The_Counselor: An Angel Vierra Investigation

By Sam Fluharty

Michael Prebo was the counselor. He did not have a psychology degree, and he certainly did not follow the profession's code of ethics. He counseled young women to take the plunge. A dozen desperate clients had followed his advice to their watery graves. The svelte and savvy TV journalist, Sullivan Hart, tracked him to California and Michigan, where Prebo set his sights and psychosexual fantasies on her.

Jane Doe no. 2 (6/11/92) had been murdered. She had also been raped. Five years later, her rape kit was analyzed. It revealed DNA evidence that could lead to her killer. Michigan State Police homicide specialist Angel Vierra catches the case. He recruits his wife, Shantelle, to assist in the investigation. She had been Angel's partner on Detroit PD's homicide squad one. Although she had taken a four-year sabbatical to become a wife and mother, she jumped back into the game with zeal and guts.

Critical praise for Sam Fluharty's first novel Rite of revenge:
Fluharty, a former Vietnam pilot, puts his flight experience to good use in this novel and also showcases an authority on police techniques and procedure. The story is briskly paced, and the narrative remains central without disappearing behind extraneous information. An uneven romantic thriller that will appeal to genre fans (Kirkus Reviews of New York).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984541673

Sam Fluharty

Sam Fluharty flew a gunship in Vietnam and earned the DFC for Valor and the Purple Heart. He has made and squandered several fortunes in four diverse careers. Sam says, Ive always had a paperback in my jeans, flight suit, briefcase or on my Kindle, and a novel like Rite of Revenge in the back of my brain planning its escape. Mason Foxx is Archie Goodwin, Travis McGee, Lucas Davenport and of course, Sam Fluharty. Youll be pulling for him.

Book preview

THE_COUNSELOR

An Angel Vierra Investigation

SAM FLUHARTY

Copyright © 2018 by Sam Fluharty.

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: 08/01/2018

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

Chapter One

Part I

Sullivan Hart

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part II

Hannah Johnson

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Other Titles by Sam Fluharty

Rite of Revenge

The Seal and The Rose`

The Bloody Incubus

An Angel Vierra Investigation

Winter Kill

An Angel Vierra Investigation

With Reckless Abandon

An Angel Vierra investigation

NOTICE

As Mark Twain did so effectively in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the author has scripted the N word into the dialog of several characters in order to portray an accurate soundtrack of their racist attitude, which the author condemns. The ever popular F-word and the ubiquitous MF-combination are incorporated in the dialog as nouns, verbs, gerunds, adjectives and adverbs, as well as other commonly used non-grammatical idioms. The author presents this caveat and rationale at this point in the work, and states that no racial insult is intended.

TWO PROFOUND TRUTHS

Even if you’re paranoid . . . it doesn’t mean that they’re not out to kill you.

—Heller’s John Yossarian

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this bib field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going—I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the only thing I’d really like to be.

—Salinger’s Holden Caulfield

CHAPTER ONE

December 9, 2013

Los Angeles, CA

T he_counselor was trolling.

Michael Prebo smiled to himself as he rolled that around in his mind. He pictured a pensive troll lurking under a bridge.

Well, I’m usually at the top of the bridge, so maybe the metaphor—or was it a simile . . . He did not finish his sentence—or answer his question—out loud. His mind had raced on to the next subject. He scanned the three monitors and heard a door creaking open. He had installed that sound as the audio alarm on his search software.

Knock and the door shall be opened. Seek and . . .

He read the latest post in the CA_extreme_NOW.net chat room from sissyprissy69:

No one ever listens!!! 1-800 SUICIDE sucks!!!

The word SUICIDE flashed in red, highlighted by Prebo’s key word search program. He clicked on Will you accept a message from the_counselor? icon. The response click from sissyprissy69 was, as Prebo had hoped, instantaneous: Yes.

Prebo let her wait. He was searching for her Facebook page on his fastest screen. Prebo studied her bio and ogled her pix with growing excitement. He bounced up and down giddily in his swivel task chair.

Priscilla Hagen-Jones was 31, twice divorced, a self-described: Deconstructed valley girl. A recovering ovo-lacto. A self-evolving spirit—with no spirituality, a mute Pentecostal—who had grown out of God and was now???

