings, which afforded cover for a couple tables and moderated the brilliant reflections from the autumn sunsets. A twenty-foot-or-so flagpole stood just to the right of a parade-caliber cannon, which would soon roar its salute to the daily lowering of Old Glory. And there would follow some of the troopers with their own salutes. What could have been incongruous actually fit the local environs well.

Nicely done. Very.

Hi ya, Loooooootenant, he said, projecting his ever-present command voice with little apparent effort. Welcome to Eden Cove. It’s really good to see you, and if I may say so, you look pretty fit—for a civilian, that is. He took my hand in his right paw, laid his left hand on my shoulder with a solid whack, and repeated, Really good to see ya, Loooootenant!

Me, too, Sarge—although now I’m Stick, or John as you prefer. My loooootenant days are over.

Roger, Stick, as you wish. Do an about-face and let’s move out smartly. I’ll intro you to some of the locals, okay? And, as you will, I’m either Salty or Jimbo as you prefer.

You da man, Salty. Let’s move out.

And we did. In short order, he wheeled me around his saloon and introduced me to the elite of the locals as his favorite shavetail, sergeant-speak for lieutenants about whom the sergeants and other noncommissioned officers—NCOs—tend to have and hold mixed reviews. With the usual big-boy macho push and shove very much in play, he made it clear that I had been, in his opinion, a particularly good officer.

All the post-adolescent stuff aside, it was a high compliment, and I was very pleased to have his seal of approval imprimatur as well as his friendship.

It was a pleasure to rally with Salty and his pals. The saloon itself was pleasantly appointed with only a minimum of nautical bric-a-brac. The well-polished mahogany bar was twenty-five feet long or so with ten or twelve nicely cushioned stools all arrayed neatly, as one would expect. Behind the bar was a brace of sizable mirrors nicely lit by shaded overhead lamps and set off with a few montages of ships, planes, and flags, all done very tastefully. Neat, but a guy’s saloon. Much like a well-managed NCO club from the Corps. And of course, the prevailing beverage of choice was the most manly brew—beer.

An old bubbling Wurlitzer jukebox in one corner featured tunes dating to World War II as well as more current stuff. Lots of Benny Goodman, the Dorsey Brothers, Sinatra, Dean Martin, and other danceable music. If you were looking for heavy metal and other mumble music, as Salty called it, you were free—more likely advised—to go elsewhere. There was also a twenty-foot shuffleboard table, two dart board setups, and a couple tables on the periphery for cards, Scrabble, or various games and puzzles.

It was clearly a fella’s bar, but a couple signs read Waves and Wacs Welcome, and evenings were usually pretty much coed. With dances on more Saturday nights than not, it was a social joint and had become a solid part of the local community. And with romance possibly in the offing, the general prohibition on wine and sociable cocktails would be relaxed.

CHAPTER 3

The O’Briens and Seamanship School

One of the gunnies in attendance pronounced everything Bravo Zulu, meaning well done in Navy lingo, so we spliced the main brace—more navy lingo for opening the bar—at five. After a couple beers and some