Double Tap: A Sam Mccloud Novel

By Gary J. Crawford

The author of Immaculate Deception has penned another riveting, action-packed tale of treachery and murder. Private investigator Sam Mac McCloud has been enlisted by his police lieutenant friend, Danny Kelly, to investigate the spousal abuse of an employee and her husbands connection to a Modesto gang. In the meantime, Emily Campbell hires McCloud to find her husband so that she may file for a divorce. McCloud and his cousin, Sven Swede Anderson, the owner of the Downtown Athletic Club, travel to Portland, Oregon, to serve the divorce papers and become involved in another murder.
A professional assassin appears to be the murderous culprit, and the two cases become entwined in a confusing trail of what appears to be strange coincidences. McCloud must traverse a suspenseful, sinister world of spousal abuse, gang violence, bank robbery, and murder before the cases are solved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483674926

Gary J. Crawford

Gary James Crawford is a retired educator, having taught physical education, business, health, and journalism. He has been a licensed real estate broker, building contractor, appraiser, and housing inspector. He has coached baseball and football at the high school level. He has been a sports reporter and photographer and was awarded a fellowship by the American Society of News Editors to the University of Maryland. He is an alumnus of Modesto Junior College, California State University Chico, and Chapman University. Crawford and his wife, Debbie, live on a ranch in the Central Valley of California.

Book preview

1

I was sitting at my desk, judiciously studying the sports page when Police Lt. Daniel Aloysius Kelly entered the office unannounced, as usual. He was carrying a large pink box, ceremoniously depositing it on my expensive walnut desk. Without invitation, he plopped himself in my brown leather visitor’s chair and propped his size 12s on the edge of the said desk.

Make yourself comfortable, I said.

Thanks, Mac, he said, grinning from ear to ear. Got any coffee?

You know where it is, I’m not serving you. And you can bring me a refill too.

All of the things I do for you and you make me get my own coffee, he said. And I brought the donuts.

I watched Danny go over to the library table with the coffeepot on it and pick out his own mug with the police badge emblazoned on it. Danny and I have been good friends since we played football together at Modesto Junior College. Danny’s a large dark Irishman, six feet two inches and about 230 pounds. He’s a good cop and a great person. He was a really good football player, a quick, aggressive linebacker. Since I’m a private investigator, having a police lieutenant as one of your best friends can be extremely helpful, but he can also be a pain in the ass.

After refilling my cup, Danny sat down and opened the large pink box. Time for my morning donut aerobics, he said. Baker’s dozen should be enough for both of us.

I bet the donut business would really suffer if it wasn’t for you cops, I said, biting into a jelly-filled donut.

Danny eyed me over a glazed donut. It seems you’ve been keeping the donut business going. It looks like your waistline has expanded some.

I looked down at my belt. It was obvious I had let it out a notch. I was working a couple of cases and couldn’t get to Swede’s gym. Sven Swede Anderson was my cousin, and Danny and I both belonged to his Downtown Athletic Club. The three of us could all bench-press over three hundred pounds but weren’t quite as svelte as we used to be.

Danny nodded with a mouthful of donut and tilted the big pink box for me to pick out another one.

Before taking a bite of my newly selected maple bar, I asked Danny, To what do I owe the visit, and shouldn’t you be at work?

Danny smiled with his teeth full of donut remnants. I am working. I’m a detective, and I am detecting the quality of donuts people procure from the donut shop downtown.

Uh-huh, now tell me what you want, I said.

After a big swallow of coffee to wash down the donut residue, he said, I do a lot for you, right? Check out suspects, check for warrants, run plates, bring donuts.

I was wondering where this was going when the telephone rang.

Sam McCloud, I answered. Yeah, he’s here, and I handed the phone to Danny.

Danny listened intently. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I just gotta wrap up this meeting with Mac, he said, reaching for his third donut. He handed me back the telephone and said, The office, they can’t get by without me. He took a large bite, eliminating half of the chocolate-covered donut with colorful sprinkles.

