Cover-Up

By Marshall E. Gass

Max lives in a quiet suburb. He loves his neighbourhood. His life turns upside down when he discovers some unexpected gift packages in his house. Finding the true owner leads him all over the city and more, disturbingly into dark and shady corners. His curious nature takes over and through his friendly, bumbling nature invites his good friend to help solve the puzzle of ownership.
Attention turns to his new neighbours whom he suspects has something to do with the lost package.
As the mystery unravels, Max is drawn into all sorts of unusual circumstances. He takes the amateur sleuthing upon himself and encounters so many obstacles to get to the bottom of the mystery.
Why does he have to become a cyber expert and dig deep into the Dark Net to find the accomplices to this this mystery.
His good friend has a battery of theories to help Max find the owners. What he finally finds is way beyond anything ever expected.
Join Max on his journey of self-discovery and deceit as he finally finds who is behind all the drug peddling schemes.
Read this gripping story to uncover the truth for yourself. Be afraid at what you may discover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781499097870

Marshall E. Gass

Marshall E. Gass vive en la ciudad de Manukau, Auckland Nueva Zelanda. Tiene una larga trayectoria como escritor de ficción y no ficción. Este libro supone su consagración como escritor de novelas. Lo mejor en la vida, dice, es que tienes que vivirla para entenderla, aprendes de los demás, pero ¡la vives a tu manera! el camino hacia delante se traza mirando hacia atrás, y volviendo a dibujar el mapa de tu viaje a través de la vida.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Marshall E. Gass.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4990-9786-3

                   eBook           978-1-4990-9787-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 02/24/2016

Xlibris

0-800-443-678

www.Xlibris.co.nz

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Contents

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

‘T hank you’ to Catherine Newell , who suggested a name for this book. Thank you Cathe rine .

My editor, Michelle Jane Hafer, who spent countless hours getting the manuscript polished for the publishers. I became so afraid of full-stops and commas! Thank you Mishy.

To my team of publishers, editors and proof-readers (Juan) Ismael- Filipino, Marta Redondo-Spanish, Mark Jay Aquillo-Filipino, Venkat Krishnan-Tamil, Prabjakar Ohja- Hindi, Rocio Perez-Spanish, Kristel Estaliano-Filipino, Ceng Wei Tun-Chinese, Birdie Nakpil-Filipino, Abirami Balasundram-Tamil, Iria Iglesias-Spanish & Rupali Achary-Hindi) who got involved one way or another in all my work. Your teamwork made writing such a valuable experience.

To my wife, Maureen who kept re-organising my workspace as often as possible to support my writing career. She never gave up. I never gave up!

To Sarah Jessamyn, my daughter, who prepared the final manuscript for the publishers.

To Jason James, my son, who believed that writing was the best career of my life and I should have started out much earlier.

CHAPTER 1

"Y ou don’t see anything wrong about what is going on over there across the room?" Samantha asked me.

No, nothing that I can see, I replied, looking away into the distance.

I was used to these questions. Samantha had a way of digging deep into a situation to find hidden nuggets of encrusted gold and diamonds. It was a regular habit of hers. Nothing ever seemed to be up front to her. There was always something hidden under the layers. I knew that when I first met her a long time ago.

Thirty-five years ago to be exact. It was a chilly evening back then in our hometown, in Coonoor. Back home in the winter months, the tea bushes seemed eerily to stand tall above the mist that rolled over the hills and cascaded down the hillsides into the valley. The glossy buds seemed to take on a life of their own in the misty weather. In fact, some managers of the tea estates would manufacture a false mist to help keep the plants, and tea buds, well-watered and moist, always ripe for the picking.

Residents in, and around, the township did not approve of these artificial mist-makers. Yet, no one had seen one of these contraptions spewing out mist over and across all of the land. It was simply dismissed as ‘suspicious behaviour by rich landlords who will use any means necessary in order to make bigger profits’. It just happens that in this town one factor to that means were the tea shrubs that dotted the landscape. But, with that they also employed just about everyone from the town. But, you would never catch anyone complaining about that.

