48 Seconds

By W.H. Parker

Just one bullet. That’s all it takes to land Rick Morgan, Chief Audit Executive for Seattle Life and Casualty into a world of hurt. With lowlife, Johnny Delaney lying dead in a fleabag hotel, Rick’s company is on the hook for a fifty-million-dollar diamond heist. He needs answers, but the trail is as cold as the five dead men in the

• Language: English
• Publisher: George W. Parker LLC
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733206419

W.H. Parker

W. H. Parker has always been and will be an accountant. As an independent consultant in the corporate world for years, Parker has mastered the fine art of unraveling entanglements the corporate guys were unable to, but his heart has always been in solving mysteries. Born in 1952 in Burbank, California, raised and schooled in the San Fernando Valley, his parents were tied to aerospace. An industry that prided itself on a simple motto, one Parker learned from his father and took to heart at an early age. "The impossible we do immediately, the miraculous just takes a little longer." In 1965 Parker met his first love. One that still plays an active role in his life. Motorcycles. A few years later, that first love had some stiff competition. Girls. Somewhere in high school, a third love fell into his lap; The mystery novel. After digesting everything written by such authors as Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, and let's not forget Doyle's adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Parker began with the help of Mrs. Leonard, his English teacher, to pen his own imaginations. But, like time itself, change came roaring into Parker's life in 1973 when he met Janet, the true love of his life. Marrying in 1974, Parker put his imagination on hold while juggling the responsibility of school, work, and a new family. Their first child was born in 1976, the second in 1977. Forty-five years later, with Janet still by his side, Parker renewed a love affair thought forgotten. Now retired and living in the Pacific Northwest, solving mysteries and writing about them take up most of his time. That is, of course, when not visiting the grandchildren, riding the motorcycle or taking Janet to breakfast.

Book preview

The bullet hole in the back of his head confirmed our appointment had been canceled. The pool of blood in which it lay indicated it wouldn’t be rescheduled. I knew, going into this meeting, that an element of danger would exist, so I invited a friend to tag along—his name: Vince Guarino. As an ex-Seattle Homicide detective turned PI, he was just the man to watch my ass in case things got a bit hairy. Which they just had.

Looking up from the body, Vince began, So, Rick, whaddaya think?

My response was slow but to the point: I think someone else knew about this appointment.

Rising, Vince took his cell in hand, pushed three buttons, and then added softly, Which means there’s another player in the game.

Or maybe more than one, I muttered.

Vince arched an eyebrow.

It took about five minutes for the first unit to arrive, a Seattle PD patrol car. Its senior officer, who wore three chevrons on her right sleeve, recognized Vince immediately as she walked through the door. Her junior partner turned an interesting shade of olive green about two seconds after viewing the pool of red on the floor. It was (pardon the pun) a dead giveaway he was a rookie.

After a minute of pleasantries and a quick rundown from Vince, the senior officer ordered her younger partner to step into the hall to secure the scene until Homicide arrived. She then took out her interview book and, for the next five minutes, took our statements. The questions turned to small talk that was cut short when a familiar face walked through the door: Sergeant Arnold Arnie Jackson of Homicide. He was short, with thinning grey hair, a tired face, and a belly that hung over the belt of a threadbare, wrinkled suit that looked more yellow than brown. If I were to guess, both he and the suit were counting the days until retirement. Hot on his heels was his younger partner, Officer Jerry Banks—an anomaly, to say the least. About thirty-five, tall and skinny, he waddled rather than walked and had a face that resembled Jiminy Cricket’s. With close to ten years on the job, his nickname in the department was The Energizer. He lived on Red Bull.

Hey, Arnie, what’s happening? Vince began lightheartedly. Glad you could make it to the party. The two had once been partners and were still friends.

Hey-hey, Vinnie, wouldn’t have missed it for the world. When he looked down at the body, he became solemn. Anyone we know?

If I were to guess, I answered quietly, Richard Carville.