My secretary, Sara, arrived for work and stuck her head in my office to see if I was doing any work. Oops, forgot, she’s not my secretary anymore. She’s my executive assistant.

Have a donut, I said, pointing to the large pink box.

No, thanks, you guys are clogging your arteries, she said in disgust.

Sara Vazquez was a beautiful Hispanic girl that looked like she could be Eva Longoria’s sister. She obviously had better control than Danny and I, and she looked it.

Would you please make some more coffee? I asked. Her eyes made piercing darts through my heart as she took the coffeepot away to make more coffee. Sara preferred being treated like an Aztec princess rather than an employee, but she was a great employee and almost like family. She was beautiful and smart, and I always looked out for my best interests, though it often cost me dagger looks and cryptic comments.

Finally, Danny said, I want you to look into something for me, Mac, but you have to work cheap.

How cheap?

Danny looked at the pink box of donuts. One-half of a box of donuts.

That’s more than I usually get from you, I said.

You know how sensitive personnel issues can be in a government agency, he said rhetorically. I have a young office employee that I am very concerned about.

Danny took another bite of donut, obviously choosing his words carefully. He chewed silently. With a big swallow, he continued, The employee is a young woman, very meek, quiet almost to a fault. But above all, she is very sweet and kind and one heck of a good worker.

I nodded.

I’ve suspected for some time that she is being abused at home by her husband. I’ve noticed some bruises on her wrists, and last month, she had a black eye. You know the story, she ran into a door. Then yesterday, she showed up with a cast on her wrist and said she fell.

Did you talk to her about abuse? I asked.

In general terms, I let her know that she has access to counselors and medical people if she were having problems. As in many of these cases, she denied any problems and said everything is fine at home. She said she is just ‘clumsy.’

I nodded. I hate a cowardly man that would hurt a woman or a child.

Me too, Danny said. That’s why I want you to ‘unofficially’ look into it.

Okay, I said.

Danny pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and passed it across my desk. Here’s her name, address, telephone number, husband’s name, and his place of work, when he works. I’ve heard he’s now on disability.

The names on the paper were Mary and Jose Contreras. They lived on the west side of Modesto.

Sometimes I tease her and call her Mary Contrary because she is the opposite of a contrarian, Danny said sadly but with evident fondness for the young woman. If I could, I would look into this myself. But with personnel laws and being the major crime fighter in town, I must defer to you.

I nodded.

You don’t know where you got that slip of paper and we never had this conversation, Danny said, rising to leave. He shook my hand and said, I want to hang Jose by the balls, and he started to leave.

I know I work cheap, I said. But the half box of donuts is just my retainer, I yelled after him.

Danny gave me a smile and a wave and walked out of my office. I looked over the slip of paper. Mary’s title at the police department was file clerk. She had worked at the police department in the last fourteen months and was twenty-two years old. When he worked, her husband was a welder with Central Valley Iron Works.

2

My office was housed on the bottom floor of an old 1890s Victorian downtown on Fourteenth Street. My father was a contractor, and he and I remodeled it some years ago. The original parlor was occupied by my executive assistant. I used to call her my secretary, but she thought that was below her station. My semiprivate office was in the one-time living room, a darkly paneled room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a large walnut desk facing the doorway with lighting from two large windows behind it. My personal office had been intended to be private, but with the likes of my black lab, Daisy, Danny Kelly, Swede Anderson, and my pushy executive assistant, I seldom got much privacy. My residence was on the second floor, and I too often had privacy there.

I picked up the somewhat-empty pink donut box and carried it to Sara’s desk. I’ve got a new case, I told her.

Sara looked at me and smiled. Good, we need the money. Sara was always concerned about not having enough money.

Here’s the retainer, and I put the donut box on her desk.

How are we going to pay the landlord with a box full of grease? she asked with a wrinkled-up nose. Even wrinkled, it was cute.

The landlord’s a real nice guy. I’m sure it won’t be a problem, I said.

Donuts don’t pay the bills, she said.