That was conveniently forgotten when it came to getting a job and bringing home the bacon.

I was much younger then. ‘Full of beans’, was how it was described by my best mates. I was forever talking of doing things, most of them ‘impossible’. I wanted to ‘climb the highest peak’ in the rolling Nilgiri Hills, ‘scale the sheerest rock face’, ‘fall down the longest waterfall’ and ‘roll down the hills’ in a wooden toboggan. It all felt so natural for me. I was filled with adventure.

But, sadly they were all armchair adventures.

Most of my time I spent reading books and writing poetry. I wanted to develop those skills more than anything else. That’s when I first noticed this pretty girl who walked past me and my cousin every day.

We would be on our way back from work, and then there she would be.

At first, I didn’t take much notice. She was just a school girl in a pretty blue blazer. She wore a short skirt and carried a bag full of books. It was always weighing heavily on one side. She did have a pretty smile though. I took notice of that right away. But, I would always just walk on. My cousin and I had more important things to worry about. Little girls with pony tail hairdos, and heavy bags, were not of much interest to us. Ick!

Thirty years later and still our first official meeting comes back to me as fresh as baked bread.

"Max! What are you thinking about? You didn’t answer my question, said Samantha. Isn’t it obvious that Fiji Indian chap is flirting with that white woman?"

I don’t know, I replied uninterested. This discussing other people’s lives had to stop. It wasn’t going to accomplish anything. What did I care if some poor bloke chased a white woman around? These things happen all the time in New Zealand.

I was miles away from where I was born.

I accepted the fact that in the old days, in India we were expected to walk a straight and narrow path. Our parents stood dominating around us. One small crooked step and you got your arse kicked back into shape. Your morals were more important.

What would the neighbours say? Mom interjected each time she heard me raise my voice, and slip in a ‘bloody’ or ‘damn’ into innocent sentences. I guessed, a long time ago, that the oldies lived their lives for the neighbours!

My old man was a completely different kind of person. He was definitely not from this planet!

He ignored anything and everything. He just carried on with his bottle and glass. He was content as long as he was high on 48 proof, and was well fed. He did not care if he strayed from some idea of a booming career that led him into becoming the Pope. That was just Dad. His world revolved around a simple yet complex theory of involvement with the bottle and his wits.

Of course he spoke fondly of the great Urdu poets and writers, and even quoted some exquisite verses for us. How he remembered all of them in that alcoholic haze was beyond me. Yet he knew his Urdu verses more than he knew the Bible.

I found it funny to quiz him every so often:

So Dad, what was the verse in James 5? Chap 22?

Blank stare.

Hey Dad, why did the one leper return to thank Jesus?

Blank stare.

Daaaadddd? How many commandments are there?

Blank stare.

My Dad was long gone before he ever had a chance to arrive. He just didn’t care about the semantics of a moral life or a fruitful one for that matter. Both were the same as far as he was concerned. My mom on the other hand, kept pushing us forward in the direction of career and a ‘proper job’. She felt she was morally responsible for our bodies and souls.

One day, I mustered the courage, took a deep a deep breath and stood before my father. Hey Dad? What’s a ‘proper job’?

Blank stare.

After that I just gave up. I realized he really didn’t care if I was a rocket scientist or a carrot. Both were the same in his world.

I asked my mom the same question and she responded with, Honey being a rocket scientist would be a proper job!

There she knew something about proper jobs! I would listen to her on this point on.

Now, back to Samantha. She was still patiently waiting for me to take part in this gossip. I looked into her sad eyes and knew immediately that she had some serious questions working her brain into froth.

Max! I wonder how that Phillip character could go chasing a white girl around, when he knows fully well she is married and has two kids.

So what, I said. I was cautious to give answers to take the fire out of the situation.

I had known Phillip for a while now.

We had played soccer several times about a decade ago. He was young, dark and handsome. However, he had the problem of falling in and out of love rather quickly. He could never hold on to a relationship for very long.

