John Law

By Robert F. Augustine

John Law is a misfit private investigator, with Washington D. C., as his beat and hes not doing all that well in either his love life or his career. A mercy job from his sometime lover leads him to the Delaware shore and into the middle of an intricate drug cartel operation. With help from new friends and old and in spite of dangerous adversaries and a near drowning, John solves the case with surprising results . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469111438

Robert F. Augustine

The author is a retired USAF aviator and veteran of Vietnam. Following his retirement, he moved to Crystal River, Florida, where he earned a Bachelor’s and a Master of Arts degree with honors in geography at the University of Florida. He later served as adjunct professor of geography at that university. More recently he completed a second career as cartographer and physical scientist with what is now the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. Soon to be published projects include several novels in period western as well as contemporary mystery genres. He is a native of northern Illinois (Aurora) but now lives in Falls Church, Virginia.

Book preview

Chapter One

John thrust back his comfortable leather desk chair and heaved his stockinged feet up onto the old mahogany desk. He reopened his office just over a month ago and the telephone had only rung once—just minutes ago, when an agent from the phone company called to say that services were terminated. John had not been polite. In fact, he didn’t even hang up; he just wrenched the phone cord from the wall and heaved the instrument into the wire mesh wastebasket.

Over the years, the office had really been quite satisfactory with its fine western view across the Potomac, overlooking the M Street marina and the hills of Virginia. He smiled at the name on the office door. It read ‘waL .J nohJ, NOITAGITSEVNI ETAVIRP’ from the inside. True, the place had not been cleaned in weeks, but then, neither had John Law. He had neither shaved nor changed his clothes in three days and the last time he had been clean all over had been upon his release from the DC jail on June eleventh just less than a month ago. His Private Investigator license had not been revoked following the investigation and trial and that might not have been an oversight. Detective Inspector Collins had never been friendly, but then, neither had he ever been malicious. Perhaps he and the assistant DA had decided to leave John this one route back to respectability, although a PI in the nation’s capital was, at best, not entirely respectable.

Even if he had had his morning coffee, John would not have been in a jolly mood. He was saddled with planning a new future—whether to stay in DC and scan the opportunities available pages, or move back to Tucson and do the same thing. Living was cheaper and easier in Arizona, but he had never fit well into Western Living. In fact, his only concession to five generations of western heritage was a propensity for jeans and two pairs of wonderfully comfortable hand made boots. Right now, he had on worn jeans, and a wrinkled cotton T-shirt that advertised Gold’s Gym front and back. His wardrobe, along with most of his other earthly possessions had been stuffed and hung in the office closet following his ouster from the apartment. Since then, he had slept in reasonable comfort on the couch in the small outer office.

His personal transportation, a fifteen year old four-wheel-drive, four-door Jeep was parked under a No Parking, Subject to Tow sign in the basement. He had no idea to whom the slot belonged, but in four years he had never been challenged. The vehicle looked disreputable, but the primer paint and wrinkled rear fender hid a powerful, well-maintained engine. The tires were broken-in but entirely serviceable. The car would not go one hundred-sixty miles per hour, but made easy inroads on one hundred. It looked like it did by choice so it would not stand out starkly in the neighborhoods in which John often found himself.

It was Friday, July seventh and, even had his clothes been clean, most of the other tenants of his office building would not readily have recognized him. A team of moderately successful lawyers, Mason, Felix, and Carroll by name, who lent a certain respectability to the remaining tenants, leased the first floor. While the lawyers usually wore coats and ties, they were suitably casual in temperament and didn’t discourage John from joining them at the nearby marina bar (unless, of course, they were wooing a client or a promising sexual partner).

John even rated one of the lawyers, Bill Jacobs, as a friend—at least, a well-wisher. Another, Janet Coombs, had been a love interest for several years. Apparently his recent incarceration had cooled her ardor however, because she was obviously avoiding him. The remaining tenants were distributed throughout the building in accordance with their relative prosperity and included: a CPA, a real estate firm, a title company, and a Temp Agency, among other less-established, more transient organizations. John’s office was only on the third floor reflecting his pre-incarceration glory. The seventh floor, the top one, had never been leased.