Turning, he asked curiously, You guess, Mr. Morgan?

Had an appointment with a man by that name this morning in this room, I said.

For . . . ? Like Vince, there was a raised eyebrow. It’s gotta be a cop thing.

Though I didn’t want to declare much of anything, the fact that Vince and I were hovering over a dead body suggested, and quite eloquently, that I tell him something. So, for once in my life, I decided to play it straight. Now, please don’t get the idea I’m getting soft in my old age. On the contrary—there was also a bit of method to my madness. This was a murder investigation, and Vince was right when he said there was another player in the game. Someone had pulled the trigger that caused a lethal dose of lead to penetrate this guy’s brain. And for the moment, the notion of Sergeant Jackson finding out who that someone might be, sounded like a helluva good idea.

Mr. Morgan? he asked again.

Shaking that concern, I took a deep breath, then coolly resumed, Sergeant, put on your thinking cap for a moment.

He gave me a slight tilt of his head, and I began. Three months ago—the Newman, Inc., diamond heist in Las Vegas.

My statement was met by an expression that mirrored a blank white wall. It was a look that suggested plainly that the memory, if there, was sitting on some cobweb-filled shelf in the backside of his brain.

After a few seconds, it appeared the mental dusting paid off. Yeah . . . right, fifty million in uncut stones and three bodies on a jet. A couple hours later, Newman and his driver were hit too. The FBI’s leaning to an inside . . .

That blank stare went south as his eyes dilated, then shifted suspiciously to the body on the floor. A half-second later they went straight back to mine. A light had just come on—dim, but on. I notice you and Vinnie are packing. Then, looking back down at the body, he questioned in a low tone, Someone cleaning house?

In all honesty, I don’t know, I said. But with fifty million on the line, the odds lean in that direction.

Officer Banks jumped into the conversation before any of us could catch our breath. Found his wallet.

Sergeant Jackson responded quickly, Any ID?

Nothing.

Anything else?

Ten bucks and an Amtrak boarding pass from Los Angeles.

Straightening up for a moment, Sergeant Jackson questioned softly, Why the train?

While the good Sergeant pondered, Officer Banks took the thumb on Carville’s right hand and pressed it to the scanner. A few seconds later, there was a beep. Standing up, his eyes glued to the small screen, Banks began, It looks like he’s . . . A soft Huh passed his lips. Looking directly at me after a quick side glance to Sergeant Jackson, Banks asked, What did you say his name was?

Richard Carville.

That’s when the proverbial crap hit the fan. Try Johnny Delaney, Banks offered.

Dumfounded, I turned to Vince, who just as quickly turned to Sergeant Jackson, who by then was already asking Officer Banks the magic question: Who the hell . . . ? Interrupting himself, he turned to Vince with a puzzled look and said, I thought his name was Carville?

Lost for words, Vince again turned to me. Though I was as much in the dark as everyone, I did manage to mumble, That’s the name he gave me.

Nodding slightly, the good Sergeant took a deep, very long breath. After what seemed like forever, he exhaled, looked at Officer Banks, and proceeded. What do we know about him?

With his eyes still glued to the small screen, Banks’ answer came swiftly: A number of convictions in Vegas . . .

For what?

Mostly pandering.

Pimp, huh?

It seems, Officer Banks replied.

How far back?

At least ten years.

Turning back to me, Sergeant Jackson asked, So tell me about this appointment.

Three days ago, I began, a guy named Carville contacted me and said he had some information.

About the robbery?

Said he knew who took the stones and where they were. He wanted to know if there was some type of reward.

Really, he pondered, raising that eyebrow again. And you told him . . . ?

That there could be, depending on what he had.

And he said . . . ?

He didn’t, I responded with a slight shrug. I asked for a meeting. He agreed but made it clear it had to be just him and me, face-to-face.

But you brought Vinnie with you.

So I lied, I said, shrugging my shoulders more pronouncedly.