I knew women loved his carefree attitude, and his roving eye. But still, I wondered if they knew the risk they were taking hanging around with a guy like that. I mean chances were that they would only get hurt at the end of the year. Most of Phillips stories seemed to centre on Christmas. This would be when most employees let their guards down a bit and went haywire.

To Samantha all of this probably looked like a mortal sin was being committed right in front of her face. Phillip chasing a white girl? That was not about to happen on her watch!

She had said it a million times before, For God’s sake, Max. The guy is pushing 38 or so, He’s still without his own home. He has no wife, no kids and he’s still living a loose life. We need to do something about this Max.

I’ve heard countless stories of his escapades into the kingdom of love, sex and small time affairs, and I was in no mood to have a long conversation with Samantha about one more misadventure.

I’ve had enough of this bloke I thought.

I could see now, why Samantha had pricked up her ears at Phillip’s latest foray. Her sister was involved in getting this pair together. I was quick to warn her not to get involved, but being the nice friendly person that she is, she went ahead and introduced them to each other anyway. I tried to stay out of this business. It was not my cup of tea, that’s for sure. But despite my best efforts here it was returning to bite me in the arse and for keeping quiet.

I had nothing against beautiful white women chasing after a young handsome, middle aged, Fiji-Indian man. It’s just that Phillip had a way of attracting trouble through his women. One after the other.

I do remember the last bitter affair that went sour within a few months. Sam and I had to harbour the poor broken woman in our home and console her, while she went through that repair period. There was nothing I could do but play a positive host. My lectures on moral behaviour went unheeded. Soon even my simple suggestions on ‘getting on with life’, ‘move on’, were ignored. Within weeks the poor little princess was back at the same game, and was messing around with another married man.

That’s when I decided to wash my hands clean of all this nonsense. I called her up and asked her to move on out. I just had to put my foot down and let her know that using our home as a railway station to flirt around was not going to happen.

That night I sat down with Sam, and we talked about no longer allowing Phillip’s damaged goods stay in our home. We were not his personal repair shop.

A few months later Samantha was back at the same shaky ground trying to solve other people’s affairs. Phillip’s problems were not our problems to rectify. This was something we had to keep out of.

By his very nature Phillip was disobeying the moral nature of human beings. I wanted nothing much to do with this poor situation. I had to warn my dear wife.

This was a cover-up.

CHAPTER 2

A quiet evening always seemed to beckon me outside to relax on the porch.

I had started a new project to build a pergola on a piece of empty property in my backyard. It was making me dream up all sorts of crazy designs. I imagined something resembling Chinese architecture with pointed edges and upturned corners. Maybe a mini Taj Mahal? That seemed a bit more suited to my cultural background. Ooh, maybe a rustic Kiwi back, knocked together with pallet planks? That idea also seemed appealing. A little twist here and there and some engineering ingenuity would eventually produce a pergola that may, one day, win a national award for design.

One could never be sure about such things. It was always the guy with the least notion of how things came together that produced ingenious designs.

Ok. So, some of my designs were shooed away as ‘too stupid’, ‘too loose’, ‘too tight’, ‘too expensive’, ‘too crazy’. But, I was used to that sort of assessment.

Ever since I gave up a lucrative teaching career, for a stoic literary one, I knew it was a steep climb. But winners always emerged from hard work. That much I was sure of. It was embedded in my system to go and explore the world and all its craziness, and then return bristling with new profound ideas.

Building pergolas just happened to be one of them.

I needed to run these designs past Phillip. He was a carpenter by trade, so he would know more about how things worked, and got put together. (Without crashing down) He was a bloody good carpenter, that man. He didn’t get into the nitty-gritty. He was more of the man behind the desk. I mean he was no St. Joseph Carpenter, but he got the job done.

Sitting back, enjoying the evening, I could hear Samantha singing at the top of her voice. She was like that. Always happy when cooking, and morose when she took on other people’s problems. She was always trying to solve the world’s problems in a frying pan.

