Death Car: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #7

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson accepts an infidelity case where Webb Lohr believes his wife Danica is having an affair. Then Webb is found murdered in his car at a desolate crossroads. As Frank delves into the twisty investigation, more questions arise. All the while, he also deals with personal problems and handles his other cases. He depends on his long-time business partner Gerald Peyton, his medical examiner wife Dreema, and his brilliant but outspoken attorney Robert Gatlin. Critically acclaimed crime novelist James Crumley wrote of the P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, "With a plot as complex as your grandmother's crocheted doilies, Mr. Lynskey creates a portrait of the rural hill country that rings as true as the clank of a Copenhagen can on a PBR can, as does his handle on guns, love, and betrayal. This novel is well worth the read and makes me want more."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Lynskey
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201386726

Book preview

Death Car

A P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery

Ed Lynskey

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2021 by Ed Lynskey and ECL Press. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Front cover credit: Hitch Hiking by Lenny K Photography (https://www.lennykphotography.com). Downloaded from Flickr under the 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0—Creative Commons) License on April 14, 2020.

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Isabel and Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series

Quiet Anchorage

The Cashmere Shroud

The Ladybug Song

The Amber Top Hat

Sweet Betsy

Murder in a One-Hearse Town

Vi’s Ring

Heirloom

A Big Dill

Eve’s Win

To Dye For

Fowl Play

Private Investigator Frank Johnson Mystery Series

Pelham Fell Here

The Dirt-Brown Derby

The Blue Cheer

Troglodytes

The Zinc Zoo

After the Big Noise

Death Car

Bent Halo

Clover

Fluke

Quarry

Forge

Hope Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Nozy Cat 3

Nozy Cat 4

Nozy Cat 5

Other Novels

Lake Charles

The Quetzal Motel

Ask the Dice

Blood Diamonds

Topaz Moon

Cops Like Us

Chapter 1

My friend and business partner, Gerald Peyton was 12 minutes late to the funeral. I’d reminded him it started at 2 p.m. Yeah, yeah, Frank, he said. "I’ll be there. Just be sure you make it." Well, here I sat on my thumbs, and he was the no-show. He stopped at a bar and got sloshed, I thought.

Some moron had turned down the A/C, and I was on the verge of catching frostbite. Despite buttoned up in my navy blue dress jacket, I felt a shiver rack my spine. The church pew on the last row felt as hard as a marble slab on my bony ass. I thought of the other places I’d rather be like at the ER with a broken femur and no medical insurance. The organist in the choir loft was playing How Great Thou Art in the background.

The corpse sealed in the bronze casket they’d wheeled up the center aisle to the altar was the late Webb Lohr. He remained our client, according to Gerald. When I opined we should drop Lohr’s case, Gerald glowered, and I shut my trap. Nobody with any common sense argued with him. Folks described Gerald as a human tugboat and an alpha Sasquatch. He didn’t bulk up on anabolic steroids, either. It was all-natural muscle.

As private investigators, we each held a valid license to ply our snooper trade in the Commonwealth of Virginia. Our state had reciprocity agreements with only six southern states, which meant I couldn’t go anywhere else to work as a PI. Gerald had kept his license to be a bounty hunter, officially known as a bail enforcement agent, or simply BEA. They operated under a looser set of rules, which often involved guns and violence better suited for the Old West.

Why did I throw in with him? I suppose we Irish had a mule-headed loyalty baked into our DNA. I could rely on one bedrock truth. Gerald had my back, no matter how lopsided the odds turned. No truer measure of friendship existed to my way of thinking. A finger blunt as a chisel poked me in the ribs.

Stop jerking off and scoot over, Gerald said. He had Jheri curls with a thick nose, jasper eyes, and a bull neck. I thought I caught a whiff of Wild Rose on his breath.

Shifting over a space on the church pew, I responded. Where have you been? I didn’t think you’d make it.

I was busy fulfilling my conjugal duties as a man. Any more questions?

Nope. You’ve already said way more than I ever wanted to know.

