Action

By Garibaldi Sabio

Action is a murder mystery leavened with humor. The central character, Rocky Stonebrook, is an ex-con, private detective, who writes poetry on the side and who tries to model himself after the TV character, Jim Rockford. A secret government agency hires him to find out who murdered an assassin. But in the process of his investigation, he discovers that the contractor is really a hit man organization pretending to be a government agency, and he himself becomes a target of the outfit that has hired him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496945464

Garibaldi Sabio

If he were a player in the NFL, sportswriters would call Garibaldi Sabio “well-traveled.” He has moved around a good deal: He has been a doctoral candidate in Comparative Tropical history, a former assistant to a mayor, a community action factotum, Chief Planner for a Governor’s Manpower Office, a data privacy maven, an attorney, a trainer of mediators and arbitrators, a law professor, a newspaper editor-in-chief, a columnist in a lawyers’ magazine, and a Community College Spanish teacher. He is convinced that his family serves as proof of gender balance in the Milky Way because he and his wife are the parents of six daughters and nine grandsons. He and his wife live in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where, among other things, Sabio is a member of the Jackson Hole Writers Group, leads walking tours of Jackson for the Jackson Hole Historical Society, and is the Lyricist for the Jackson Mounted Patrol.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tall, lean, and dark-haired, Rocky Stonebrook stood in line at the Wells Fargo bank branch in downtown Cleveland. The beige, industrial-strength carpet muffled the sounds of paper and conversation, so that it was eerily quiet in the bank. At 6'3 Stonebrook towered over the other seven customers in front of him, and he could see that the teller was operating in slow mode. Two other bank employees were counting money and had placed the SEE NEXT TELLER" sign in front of their cages.

Patience never had been his strong suit. Even as a boy, growing up in Fairfax, Virginia, he had had a difficult time waiting for the end of a story. At parent-teachers conferences, his teachers had told his parents that Pedro (his real first name) squirmed a lot, but he obviously was paying attention because he almost always shot his hand up when the teacher asked questions, and he invariably had the right answer.

You know, he said to the woman in front of him but loud enough for everyone in the bank to hear, I bet that at the Key Bank or at the First Merit Bank, they put customers ahead of counting cash.

The two money-counters looked to their supervisor, a gaunt, turkey-necked woman in a dark purple dress and a severe hairdo who, pink-faced, jerked her head so that the tellers removed the signs and opened their cages. Five of the seven waiting customers hurried to the newly available lines; but they all smiled at him for saying aloud what they had been thinking. He was now third in the original line. When he moved up to second place, the supervisor whispered something in the ear of the teller, who stared at Stonebrook with narrowed eyes and a frown.

As the customer in front of him completed her transaction, Stonebrook approached the counter, but the turkey-necked supervisor had replaced the young woman in the cage. Mr. Stonebrook, perhaps you’d be happier taking your banking business to one of the other banks in town. I have a check here for the $218.11 in your account; and you should feel free to deposit it anywhere you like.

Stonebrook knew exactly where the supervisor hoped he would insert the deposit. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to take his business to a friendlier venue or to remain a thorn in the side of this multinational megacorporation that pretended to care about its nickel-dime customers — so long as they said baaah and didn’t complain. He chose thorniness.

Well, thank you Miss Shacklefritz, he said at the same volume he had spoken when in line, but instead of your sending me to another bank, I have a deposit to make of $4,500. Can you handle that, or will you need one of your tellers to help count it?

"My name is Gongler, Mrs. Gongler," the supervisor said through clenched teeth while she pressed the button for the security guard, who approached Stonebrook and grabbed Stonebrook’s elbow.

Come with me, please. Sir. The guard did his best to imitate menacing, but he was paunchy, thirty years past his prime, and five inches shorter than Stonebrook.

Looking at the guard’s nametag, which read Nimitz, Stonebrook whispered in his ear. Listen, Numb-nutz, If you keep your hand on my elbow or any other part of my anatomy for one more second, I’ll sue you and the bank for battery. I’m a private detective, so I know that you have zero authority here unless a crime has been committed, and the only thing close to unlawful behavior is the discriminatory conduct of Miss Shacklefritz here. In a much louder voice, he growled, Back off, now!

Nimitz removed his hand and took three steps backward, unsure of what to do next. This situation was beyond his pay grade.

Good man, Numb-nuts, Stonebrook said in a voice as if he were on a stage without a microphone. Now go consult chapter 23 of the manual Wells Fargo gave you, and you’ll see that if you exceed the authority conferred upon you, you may be personally liable to a customer who feels attacked and insulted, and the bank will have no obligation to defend you. Stonebrook said that at an intermediate level of loudness.