Then it struck me. Maybe I would sneak around the house, peek through the kitchen window and praise her singing. Yeah! That sounded like something I would do instinctively.

I did just that. Around the house I snuck. Stood up on a concrete slab and stuck my head under the safety latch. From this view point I could appreciate the full beauty of my wife. Her nice broad backside that filled in those jeans so well and a loose shirt hanging from the mounds that only I was allowed to climb.

God I loved this delicious woman.

You got pitch problems there, Hon?

Max, you gave me a fright. Don’t do that again? You silly joker!

Just thought I’d check on your well-being, Sweets!

Oh yeah, good try, Max. I caught you looking at my arse!

"Oops! It was just obstructing my view of what you have going on, there on the stove. What are you whipping up for us tonight, Love? It smells really nice!"

Well, do you remember that chicken dish we tried at that dabba? The one with vendium greens and cream?

Oh yeah! That one? That was really good! We should go there again sometime.

"Sure Max, but not tonight. Tonight I got the recipe off the net. I think it will turn out pretty close to what we had, and the ingredients were simple. Ok Love, enough chat. I have to get back to the stove or supper will burn. Did you come around to check on me, or do you just not have any designs to work on?"

To check up on you Sweetie, of course! Hey do you remember that Phillip guy? I have a feeling he’s up to something. I’ve noticed he seems to pick up the kinds of women who are lonely, have no kids, and are recently separated. Usually they have money and are good-looking. Think back Sweets, of all the women we’ve met. They’ve all ticked the same checklist, right?

Why do you get so suspicious all the time, Max? The nature of the beast is just like that. Maybe it’s those kinds of women that chase him around. He is a charming fella. Honey, you gotta give credit where credit is due. Besides, he seems to always get the best girls around. So, he must be doing something right.

I don’t know. I need to check with your sister about all of this. Tabitha is always the one introducing people to people, and you are the one always fixing fences and broken hearts.

Go on Max. Do your own thing. Leave us ladies alone.

Listen, Sweets, I’m being serious. Keep that chap, Phillip at bay. I have an uneasy feeling about this. You girls. You always seem to attract trouble.

I got work to do, Max. Shoo!

. . .

I turned on my heels and went to pour myself a stiff whisky and ginger ale.

I loved this kind of drink. It worked well for me nowadays. Once upon a time I would gulp this stupid stuff raw and feel like Superman. Those were the days when I was young and foolish. Most evenings I would drink like a fish and dance to Rock and Roll. Yeah, it was Jefferson StarShip - Earth, Jimi Hendrix, Bread and if the whisky was well diluted it would be Lobo, the Boss or Johnny Cash.

I had my moods.

Now at 45, it felt like a distant dream. The music had changed. Youngsters roamed the streets with baseball bats, punching holes in shed walls, or people’s heads. They were loud, noisy, boisterous and disrespectful. They had poor manners, a poor dress code, poor eating habits, poor educational standards, poor every fucking thing. It was a weird world if I looked at it through my 40’ish year old eyes.

My father would kick my butt if I stepped out of the boundary he laid for me. Although he was normally high on his brand of army rum. Yet he maintained decorum around the house and especially around the ladies.

A man must treat a lady well.

He said that a thousand times and I listened each and every time. God help me if I didn’t. He would look at me with those army eyes and the muscles on his neck would swell and veins would burst from his forehead, and if he said:

Come here, Max, my boy!

That was it. I knew what was coming….

I wondered if Phillip had the same upbringing. He seemed to be made of a looser fabric. He seemed to have some stitches in his character coming loose. I had been friends with him for a decade now and I knew him pretty well. When I think back over the years I recall many periods where he had gone missing for long periods of time. Then one fine day he would just show up with some random ass gift for Samantha and a bottle of Fiji rum for me.

Boy! That was harsh stuff. It carried a big punch and floored you if you didn’t watch out. I wasn’t much of a drinker these days.

The change began when I met Samantha officially nearly two decades ago.