Her interests: cats/men=women/sand and sea.

He gazed at her pix. She was a beauty. Prebo had found that most women in California were prettier than the ones he was used to in Pittsburgh. However, this one was extraordinary. Her face did have the look, though, vulnerable and dazed, but there was something else about her. What was it? A former client?

Impossible, Prebo cackled uncontrollably, then stifled it and stared at her.

She’s too good. It’s a sting!

He thought about shutting down and leaving L.A. Michael’s chubby face scrunched, but the tears still squeezed out. His SAT phone drowned out his cry with the opening stanza of Thus Spake Zarathustra. He plucked it off his belt and checked the caller ID which was blocked. Prebo guessed and surprised himself at his composure.

Josh! he said calmly. Just thinking of you. Just about finished with your project. Thought I was to drop you an e-mail at your dark web address tomorrow PM.

He listened patiently, and then assured his co-conspirator: No problems, no glitches. At least twelve mil from this, the last account.

Michael Prebo was an e-thief4hire. He pirated identities, intellectual property and e-cash from web sites all over the world. His hacking skills were well known to criminals and governments from Washington to Beijing. He had evaded discovery and capture by law enforcement for the past decade and had stashed millions in a complex maze of names and accounts in the cloud. The NSA and Interpol knew of some of his coups but could not conceive of him as being a single hacker.

But tonight, Michael Prebo was pursuing his avocation. He felt as vulnerable in this role as he did in his vocation. Forgetting his concerns about her, Prebo ended the call with Josh from Wide Country Mortgage and turned his attention back to sissyprissy69. the_counselor: I will listen, Priscilla. sissyprissy69: How did you know my name? the_counselor: A guess, dear. I will listen if you will be honest. I hate phonies and chameleons. sissyprissy69: So do I. Are you really a shrink? the_counselor: Yes. Are you serious? Are you imminent? sissyprissy69: Translate! Serious? Imminent? the_counselor: You know what I mean. I also hate coy game players. sissyprissy69: Ouch!!! Sorry! Yes, serious. Not imminent after bumping into you. Will you help?

They instant-messaged for nearly an hour. His web location was untraceable. However, he was able to determine not only her cyber address, but also her physical location. She was at a Starbuck’s on her laptop less than four miles from him. the_counselor: I can fit you in tomorrow at 2PM. sissyprissy69: Online? the_counselor: No dear, at my office in Santa Monica with a gorgeous ocean vista. I love the sand & sea. sissyprissy69: Joking? the_counselor: Don’t doubt me, Priscilla!!! sissyprissy69: Sorry!!! I have no insurance. the_counselor: No need. Are you allergic to cats? Mine is with me always.

He gave her the address. For his hobby, Prebo found that the rental office suites were an excellent venue. He would need to find a cat by tomorrow.

Prebo had relocated to California from his birthplace in Pittsburgh, after that bitch from Fox News with her obvious implants and horsy overbite had begun to add up all the young women who had been jumping into the city’s three rivers: nine in two years. Seven had been clients of the_counselor. Her breathy reports had no facts other than the high number. Michael knew that the cyber cops were busy with pedophiles. But Prebo was paranoid. He had convinced himself that he was only being cautious and that he was tired of his home town. Too many memories.

Sullivan Hart, a/k/a sissyprissy69, was indeed a beauty. She looked neither dazed nor vulnerable. She closed her laptop and left the dregs of her espresso on the table. She hustled out, knowing that the_counselor had undoubtedly GPS’d her. She felt a bolt of memory and twinge of guilt. Sully had worked at a Starbuck’s and had always bitched about the slobs who would not bus their trash.

Ooooooh,Sully.

*     *     *

The next day, Prebo surveyed the suite. The tastefully decorated reception room matched the hot but efficient looking blond at the desk. Prebo had checked her out with a professional, albeit asexual eye. He was satisfied, even at the $100 premium fee that he had to pay for her four-hour charade. The inner office was an elegant and elaborate set suitable for a prime-time drama about a trendy psychiatrist. The view of the Pacific from the balcony had cost Prebo another $100 premium.