A faint chuckle was followed by, And what else?

I offered to come to him, but he insisted on meeting in Seattle.

And of course, Mr. Morgan, you jumped on it.

Damn right, I confirmed without hesitation. According to my file, the trail of those diamonds went cold before those five bodies did. So if someone says he knows where they are along with the guys that took them, I’m going to let ’em talk.

So you agreed on a time and date.

We did.

Darting his eyes around the room, Sergeant Jackson asked, Why this dump?

I shook my head. It was his call.

He glanced down at the body, then back at me. After another long inhale, he continued, Well, Mr. Morgan, it seems someone was a little upset they weren’t invited.

I only nodded.

Sergeant Jackson turned to Vince. Touch anything?

Only the door with my knuckle. When we arrived, it was slightly ajar. We assumed our appointment was waiting and left it that way. As I knocked, it opened somewhat, and I saw him on the floor. I entered and took a quick peek to see if he was alone.

Touch the body?

Vince shook his head. With his brains splattered across the floor, I saw no reason to. I called you, and the rest is history.

Anything else? he pressed.

Yeah. You’ll find the room registered under the name Carville.

You checked?

For a room number before we came up.

Does management in this fleabag know what’s going on?

If they do, we didn’t tell them.

The conversation was interrupted when three people entered the room. The first two were cops. Their humdrum expressions and dull, JC Penney, off-the-rack suits were a dead giveaway. By the cases they were carrying, they had to be CSI detectives. The third was a bottle blonde. Tall and full-figured, I recognized her immediately as Dr. Vera Kayne of the King County Medical Examiner’s Office. About fifty, she had a throaty voice, a personality to match, and a reputation for being all business—that is, until it came to Vince. And yes, if you’re wondering, there’s a bit of history between the two—the kind that happens between the sheets.

Vinnie, she purred with excitement as her eyes lit up like two Roman candles on the Fourth of July.

Hello, Vera, he replied.

I heard you retired from the department. Her throaty voice tried to be coy but failed miserably.

Yeah, a couple of years now, he confirmed.

I sensed a silent plea for help. Sergeant Jackson did, as well. So, Vera, what do you think?

Turning her attention to the body, her voice became composed. Well, let’s see what we have. Snapping on latex gloves, she knelt next to the pool of blood and began a careful examination of Delaney’s head—or what was left of it. After a long minute, she asked Officer Banks to help roll him to his side. Gently, they did. Then she took a liver probe from her bag. I knew exactly what was coming next and simply didn’t care to watch.

Sergeant Jackson persisted with his usual haste. Time of death?

Her eyes never left the body as she quietly replied, Patience, my dear Arnie, patience.

Sergeant Jackson pressed on. Mr. Morgan, it appears Delaney, or Carville, took the train from L.A. Aren’t you a frequent traveler to California?

I was, I replied quietly.

What do you mean, ‘was’? he shot back.

Up until nine months ago, I spent nearly every weekend in Los Angeles.

And now?

I stay home most weekends.

His eyes pierced mine as he hesitated, then asked with a note of suspicion, What’s at home that’s so wonderful? While I stumbled to think exactly how to answer such a delicate query, Sergeant Jackson pushed again, and this time, his tone was all business. Mr. Morgan?

Let’s just say, I responded slowly, that Los Angeles was a brunette who didn’t work out, and now there’s a blonde who does.

Oh! he replied in an air of sarcasm. And where’s the redhead?

Vince chuckled as I shot back with some cynicism of my own. Sergeant, you’re beating around the bush. You have a question. Ask it.

He mirrored Vince’s chuckle, then cleared his throat. You claimed you had an appointment with the victim this morning. With fifty million bucks floating out there, any ideas who wanted it canceled?

My only answer, again, was the obvious—meaning I had absolutely no idea. After venting such to Sergeant Jackson, he managed a small nod, then turned back to Vera. So, what do we have?