We were at this house party in India. Friends were coming over and I was called to join in. We carried our Indian snacks and a bottle to keep the spirits alive. We arrived at Aunty Miranda’s house at 8 pm on the spot.

The lounge was packed with people of all sorts. Tall, fat, slim, drunk, getting drunk and they were dancing all sorts of traditional dances. The music was loud! We were loud, and the neighbours never complained.

We all piled into the house, left our snacks on the dining table and looked around for the first free girl to dance with. It all happened so quickly.

Right, well, all the girls were ‘taken’ so I quietly walked over to the corner to nurse my drink. I just sat there staring at all those couples writing on the makeshift dancefloor. There was this one particular girl. She knew her steps so well. She just weaved in and out and in and out. She was so precise. I guessed she must have been to so many house parties.

I was so transfixed, that I leapt slightly out of my chair when I heard a soft voice at the side of me, Not dancing?

No, I replied. I’ve got two left feet.

She smiled. "Really? Well, I’ve got two right feet!"

Cheeky! I said and she smiled. I recognised that smile immediately.

Oh yes, she was the pretty girl with the blue blazer, the long legs and now this giggly nature that we passed on our way home from work every day.

I’m Max Martin!

I know, she said and grinned again.

"No you don’t. I’m not the same guy you see pass you every day on your way back from school. I wear camouflage most days!"

"Yep, sure, I believe you Max Martin. You are the kind that does were camouflage anyway!"

I grinned now. She was smart alright. She met me on the same level. She went to battle with the same sword drawn and that flash of nice white teeth. I liked her instantly.

Are you going to dance with me? She asked and smiled again.

Yes! I said stretching my hand out ceremoniously and with some panache.

She stood up and came right into my waiting arms.

Are you going to tell me your name Little Miss? Or should I twist your arm and extract it?

Go ahead, give it a shot.

Nope, I won’t do that. Tell me your name Sweety.

Sam!

What? I said smiling. Male or female?

Female. I’m pretty sure! She smiled.

Can I check, please? Just to be sure. That’s an unusual name for the future Queen of England.

This time she laughed heartily.

"Sam for Samantha. You are nuts Mr. Max Martin. I was warned about you!"

Oh? Who warned you about a good Catholic boy like me?

My Mother!

Oh! I said. Not certain what this could mean.

My Mom said that chaps like you have girls hanging off of each arm. But I don’t care.

Oh I’m glad. But, you see I’m as innocent as a baby carrot.

Shut up Max! You’re stepping on my toes too often. But, you’re funny and I like that. So, you are forgiven!

Thanks, Sam. No that just won’t do. May I always call you Samantha? Perhaps for the rest of my life?

This time her laugh shook the room. She caught on to how the chemistry was boiling between us. She leaned in closer. She smelled oh so nice. Lavender, peppermint and some kind of Charlie perfume. Her hair smelt fresh. I stuck my nose in and took a deep breath. It was lovely.

Max! Don’t do that. People are watching.

I don’t care. I want to do it. Let them watch.

Shut up Max! You talk too much! Just hold me close.

Ok! I surrendered meekly.

We danced ’till 1 am. Everyone was happy. Snacks were served around every now and then, and drinks were laid on the table for those of us who wanted them. I almost stopped drinking that night, but I needed that liquid courage to keep chasing Samantha around. So I sipped my drink, not gulped, mind you.

At the end of the night we snuggled up against each other and danced close. This was pure romance. All couples starting out to love each other had better take some lessons from me.

Closer to closing time, I was still holding Samantha’s hand, almost afraid to let her go.

Then it struck me hard. Here was this pretty school girl, turned young woman, and I was dancing with her. It couldn’t have been five years since I first saw her. She must be at least, eight years my junior? Or maybe I just went off to work at an earlier age then her. I did go straight out of high school. In those days it was common to leave the school gates and enter the factory gates.

That night I kissed her. It all just fell into place naturally, as if it was meant to be. We were just swaying, and dancing to the Last Waltz by Engelbert Humperdinck. I was holding her close, and she just melted in my arms. We hardly moved on the dance floor.