At least we won’t starve to death.

Sara shook her head. She does that a lot for some reason.

I’ve got to go to the west side of town for a few hours. Call me on my cell phone if something comes up.

Gee, I would never have thought of that, my sassy executive assistant responded.

I let out a big sigh and left my impertinent assistant to do whatever she does when I’m not there. I owned two vehicles; and whichever one I was not driving, Sara would use to go to the post office, bank, and whatever other errands needed to be done. I knew she preferred to drive my Jeep Wrangler since it was smaller than my four-wheel-drive pickup, so I took the pickup to keep the peace. When it comes to women, it seems that I’m always trying to keep the peace.

I drove my white GMC Sierra four-wheel-drive pickup to the west side of Modesto. H Street is one way, and I hit all of the lights, so within a few minutes, I had gone under the Highway 99 overpass and turned left on Fourth Street, past West Side Park. It was a beautiful spring day in California, and there was a plethora of lounging homeless on the picnic tables. I turned right at the municipal golf course and right on Roselawn Avenue, the street the Contrerases lived on.

Driving slowly, I located the house and then made a U-turn at Sierra Drive and parked across the street one house down. Roselawn was old-town Modesto, with large shade trees and little white-graying bungalows in all states of ill repair. Gentrification had not taken hold here yet. Mary Contreras was at work, and it appeared I was a little early in the day for Mr. Contreras. Nothing moved. All was quiet. Maybe Mr. Contreras was a night person. I decided it probably would be best if I came back later in the day, perhaps when Mrs. Contreras was due home.

G Street is the one-way return back to downtown and passes right by the Modesto Police Department. I parked in a no-parking zone and entered, looking around to see if I could recognize Mary Contreras by Danny’s description. There were several women working in the outer sanctum, and there were a couple of likely candidates. A pretty blonde looked right at me with big brown eyes and then looked down quickly. She wore a modest blue gingham dress, below the knee in length. Though plainly dressed, I could tell she had an excellent figure. Too pretty and too shapely, I thought. Toward the back of the room was another simply dressed woman in a black outfit, with her head buried in a file cabinet. She had brown hair and was a little broader in the back. She never looked up. Frumpier, that’s the one.

A young receptionist, whom I have never seen before, asked, May I help you, sir?

Yes, my name’s McCloud, is Lieutenant Kelly in?

I’ll check, she said, pushing an intercom button. Are you in? She paused as she listened. A Mr. McCloud is here to see you. Another pause, the receptionist’s face coloring, and then with a forced smile, she said, He said he will see you but doesn’t have much time.

I smiled back at her. I’m sure that’s not exactly what he said, but thank you. I know the way.

Danny had a window that looked out onto the shady trees of G Street and an interior window that looked into the outer office. The blinds were closed on the outer office window, so I tapped on the door before entering.

I’m busy, he said, looking up from a large stack of papers. What do you want, run out of donuts?

Uninvited, I sat down across his desk. I checked on Mary’s house, and nothing was going on, so I thought I would stop by to see what she looks like.

Yeah, I don’t think Jose is a morning person, Danny said, walking over to the interior blinds and opening them to the outer office. I like keeping these closed. It gives me a false sense of peace and privacy. Then some big palooka like you comes in and ruins it.

After looking into the outer office, he turned and looked at me. Without indicating direction, he said, Over by the lateral file cabinet, the one in the blue dress and blonde hair.

Surprised, I nodded. Prettier than I had thought, I said.

When it comes to personnel, we don’t talk about whether an employee is female or male, fat, short, tall, young, or old, and we certainly don’t talk in terms of whether they are good looking or not. It’s not just our policy. It’s California law, and we are in the law business. But between you and me, she’s a sweet little fox!

She gets off at five o’clock? I asked.

No, she comes in at seven thirty and gets off at four thirty, Danny said.

Do you know what she drives? I asked.

Yeah, an older faded blue Toyota, he said.

I nodded. I’m feeling logy with the donuts. Want to go work out at the gym? I asked.