Nimitz slunk away to a corner. Mrs. Gongler stomped off behind a partition. Finally, a man with a shiny suit and a boutonniere came out. He started to speak, but before he could get out his first word, Stonebrook said, Aha, an assistant vice-president. Shall we chat privately?

Actually, I’m a full vice-president. My name is Harlan Rumpkis.

Nice to meet you, Harlan. Here’s $4,500 to deposit in my account. He shoved the check across the teller’s shelf along with a deposit slip. I’d like a receipt please.

Everyone in the bank was now staring at Vice-President Rumpkis, whose awareness of their gaze caused him to blush involuntarily. Certainly, sir. Here’s the receipt for your deposit.

Thank you, Harlan. And if you need some help the next time you do customer relations training for your staff, here’s my business card. At least four bank customers tittered.

After Stonebrook left, Rumpkis went into his office and called his fellow Rotarian, Lt. Oliver Pitts, at the Third Police District on Chester Avenue. Oliver, this is Harlan Rumpkis at Wells-Fargo. We just had …umm, an incident with a depositor by the name of Rocky Stonebrook. What can you tell me about him?

When you say ‘incident,’ Harlan, did he try to rob the bank or hurt anyone?

No, nothing like that. He raised his voice and made derogatory comments about the bank.

Well, that doesn’t break any laws that I know of, Harlan. But I can tell you a little something about Mr. Stonebrook. He’s a private detective who stays just inside the line between legal and illegal behavior. His real name is Pedro Fishkin, but he uses ‘Stonebrook’ as a professional handle. He’s smart, very resourceful, and has a big mouth. He once did some time in a New Jersey penitentiary for possession of drugs.

Oliver, can the bank ‘fire’ a depositor it doesn’t particularly like? Rumpkis inquired.

Now you’re askin’ me a legal question, Oliver. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to run that one by the bank’s attorneys. Oops, that’s my pager. I gotta run. See you at the next Rotary meeting. He hung up.

Chapter 2

As he left the bank, Stonebrook was accosted by a young redheaded woman, late teens or early 20s, maybe 5' 9 tall, plain but on the edge of pretty if she just wore a little makeup and had a better haircut. Hello, Mr. Stonebrook, my name is Lauren Marlo, and I’d like to apply for your externship."

Maybe there’s some other dude named Stonebrook for whom you’re looking, young lady; I don’t even know what an externship is, much less have one that’s open for applications. And how did you find me anyway?

She smiled. That’s a good start! When you make your report to Prof. Weiler, you can tell him that I found an ice-breaker that’s investigator-worthy.

Stonebrook twisted his head around in both directions. "Where’s the guy who’s going to jump outa the bushes, yelling Candid Camera?"

Lauren laughed out loud. That’s good, Mr. Stonebrook; your profile indicated that you had a weird sense of humor. Stonebrook waited, expecting that she would begin an explanation. None came.

He folded his arms and frowned. Listen, if you’re selling girl scout cookies, you should know that I’m on a sugar-free diet, and if you’re circulating a petition to save the spotted owl or the inchworm, I signed a petition for each one inside the bank, where there’s a clown handing out petitions with ball point pens bearing the bank’s name.

Palms up, she replied, if you were interviewing a witness the way I opened with you, that witness would be off-balance, the way you are right now, and then you could find out things that otherwise might not be available to you.

That does sound familiar.

Well, it should Mr. Stonebrook. That’s almost word-for-word what you said when you came as guest lecturer last year to Prof. Weiler’s criminal justice class at Case Western. I took careful notes on the recording that one of the students made when you spoke.

"Okay, let me get this straight, you’re a college student taking criminal justice from Paul Weiler (he paused while she nodded), and you mistakenly think that I have some kind of, what’d you call it? – an externship — available, for which you think you are eligible."

That’s close: You don’t have an externship, though, unless you and I make an agreement that I can be your extern. Prof. Weiler requires every criminal justice student to spend part of a whole semester in an externship with someone in the criminal justice system. Some of my fellow students hang out with prosecutors; others with cops; one, I know, has an externship with the warden of a women’s prison. I am choosing you… if you’ll agree.

Well, unlike prosecutors, cops, and wardens, all of whom are civil servants and get steady paychecks from government agencies, P.I.s are self-employed and experience occasional …um,. cash flow viscosity. I am in a drought right now, and I can’t afford to pay you.