Who’s counting?

The cat and litter box had cost him $900 at a boutique pet shop, and Professional Office Suites had hit him up an extra $200 for the privilege of allowing the cat to co-habit the office for the afternoon.

Who’s counting? Sissyprissy69 would be worth it.

Prebo felt the erotic charge that every other man in the building felt upon seeing the receptionist.

At 2:15, Prebo dialed the cell number that he had found for Priscilla.

Please enjoy the music while your party is connected. The_counselor did not enjoy the loud Gangsta Rap. He heard her timid voice read the script. You have reached 213-KL5-2273. Leave a detailed message. Uh . . ., thanks. It’s me, Prissy.

Prebo was revolted but ecstatic at the same time. Her greetings were abominations to him, but they were the idiocy of a regimented, submissive and vulnerable woman who worked hard to please the little instruction sheet regarding creating your message greeting, not to mention the politically correct white female lovers of Rap music.

The_counselor intoned in his most compassionate voice, Priscilla dear. I am so missing you. Please call if you are becoming imminent. I will be here until six for you. I was looking so forward to meeting that sweet bright woman with whom I chatted yesterday.

As he hung up the phone, Prebo heard it ring. He allowed it to ring as he walked quickly into the reception room.

Following her script, the blond said with an unctuous alto: The_counselor’s Practice.

Then, after a moment, she went on in perfect character reading her lines. Oh, Priscilla. He has been distraught that you haven’t come in. Are you alright?

Prebo went back into his office and picked up. Priscilla, tell me you are fine, please. Can I send a car to pick you up?

Sullivan, reading her sissyprissy69 lines, came back equally plausible and dishonest as Prebo and his blond. Uhmmm . . . I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t sure. Don’t send a car. I’m in the lobby.

Oh! I will send Ashley down to fetch you. See you in a minute.

Prebo actually had expected it. He told Ashley, Remember, be a bitch with her!

When Ashley returned with Sullivan a/k/a Priscilla, the door to the inner office was closed. Prebo stared transfixed on the closed-circuit TV. Its camera focused on his new client.

I’ll give her a half hour, he mumbled to himself.

He was happy with what he saw. Darting eyes from the blond to the door. Frenetic opening and closing of the female mags on the coffee table. The blond hireling ignored Priscilla’s exaggerated act. Prebo had planned to see her at 3:00.

As he fixated on the close circuit monitor, Prebo’s face twisted with doubt. He wondered, Her hair . . . is it dyed brown? She looks . . . Could she be?

Sullivan looked at her watch. 2:50 PM. The blond was pretending to work. Sully feared that she had been recognized. It was possible that he could exit the office through another door. She got up and dashed for the door to the inner office. She tried the door, found that it was locked and began banging on it. She screamed, Open up! You promised to help me! I’m imminent!

Sullivan considered drawing out her pistol and trying to shoot through the door, but she realized that there was a witness. Ashley had not been prepared for this. Prebo himself was horrified. He squealed but realized that the door was locked. He heard the not so vulnerable and not so dazed woman pounding on the door, screaming epithets at him. Michael retreated to his gallery of pix.

When Sullivan heard Ashley calling building security, she quit beating on the locked door and ran out of the office. Prebo was so deep in his mental bunker that he did not notice that the pounding had stopped. Nor did he answer Ashley’s call on his desk phone. He went to My Pix where he clicked on California Girls. The Beach Boys harmonized over a gallery of four clients who had found their freedom in the blue Pacific.

After admiring them, Prebo opened Hometown Girls. Simon and Garfunkel crooned Bridge over Troubled Water through Prebo’s speakers.

The faces of seven women stared vacantly at him. The methodical Prebo was about to click on the photo in the upper left corner and re-live each of his Pittsburgh victories. He stared frozen at the flat screen, gazing at the young woman in the lower right corner.

It was as if he were seeing her for the first time. A thin but strong-featured face with pale blue eyes and unkempt, thick blond hair. Behind an irrepressible grin, even white teeth shone against full unglossed lips.

Prebo clicked to bring her up to fill the entire screen and the six other clients disappeared as they had done when they jumped to their deaths.