Danny indicated the large stack of papers on his desk. Can’t, too much to do. Maybe later in the week.

How about drinks at Luigi’s tonight after my surveillance?

You buy? Danny asked.

Sure, I’ve got to spend that large fee you are paying, I said.

Okay, six thirty then, he said.

Six thirty.

Say hello to Swede for me, Danny said.

I will. I’ll ask him to join us tonight. I walked out of Danny’s office, stealing another look at Mary Contreras. She was definitely a looker. I always wonder how good-looking women can wind up with losers like Jose Contreras.

3

The Downtown Athletic Club was only a few blocks from my office, and since finding parking at or near the club can be challenging, I parked at the office and walked. My Jeep was gone, indicating Sara was either at an early lunch or running errands or both. Being a beautiful spring day, I made it a point to say good morning to everyone, including the old homeless guy pushing a Save Mart grocery cart. He looked at me suspiciously and kept on pushing. I wondered what the attrition rate of shopping carts was.

Swede Anderson, my cousin and owner of the gym, was working with an attractive lady on the pec machine. Swede and I were related on my mother’s Swedish side of the family. Swede’s a big, pretty, blond guy with a great build and a deep tan. He prefers to be called handsome, but I think he’s too darn pretty.

He took one look at me and asked, Been into the donuts again?

So, I haven’t been in for a while. I’m going to make up for it today though.

Swede shook his head in disgust. You know you can’t make up for it in one day. At the rate you are going, it will take a month.

Not totally forgetting his propers, Swede introduced me to his client. Mac, this is Emily. Emily, this is my cousin Mac.

How do you do, Emily said in a very polite Southern drawl. Do all you westerners treat family so poorly?

No, Ms. Emily, I must apologize for my cousin’s poor attitude. He’s been cursed by jealousy his whole life.

Emily observed Mac carefully. He was just a little shorter than Swede, about six foot one and 230 pounds. He had sandy hair and a few scars on his face, and his nose was about as crooked as his boyish smile.

Nice meeting you, Emily, I said.

My pleasure, Emily said, smiling. She watched Mac retreat to the locker room. Your cousin is handsome in a rugged sort of way.

Uh-huh, Swede grunted.

She turned her attention back to Swede. He was very handsome and very fit. She loved coming to the gym and getting attention from the six-foot-two blond, blue-eyed trainer. He was tanned and energetic and found his streak of jealousy very cute.

After changing, Mac went over to Swede and invited him to Luigi’s for drinks that night.

I’ll be there, Swede said. But you had better work out for an extra hour if you’re going to pile onto the donuts.

Knowing that there was an element of truth to what Swede said, I hit the weights hard, followed by thirty minutes of cardio. After my workout, I felt tired, but exhilarated, and a nice hot shower seemed to alleviate all of the toxins I had sweat out.

Swede was working with another one of his beautiful clients when I finally left the gym. He gave me a nod and smiled when I mouthed nice when I left. I was beginning to wonder if Danny and I were the only male members of Swede’s bastion of good-looking people.

I walked briskly back to the office to find Sara hard at work, playing with my black lab, Daisy. You need to take your dog for a walk. She’s driving me crazy, she said.

I gave a big sigh. Okay, I guess we both could use the exercise. I put Daisy’s leash on her. Not an easy task, because she excitedly almost licked me to death. It took a little while to get her settled down to a proper pace as we headed for the financial district spotted with bistros and eclectic eateries and pubs.

One of the most profound things I have learned in life is that a man has a difficult time competing with puppies and babies. On the other hand, it is a great way to meet women. A big lug like me might seem intimidating just walking down the street, but with a child or dog in tow, women seem to find me more convivial. Daisy’s a very pretty girl, and a few women and a guy asked to pet her. She gladly accepted the attention.

On our return, I released Daisy from her leash, and she bounded up to Sara and almost knocked her out of her chair. Come on, Daisy, in the backyard, I said, opening the back door.

I wish you were as happy to see me, I said to Sara.