She removed the liver probe slowly and answered, Based on the temperature of the body and the ambient temperature of the room, about eleven hours, give or take twenty to thirty minutes.

And since it’s noon now, he replied, glancing at his watch, he was shot sometime around one this morning.

Sounds about right, Vera muttered.

Then his body language suddenly took a hard right turn—something had caught his attention. My gut suggested two possibilities. The first was, of course, the obvious: the time of death Vera had given. Yet seeing the hamster on the wheel behind those tired eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was something else. That left me with option number two. Was that something a question? A few seconds later, I had my answer. It came by way of a quiet yet thoughtful inquiry, an indicator that said those eyes weren’t as tired as I’d thought. If he was shot at one this morning, why is he fully dressed?

With a quick glance at the body, Vince asked, Was he waiting for someone?

As Vince and Jackson turned to face each other, they each raised an eyebrow.

Officer Banks jumped into the conversation. We have a gun.

Where? Sergeant Jackson asked quickly.

On the bed under the sheet.

What kind?

Colt .22.

Fired recently?

He held it up to his nose. No.

Loaded?

He opened the cylinder. Yes.

Well, at least we know now why he took the train, Sergeant Jackson whispered. No security.

Afraid of someone? Vince asked.

Possibly, Sergeant Jackson replied. He did use an alias.

He did, Vince agreed, but if I were afraid, I’d bring something with a little more firepower than that .22.

A half nod by Sergeant Jackson was followed by a question to Vera, What can you tell me?

She lifted the victim’s hands into hers and said, Don’t seem to be any defensive wounds. Then she turned her attention to the head and continued, Since the front part of his cranium is gone, the bullet passed clear through . . .

Caliber?

Unknown at this point, but large enough to do the job.

Anything else?

"If I were to guess by the angle of the bullet hole, the powder burns, and the pattern of blood on the floor, he was standing when someone who was probably right-handed and about six feet tall put the gun directly to the back of his head, and bam. From the position of the body to the door, he had just opened it. He turned around and then got it. Doubt he ever saw it coming."

He knew the assailant, Vince mumbled.

Probably, Vera agreed calmly, her eyes still fixed on Delaney’s head. But I’ll know more when I get him on the table.

The senior patrol officer asked Sergeant Jackson if she and her partner could get back into the field. Lost in thought, he just nodded and turned to Officer Banks. Jer, talk to the manager. I want a list of everyone who was registered here last night. And talk to the night man. See if he noticed anyone coming in or out about the time our boy was whacked.

Anything else? he asked.

Then canvas this floor and see if anyone heard that shot.

As Officer Banks left the room, Sergeant Jackson turned to the lab boys, who were already setting up shop. Turn this room upside down and bag everything. I want pictures of every square inch. And find that bullet.

Their deadpan expressions indicated they knew the drill.

He turned back to me and stated in a dull, no-nonsense tone, So, Mr. Morgan, where were you at one this morning?

Sound asleep in bed.

Alone?

I didn’t answer.

Raising that eyebrow again, Name?

I turned to Vince, who just nodded.

Ashley Benson.

Would that be the blonde who’s working out? Though I’m sure the question was for clarification, I couldn’t help but note a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

One and the same, I replied.

After another nod from Vince, this time directed to Sergeant Jackson, it appeared that my answer, at least for the moment, was acceptable.

As the two ex-partners began to discuss the usual cop mumbo jumbo of the merits of the crime scene, I picked up just enough to understand two important factors: First, by the way, our man was killed and the way the room was policed (meaning there was no evidence such as brass on the floor or probable DNA of the killer), the shooter was a pro. Second, as far as Seattle PD was concerned, Vince and I didn’t have a problem.

But the cold, hard fact was that the only link to fifty million in uncut stones had his brains scattered across the room just a few feet from me. As to the reason, I could only assume one of two possibilities: Either someone didn’t want him to talk, or someone was sending me a message. Either way, Sergeant Jackson was slightly inaccurate—I had a helluva problem on my hands.