Prebo whirled in his chair and retrieved the closed-circuit shots of Priscilla Hagen-Jones in the reception room. She came up on the adjacent monitor. Prebo ran the tape and then froze the best frame of her full face.

Michael muffled a screamed, almost choking. It was Sully Hart with mousy brown hair.

He gasped with fright and then breathed desperately into his sleeve, finally recovering from his hyper-ventilating. He pulled a menu down and clicked on Counseling Notes. sillySully666: My sister Sully . . . I love her, but she is just so perfect. I’m not like her. I’m not . . . the_counselor: Dear Sully. She—this Sully—is the cause of your unhappiness. You need to be free of her. Let me help you.

He cried out, pleading that it was not true, but he knew. It’s her! Sully Hart’s sister!

In minutes on his fastest chip, Prebo assembled the e-history of the two Hart sisters. The Harts of Pittsburgh Facebook page was complete and up to date.

When Sara Sullivan married Jeremy Hart, she considered hyphenating her name to honor her father, but out of respect for her husband, she became Sara Hart. At the birth of their first daughter she named her Amy Sullivan Hart. Five years later when another little female Hart entered the world, big sister Sully named her Sully. The family had already forgotten Amy. Sullivan was Sully, and Sully was Sully. Except little Sully always called her big sister, Sissy.

From day one, Sully was the consummate big sister, protecting and mentoring Sully. Both girls were beautiful and talented. Prebo stared at a dance recital photo of a twelve-year-old Sully and a seven-year-old Sully.

Sully was the pleaser and over-achiever. Sully was the rebel and under-achiever. It worked until Sully went to college in California when she was 18 and Sully was 13.

Bad timing, is what their father called it.

Prebo discovered more about Sullivan at the Pepperdine University student newspaper’s web site.

Sully played varsity basketball and learned to surf at the Malibu campus. She was a natural athlete and competitor. On the court Sully was a play maker—the classic team player. She was voted captain of the Lady Waves in her senior year.

When Sullivan dashed through the double doors of the Professional Office Suites, she caught a glimpse of the blue Pacific across the boulevard. With a rueful smile, she recalled the serenity of catching a wave before Sully’s death. Sully relived the natural high. After the strenuous paddle out to where the waves were breaking, she would catch her breath, waiting for the big one. With the warm California sun drying her back, she gazed across the beach and the Pacific Coast Highway up the steep hill to the magnificent Pepperdine campus, thinking that she was the luckiest girl in the world. Sitting her board, Sully was incommunicado—her cell phone charging in her dorm room—serene in her disconnectedness. However, at such moments of almost tangible joy, Sully would abruptly barge into her consciousness.

She’s having an abortion today, and I’m the only one who knows.

Sully choked on a laugh. My kid sister’s pregnant, and I’m still a virgin! That’s why I love surfing. The sea water mixes so well with my tears. Ooooooh, Sully.

When she felt the big one forming behind her, Sully became one with her wave. She loved the simultaneous spike of adrenaline with the rush of white water over her back and board as she pulled hard with her arms and cupped hands to catch it. Then, the careful rise to hands and knees as her fiberglass ship accelerated toward the sand. Finally, if the stars were right, she could stand—knees bent, feet sensing and sliding into position, arms forward, supported on thin air. She felt the wave propelling her forward and the skeg gaining influence beneath her. For less than two minutes, Sully and her problems, Sully and her guilt were eclipsed by the exploding exhilaration of the wave’s power and her domination of it.

*     *     *

As she started her rental Honda, Sullivan was thankful for her career choice. She had been able to locate the elusive Prebo by using the skills of her trade. Sullivan had set her sights on becoming a reporter in middle school. After graduating magna cum laude, she came back east to the Journalism School at Columbia. Sully, still in Pittsburgh, made more bad choices.

While Hart was driving to her hotel in Malibu, Prebo’s search followed his nemesis’ career to New York. Sullivan Hart’s first job was with WCBS News Radio 88—the CBS blowtorch and flagship—in New York City. She thrived in the job, stepping up the ladder from street reporter to become the on-air editorialist. She crafted and delivered radio commentaries. When the honchos at WCBS-TV realized that she was not only a competent writer, but also a telegenic face and