His lease was paid for the remaining five months of the year and air-conditioning was part of that lease, so he spent his days in relative comfort. Alas! Telephone service was not part of the lease, so he now spent his days incommunicado. His cell phone was defunct. His assets included some Arena Stage tickets, the result of a subscription purchased with Janet in happier days—they were effectively nonnegotiable. John also had some three thousand dollars in E Bonds kept since his army days. His checking account boasted less than fifty dollars and his pockets held thirteen dollars and seventeen cents. The bonds would get him to any reasonable destination, but what would he do when he got wherever that was? His stomach rumbled insistently. Like him, it had been awake since six o’clock and it was ten o’clock now. He hadn’t noticed that he was out of coffee until this morning. His innards were telling him that it was time for a Mac-something or other with hash browns.

At the rap on his still-locked office door, John lurched to his feet and struggled into his boots. Still tucking in his wrinkled shirt, he made for the door. As his hand touched the knob, it turned and the door opened inward. It was Bill Jacobs, looking embarrassed, with an office key in his hand and a slim blue folder under his arm.

Jeezus! What’s wrong? Jacobs blurted. You look god awful. I’ve been calling your apartment from downstairs for three days and this morning, there’s a Verizon recording on your office phone. What the hell’s going on?

Sorry. C’mon in. Scrape off a place and sit if you can. How long have you had a key to the office? Do you have one to my apartment too?

Jacobs walked in and slouched into a leather side chair. He pitched the key to John.

Janet gave it to me. We were worried. Like I said, what the hell’s going on?

You hadn’t heard? I’ve been in jail.

Of course, but why didn’t you ever stop in to see us when you got out? We’ve got work for you.

In that case, I wish I had stopped in. I didn’t think I’d be welcome after getting convicted. Hell, I didn’t even ask you guys to defend me. You’re too expensive. The rat I hired took about all I had.

We have special rates—for friends—for guys who’ll do any dirty job for peanuts. For guys who drive ten year old cars.

Fifteen.

Jacobs smiled.

Okay, fifteen. We take care of friends no matter what kind of car they drive. Anyway, I’ve got a job for you if you’re game.

Hell yes, I’m game. I’m just poor. I’ll need an advance.

Sure. You want an advance? How much?

Depends on the job. Will it all be local? Travel?

Almost none of it’s local. You’ll be spending most of your time on the shore—Rehoboth and or Ocean City. I know you’re licensed in Maryland and Virginia—how about Delaware?

John nodded and Jacobs continued, It’s a wrongful death case and we need to track down some witnesses. You don’t have to pick them up, just confirm addresses—like that.

You know my rates.

Jacobs grinned for the first time.

Sure, like I said, that’s why we hire you; you work cheap.

This time John smiled, too.

Have you got any addresses or leads on the missing witnesses?

"Sort of. We’ve only got one address but the witnesses are all acquaintances—three or four of them. You could get lucky. You might be able to spend a week at the beach. Your rates still three hundred a day and expenses?

Shit, I don’t know, it’s been so long. Just gimme fifteen hundred and I’ll give you a good week of work no matter how long it takes me.

Sold.

Jacobs reached into his blazer pocket, pulled out a slim office envelope, and pitched it across the desk. John caught it adeptly and slipped it into his middle drawer without looking into it.

Need a receipt?

Of course, I’m a lawyer, and you’re a felon. Of course.

I’m not a felon, dammit! It was just leaving the scene of an accident. If the guy wouldn’t have died, I could have walked. There were plenty of people there already and I didn’t want to lose the guy I was following. I still can’t believe they gave me ninety days.

John reached into his desk and extracted a small tablet of yellow forms.

Never mind. There’s a receipt in the envelope. Just sign it.

John retrieved the envelope and slipped out the yellow receipt form. His eyes widened at the amount, but never the less, he scrawled his signature in the appropriate place lifting slightly from his chair as he returned the form. Jacobs folded it neatly in half and tucked it into the side pocket of his dark hopsacking blazer. Without a word, he handed over the blue folder he had been carrying and passed John a tiny Nokia cellular phone.