Three days prior—Friday, to be exact, at a little past eight in the morning—I was at my desk with a cup of steaming black coffee in hand, performing my end-of-the-week ritual. I was staring out the window, daydreaming of the night I had planned with that certain blonde. Yes, the one Sergeant Jackson would refer to. No doubt that was the main reason I failed to hear my office door open and ninety-eight pounds in two-inch pumps move across the carpet.

A voice broke my concentration just as a hand softly touched my shoulder. Rick?

I nearly jumped out of my seat. Turning to my antagonist, heart hammering, I yelped, Damn, Emily, you scared the hell out of me!

She smirked at my discomfort. Then, taking a seat in a wingback chair, she began her customary Friday morning examination. So, Mr. Morgan, what’s the plan for the weekend?

Since I wasn’t about to admit anything, especially about the private show playing through my brain, I countered with an innocent question: Why do my thoughts have to be on the weekend?

After a light giggle, she went straight to the point. Three things, actually.

And they would be . . . ? I asked with some suspicion.

Well, first would be the glazed look in your eyes.

I tried to keep a straight face.

Staring out the window means you’re thinking. And since you didn’t hear me come in and jumped when I touched your shoulder, that means you are lost in thought.

Holding up my hand, I interrupted. Now, wait a minute. I often stare out my window lost in thought.

That’s true, Mr. Morgan, she replied. This brings me to point number three.

Which would be . . . ? I asked, lowering my hand.

When you’re thinking business, you never smile.

I nodded. She’d got me there. Anything else?

As a matter of fact—

Before Emily could continue with another brilliant observation, a sharp cry from her phone caught our attention. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she flashed me a smile, then hurried back to her office. I, on the other hand, leisurely swiveled back to the window. And the smile returned to my face.

Emily came back after a minute and stood in front of my desk. Rick, there’s a man on line three who insists on talking with you but won’t give me his name.

Did he say what he wanted?

No, but says he has some information on a robbery we paid a claim on.

Did he say which one?

No, he wouldn’t say, she answered quietly.

Then switch him over to the Recovery Department.

I suggested that, but he said he’d only talk to you.

I mumbled that all-too-familiar question: Why do I always get the nuts? Then I took a deep breath, picked up the receiver, and pushed line three. Hello, this is Rick Morgan.

About thirty seconds into the conversation, four things became apparent: the caller wouldn’t identify himself; said he had valuable information; said information was for sale, and he wanted a one-on-one meeting—not necessarily in that order. I, on the other hand, played a little hardball back. No name meant no meeting; I needed at least a hint on what was valuable; the meeting had to be on neutral ground, and the discussion of dollars was out of the question until I knew what he had and some proof to back it up. Reluctantly, the caller agreed, then suggested a time and place. The time worked; the location was questionable. But when push came to shove, I agreed. And the call was over.

Replacing the receiver, I fell back into my chair, acutely troubled and curious. Emily could read me like a book and knew something was amiss. Her concern spouted the usual reaction: Rick?!

I looked up with a blank stare. My thoughts were a million miles away. Actually, more like fifty million.

Is there anything I can do? she asked sweetly. She’s always so willing. I guess that’s what I love about her. Though she’d hit the nail squarely on the head that assistance would be needed, I needed it from someone with a bit more expertise—someone who could move readily around computer records, snoop in files, put their ear to the wall without drawing attention, and in the process never ask why. There was only one person in my department who fit that bill. I call him my go-to guy. Though he had some oddities—he never let me down.

I turned my attention back to Emily and asked, Is Chris in this morning?

She nodded her head slightly and probably knew darn well, I was changing the subject, but she answered, I believe he’s at his desk.

Good, I replied. Please tell him to come and see me.

Rick . . .

I held up my hand because I knew exactly where she was going and the question she wanted to ask. It no doubt revolved around my state of mind. (I can read her sometimes too. Not often, but sometimes.) "Em,