She gave me that look. Yeah right, there are a couple of messages on your desk before you go gallivanting off again.

I don’t gallivant, I said in self-defense, retreating to my office.

The first couple of messages were efficiently deposited in the little round file. People looking for donations or some kind of handout. I dislike robocall organizations and always prefer to give locally. The third message was interesting, however. It was from an Emily Campbell, and it gave her telephone number.

I dialed her number, and she answered on the second ring. This is Sam McCloud returning your call.

My goodness, I don’t seem to remember calling a Sam McCloud, she drawled sweetly.

Some people call me Mac, among other things, I said.

Oh! Mac, Swede’s cousin, she said.

Guilty, I responded.

Swede told me that you were a private investigator, and I was wondering if you could help me? she asked.

Possibly, what can I do for you?

I’ve been separated from my husband for a while, and I want to file for divorce, she said.

Well, Mrs. Campbell, I’m not an attorney…

Thank God, and call me Emily!

Okay, Emily. What I was going to say is that I’m not an attorney and can’t file your divorce for you. You’ll need to contact an attorney, and I can recommend one or two for you if you don’t have one.

I haven’t had much success with attorneys. I would like you to procure one for me, and I’m sure I will need your services. I don’t know where my husband is.

Attorney’s fees can be expensive, especially good ones, and my services can be costly also. As high as a half box of donuts!

My husband is fairly wealthy, and I have some money of my own, she said. Please arrange an attorney for me. I want a Barracuda that will hand me his balls.

If you have no objections to a female attorney, I have just the one for you.

Perfect, she said.

I’ll arrange an appointment and call you back, I said.

Thank you, hear from you soon, she said with a softening drawl.

I dialed the firm of Driscoll, Thompson, and Baker and asked for Dina Thompson. As was usually the case, she took my call immediately. It was rare that I had to leave a message for her, unless she was in court. Dina was a beautiful brunette (the last time I saw her) that could remove one’s testicles before one knew they were missing.

Mac, where have you been, sweetheart? It has been forever.

Hello, Dina. I have a potential client for you if you are interested, I said, attempting to stick to business.

What have you got, darling?

A woman seeking a divorce with a missing husband, she says she wants to use my services, I said.

Don’t we all, she responded coyly. Divorces can be so messy, but so profitable.

Do you have any open time on your calendar so that we can meet in my office? I asked.

You know I would make time for you, sweetheart, she said. How about eleven o’clock tomorrow?

Works for me, I said. I’ll confirm it with my client. If there is a problem, I will call back.

I’ll bring our standard contract. Do you want to be paid through us or separately? she asked.

Separately, I said.

See you tomorrow, darling, and she hung up.

I called Emily Campbell back and confirmed the appointment and gave her my office address.

4

It was nearly four o’clock and time to go back to Roselawn and take a look at Jose Contreras and the arrival of his wife, Mary. Unlike earlier this morning, the street was alive with activity. While there was daylight and some degree of safety, two toddlers were playing in their front yard a few houses down. I didn’t see an adult present and was hopeful that they were being watched from the house. Loud Mexican music with lots of brass was blaring from the Contreras house. I was in my pickup truck, sunglasses and ball cap on, drinking a Venti Starbucks. I had a clipboard and measuring tape on the dash. The pickup truck is one of the farthest things from an undercover car or van. I was a contractor or an estimator, a landscaper or a brick mason, or anything but a cop or PI.

A purple Chevy Impala Low Rider was coming toward me from the south end of the street, Mexican music blaring out open windows, competing for musical dominance with the Contreras house. I grabbed the clipboard and a pencil, pretending to do some figuring. The Impala stopped in front of the Contreras house. There were two guys in front and one riding in the backseat. They had flat-billed ball caps that looked too big for their heads with hologram labels still stuck under the bills. While scribbling with a pencil, I watched their movement through my dark glasses. The three of them looked at me suspiciously for a moment, spoke a few words to each other, decided I wasn’t a threat, and leaving the guy in the backseat, the two in front got out and went to the house.