Okay, we’re legal. You’re on your own. Study the folder and you’ll know as much about the case as I do. Use the phone all you want, but remember, it’s not secure. We have a contact in Rehoboth, but make all your reports to the number in the file—it’s Janet. We’ll expect a journal and a formal report when you’re done. That’s all I know. If you have any questions, contact Janet directly at any time.

Janet? I thought this was your case.

Nope, it’s Janet Coombs’. You’ll be working through her.

Does she know this? I haven’t been able to talk to her since I was sentenced. She’s either been busy or not in. I figured I’d seen the last of her.

I don’t know about socially, but she requested you for the case. She did ask me to brief you though. I’m talking out of turn, but I think she just doesn’t want to embarrass you.

Okay.

So, anyway, John, what say you put on your sweats and let’s go down to the weight room? We can have a little work out, shower, change, and get brunch. I can continue the briefing then.

All right. You’re not fooling me though. You just want to clean me up before being seen with me. Right?

Right. See you in the weight room.

Jacobs stood up and walked out the door without looking back. Smiling wryly, John pushed back his chair to dig through the boxes in the closet for his sweats, shaving kit, and some clean clothes. In minutes, he was taking the back stairs two at a time down to the Mason, Felix, and Carroll exercise room in the basement.

Already red-faced, Jacobs was busy on a treadmill, when John walked in. He went right to a weight bench and started setting up a captive bar for bench-presses. He started with one hundred and twenty pounds. After a couple of sets, he paused to increase the weight. Jacobs stepped off the treadmill and walked toward him.

I better spot for you if you’re going over a hundred and twenty, he said.

You mean you’ll pass out if you spend another two minutes on the treadmill, don’t you? countered John.

Like hell!

Jacobs took up a spotting position at his head and John was in the middle of his first heavy press when Janet walked in. She was dressed for a workout, with Nike’s, sport bra, and matching beige Spandex mid-thigh tights. A white sweatband secured her thick auburn hair. She flashed a brilliant, but embarrassed smile and turned on her heel.

Oops, forgot something, she mumbled over her shoulder as she passed out the doorway.

Yeah, John said, with no assurance. She forgot I might be here.

He eased the heavy bar onto the stand with Jacob’s help.

Don’t be too sure. Want me to invite her for brunch with us? I bet she’ll accept.

"No, thanks. I don’t want to press it. She hasn’t seen me for four months and hasn’t even answered my calls. We can do the brunch thing alone. I’ll send her my reports just as if she were a real person. Let’s hit the shower and get some chow.

It was a short walk across Sixth and Seventh streets to Maine Avenue. John looked more respectable now in clean slacks, with an obvious hanger crease, and a short-sleeved grey silk shirt. His longish brown hair was casually ruffled and he looked slimmer than the 185 lbs on his six foot two inch frame. They walked directly into the lobby of a large, respectable, if touristy, restaurant. The slightly flashy young hostess recognized Jacobs and ushered the two men to a secluded table with an excellent view of the marina and across the Washington Channel into Virginia. With the law firm’s generous advance in his pocket, John felt respectable and secure again. He slouched into the soft captain’s chair and spoke to his friend.

In case I didn’t say it before, Jake. Thanks.

’Nuff said. I would have recommended you, but Janet didn’t give me a chance. You still drink the same thing?

Hell, I can hardly remember that either. I emptied the rum bottle in my desk the second day out and haven’t had anything but V-8 since. Vodka martini, I guess.

Like magic, their matronly waitress appeared. She beamed at Jacobs.

Same from the bar, Mr. Jacobs?

Jacobs nodded, And a vodka martini for my friend.

The waitress cocked her head at John and, suddenly, her smile returned in recognition.

Mr. Law? You’ve changed. Vodka martini—very dry?

That’s right, Betty. I’m celebrating. I graduated last month.

Betty looked puzzled.

Are you ready to order? You know the specials; they haven’t changed in seven years.

Crab cakes, John said.

Me too, echoed Jacobs.

As soon as Betty was out of earshot, Jacobs leaned toward John.