That’s the beauty of an academic externship: It doesn’t cost you a penny, just your time. The idea is that I would hang out with you, watch you at work, sporadically undertake assignments for you. All you have to do is to answer my questions periodically and send in a report to Prof. Weiler, saying what you think I learned and maybe contributed.

Stonebrook curled his lip. You never answered my question about how you found me here at the bank.

She grinned and touched him, kind of collegially, on the elbow. I did it to show you that I am resourceful, one of the qualities you told the class last year was critical for a successful P.I.

I really don’t need a sidekick. I don’t even know what I’d assign this person to do, and I’m uncertain that I’d really want her tagging along if I’m doing my shtick. But I owe Paul Weiler for bailing me out of a lot of trouble in my time; and being a guest lecturer for an hour a year ago hardly constitutes reciprocity. IF…and that’s a big IF…I agreed to this extern thing, when would you start, and how often would you wear your Robin cape?

She tilted her head. "My Robin cape?…Ah, you think that you are Batman just because you have a secret identity. I told you I had checked you out: I know that your real name is Pedro Fishkin, and I’ve read some of your published poetry."

When he involuntarily dropped his lower jaw, she continued. We could start today, by your signing this easy-to-read Externship Contract that Prof. Weiler drafted, and except for classes, I would be at your beck and call. She whipped out two copies of a two-page contract that only required that he let her observe him for at least 25 hours during the semester and to send in a report at the end of her externship. He signed both copies, and she handed him one.

Note that I have written my cell-phone number at the top of the first page of your copy. And if you would just give me one of your business cards, then I’ll have your number.

Stonebrook re-appraised her. Well, you’re clearly not in the shrinking violet category. That’s good. My office is…

I know where your office is, Mr. Stonebrook.

How could you? My business card only provides a post office address.

Resourcefulness, remember?

Stonebrook rubbed his nose, trying to think of how to end this conversation. Sometimes, I may leave a message for you with my secretary, whose name is…

Carol. I know.

All right. You get an A for resourcefulness. It was nice to meet you, Lauren. Welcome aboard.

Chapter 3

A creature of habit, Frank Turner pushed the snooze button when the alarm jangled him into partial awakeness at 6:15 a.m. Ten minutes later, the alarm went off again, and Frank got up, stretched, took a leak, put on his robe, and went out to get the newspaper. It was Friday, a crisp September morning.

He wasn’t looking forward to another unsuccessful day as a real estate broker; he did not have the salesman’s gift. But before putting on his fake smile, he would have a cup of coffee and read the weekly paper here in Monroe, Wyoming.

The newspaper was on the front walk but 15 feet away from the door. Mumbling under his breath about the newspaper boy’s chronic bad aim, Frank ambled the 15 feet down the walk. He reached down for the newspaper, stood up straight, and began to read the banner headline.

The blonde woman in the back seat of the gray van parked across the street opened the sliding door and notched an arrow into her bow. She took careful aim, and the arrow which she let fly pierced Frank Turner’s heart. Frank was dead before his head crashed into the cement.

Bullseye! the woman said to herself but loud enough for the driver to hear. She told him to start the car, and they departed without a single neighbor having seen or heard Fred Turner’s last moments alive.

It wasn’t until 6:45 that Frank’s wife, Arlene (who did not know that she had just become a widow), arose from their bed. Not finding Frank in the kitchen or bathroom, she looked out the front door, where she saw him lying lifeless in a pool of blood on the walk and promptly fainted.

A few minutes later, Patsy Connolly, a neighbor from four houses down, came upon both Turners on her return from her morning jog. She tried unsuccessfully to revive Frank but did manage to help Arlene into her house and to call the sheriff’s office.

Detectives Martínez and Gillespy arrived within 15 minutes of Patsy Connolly’s call. Gillespy, overweight, clearly uncomfortable wearing a tie, and a man in need of knee surgery, groaned as he bent down to confirm that Frank Turner was dead. He posted yellow tape around the crime scene and called headquarters to ask that they send out the Medical Examiner. Meanwhile, Eduardo Martínez, whose well-cut suit, trim moustache, and good looks made him appear more like a movie star than a cop, knocked on the door and showed his badge to Patsy Connolly, who had answered the door. He asked to be admitted to conduct interviews.

Patsy was still in her T-shirt and running shorts, and Martínez could smell the dried perspiration. Arlene was sitting in her robe drinking some hot tea. How do you do? he began, phatically, still unsure which of the women was the widow of the deceased. I’m Detective Martínez, and I’m from the homicide division. Can you two identify yourselves please?

Patsy pushed the strand of hair hanging in her face behind her ear and saw that Arlene Turner didn’t plan to answer. So,