The two going to the house wore very baggy denim pants and black T-shirts, and their caps were askew on their heads. They were unshaven with attempts to grow beards and walked with an exaggerated sway back and forth, like they were the coolest dudes on the planet. The screen door opened onto the porch, and a short, heavily tattooed Mexican in a white, ribbed wifebeater tank top exited the house, slapping high fives and doing funky handshakes with the two visitors. After a brief conversation that I could not hear, the three stopped their animated ritual and stared at me writing on my clipboard in the pickup. The .40 caliber Beretta tucked into the small of my back, under my light jacket, never felt as comforting as that moment.

I felt confined in the truck and decided to get out with my clipboard and tape measure and appear to be looking at the property on this side of the street. I measured the sidewalk and made a note on my clipboard. I took a peak over the top of my clipboard and saw the three Mexican males approaching. As they came near, I said, Buenas dias.

You making fun of us being Mexican? Contreras asked.

No, just being friendly, I said.

What you doing in my hood, Holmes? Contreras asked.

You must have me mistaken for someone else, I said. My name is not Holmes. It’s Samuel.

Just answer the question, smart-ass, whatchoo doing here? Contreras said.

Contreras’s two buddies were standing next to him in a tough guy pose, with arms crossed. I could see what appeared to be lots of gang-type tattoos. One of them had a couple of teardrops tattooed on his face. You have me at a disadvantage, I said.

What do you mean, because there are three of us?

Oh, no, nothing like that. You know my name, and I don’t know your names, I said with a friendly smile.

You don’t need to know our names, Holmes, Contreras said.

Just trying to be friendly, I said.

"My name is Contreras, Mr. Contreras to you. My compadres are Chewy and Juan. Now what the hell are you doing in my neighborhood?"

Well, Mr. Contreras, I represent a firm doing a financial analysis on the cost effectiveness of gentrification of the area due to its close proximity to the Dryden and Modesto Municipal golf courses, city parks, downtown, and the Sportsmen of Stanislaus Club.

The Three Stooges looked lost.

Tell me, Mr. Contreras, do you own your own home?

There was silence while Contreras struggled to answer the question. Apparently, he didn’t know how he should answer such a difficult question. He asked, What you need to know that for?

Well, sir, if you own your own home and gentrification and redevelopment were to blossom in this once-charming neighborhood, it would be worth much more money, I said.

The money light bulb went off, and all three of them nodded in understanding.

With a smile that looked more like a grimace, Contreras said, "My bitch owns thee casa. She inherited eet from her father."

Has your girlfriend owned it long? I asked, making a note on the clipboard.

"She’s not my girlfriend. Shees my esposa," Contreras said disgustedly.

Oh, pardon me, Mr. Contreras. If I were you, I would take very good care of that wife. And to further increase the value of the home, I would put a coat of paint on the outside and have someone neaten up the yard.

I could tell that Contreras was trying to figure out if I was being critical of him or trying to be helpful. Is your wife home, maybe she would like to hear about what our firm is doing looking into in your neighborhood?

She’s at work, and she’ll do what I tell her to do, he said.

Great! I said with a big smile. You can pass on the information I gave you to her. Now I must get back to the office and begin my report."

I climbed back into my pickup and drove off, leaving my newly found friends standing there, wondering what just happened. I drove two blocks away and parked in an inconspicuous spot and walked back to an area overgrown with shrubbery where I could observe the house when Mary Contreras got home.

In surveillance time, I didn’t have to wait too long, about twenty minutes. Mary’s faded blue Toyota pulled up in front to a welcoming party of Jose Contreras drinking a beer on the front porch. Mary had two large bags of groceries. Jose didn’t bother to get off his ass to help her wrestle them into the house. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but he was barking something at her, and she nodded her head in affirmation and looked down as if in defeat, like a scolded little puppy, as she entered the house. For Mary, I felt compassion and anger at the same time. From what I’ve been told and have observed, she was a nice person