We’ve got to get serious, John. This could be a dangerous job. We think it involves big time drugs. We’ve got a client charged with manslaughter. He was present at a shooting in northeast. Don’t ask what he was doing there. He was high on drugs and doesn’t even remember the shooting. He won’t even tell us, but we believe he’s homosexual. He lied to the cops—said it was self-defense. The decedent was shot with the client’s gun. The client’s story is that the guy tried to mug him. He’s lucky the charge isn’t murder. Actually, we’re sure it was a drug assassination. Our man wasn’t the shooter. So far, he’s free on bond. There is some official pressure. He’s the twenty-five year old son of a State Department bigwig.

Who?

Jacobs looked up over John’s shoulder across the wide room.

I’ll let Janet tell you.

John looked dumbly at Jacobs, as his friend stood up to pull out the chair between them facing the window. Seconds later, John was shocked into motion as Janet Coombs eased her tall graceful body into the chair. Her shockingly green eyes looked levelly into John’s.

Hello, John, she purred to the startled John. I’m sorry I was so short in the exercise room. I really didn’t know what to do. You took me by surprise.

Likewise. I don’t blame you for avoiding me.

Janet’s smooth brow furrowed slightly. She pursed her lips before answering.

I didn’t mean to avoid you. I was just confused.

Right.

Jacobs interrupted.

Would you like a drink, Janet?"

Yes, please. A margarita.

Jacobs turned to signal the waitress, who was just in sight, returning from the bar with a small tray.

As she was serving the drinks, Betty looked at Janet and volunteered, A margarita, right? Straight up?

Janet smiled her agreement and Betty hurried away.

Just then, Jacob’s beeper sounded insistently. He removed it from his pocket and checked the number.

Sorry. It’s important. It’s good news. The lunch is on me. I’ll square it with Betty.

Janet looked pained.

Did you rig this, Bill? You said you’d stay.

No way, I wouldn’t do that to either of you. This call is the McCoy. Sorry. You interested in crab cakes, Janet?

Sure! she answered enthusiastically.

Jacobs stood up slowly and held onto the back of the chair.

Good, you can have mine. This could turn out to be serendipity though. You two can straighten things out and John can get briefed at the same time.

Jacobs turned on his heel and sought out the waitress. After a few words, he disappeared toward the front door. A few minutes later, the waitress showed up with the order. She served the drinks and crab cakes efficiently and got out of the way.

After the almost silent lunch, John volunteered, You know, I had nothing to do with this."

I know; it’s not your style. Jake and I decided this was the best way. You’d move to Maine or the West Coast before you’d apologize.

Apologize? For what? You’re the one avoiding me.

You know, I did show up at the DC jail to pick you up. I got there just in time to see you getting into that little tart’s convertible. You seemed happy enough.

She just showed up, Janet. I didn’t have any other transport that I knew of.

Well, Bill and I flipped a coin to see who’d pick you up. I won, or rather—lost.

Sorry.

Janet sat up.

What the hell. Let’s get this out of the way.

She reached down beside her chair to fish in her briefcase and retrieved a slim laptop computer. She placed it on the table, switched it on and inserted a tiny CD. After punching up the file, she swiveled it so that John could see the screen; her green eyes narrowed.

Start off by reviewing this file, she murmured matter-of-factly.

John scrolled through the file, which included scanned documents, files, and notes about the incident that had resulted in Janet’s client being charged with manslaughter, and, later, murder. There was a lot more information than had been in the slim blue file Jacobs had provided him. The situation was fishy as hell; no experienced DA would believe their client’s story for a minute. John whistled when he learned the client’s identity. He nodded when he learned the name of the decedent. The police were not about to believe that guy was a mugger. In fact, Wilson Tucker was a well-known local drug dealer. He was more than just the head of the infamous First and Kennedy gang. In fact, he had ruled all significant drug sales in D. C. and the Maryland suburbs. He was big enough that he did not have to involve himself in street sales at all. No local thugs were big enough to even pressure him, much less assassinate him. The witness list included only one man that John had ever heard of. The four men were all Hispanic and they were clean, locally. The only familiar name was Reyes Esposito, from Cuba via Miami—a hired killer known in all circles.

Finally John cleared the screen and looked up.

Who’s got the case downtown?

Your buddy, Collins.

Avery? Glad I’ll be workin’ out of town—don’t need to see him for a while.

"What does