Gerald grinned. For a white dude, you’re all right, Frank, he said.

Thanks for noticing. Is there any chance we can drop Lohr’s case after his funeral?

We have to nail his killer because our street cred is at stake.

Homicide cases are bad karma. We could be shot. Or worse.

Again, Gerald grinned. Never a dull moment, is there? he said.

Why did we attend his funeral?

Did you eat your can of spinach?

Right off the bat, I knew what he had in mind. I’m not doing it. I refuse to be a pack mule, I said.

Stand tall and walk proud with me, Frank.

How did you sign us up?

I called the funeral director, Homer Stubblefield, and volunteered our services. We’ll be—how do you like to say?—working undercover.

We can’t lug around Lohr’s bronze casket by ourselves. The damn thing must weigh 300 pounds empty.

Don’t get your balls in a bunch. Toting it will be easier for the three of us.

You didn’t reach out to Chet. My face turned pale as paraffin wax. Please tell me you didn’t contact him.

You know I did. Lil’ bro will join us before you know it.

Oh, happy days are here again.

Did a bug crawl up your ass and die today?

I’m like this every day.

Hi, Frank. A younger male voice spoke at my other shoulder. Have I missed anything? he asked.

Don’t you have some dirt to bulldoze? I replied.

I’m on vacation. Chet copped a squat on the church pew. The dirt will be there when I get back to it.

Yo, lil’ bro, Gerald said as they bumped fists in front of me. Are you packing?

You fucking A-number-one I am. Grinning, Chet flipped back the flap of his dress jacket to prove it. I’ve got my .357 Magnum loaded with 125-grain hollow points. My 9mm Parabellum is my backup weapon. You? he asked.

I’m strapping my .44 Magnum, seven in the magazine and one in the pipe, Gerald replied.

Yeah, that’s some Dirty Harry shit there, Chet said.

Like a sore dick, you can’t beat it, Gerald said.

Frank, what did you pack? Chet asked.

Frowning, I glared at Gerald, then at Chet. I came unarmed. We’re at a funeral, not the O.K. Corral. What’s wrong with you? I thought you had better sense, I replied.

Don’t fling a snit fit, Chet said. I brought an extra piece for you.

At a loss for words, I shook my head.

Gerald chuckled.

Will the priest sprinkle any holy water on us? Chet asked.

Sugar melts, shit floats. You’ll be fine, I replied.

Don’t forget to kowtow before you sit in the church pew, Chet said.

It’s called genuflect, not kowtow, I said.

Will the priest torch any incense? Chet asked. It makes me sneeze like Snow White’s dwarf.

It makes me horny as a three-pecker billy goat, Gerald deadpanned.

Slapping his thighs, Chet guffawed. Watch it, Frank. You’re the one who’s sitting next to him, he said.

"The priest won’t burn any incense," I said.

Then I’d say you just dodged a bullet, Chet said.

Too bad Webb Lohr couldn’t dodge his bullet, I said.

Gerald shrugged. Lohr zigged when he should’ve zagged, he said.

We should’ve refused his infidelity case, I said. Didn’t I tell you it would bring us a world of hurt? I’ll be damned if I wasn’t right. Again.

We never turn away a client who can pay us, Gerald said.

Bill them by the hour and run up the tab, Chet said.

Cha-ching, Gerald said. Who doesn’t like that noise?

Money isn’t everything in this business, I replied.

It is when the bills come due, Stu, Gerald said.

Gatlin can funnel more clients our way, I said.

Is he still practicing law? Gerald asked.

If he ever quits or retires, we’re in bad shape, I replied.

Remind him we’re still players in the PI hustle, Gerald said.

The office is more private to call him, I said. Getting through Lohr’s funeral is our first order of business.

You fret too damn much, Chet said.

It’s a white dude thing, Gerald said. They like to fret.

Thank God I’m not a white dude, Chet said. It’s too damn complicated.

You don’t know the half of it, I said.

Robert Gatlin, Esquire, our brilliant, flamboyant, and eccentric defense attorney, resided in the affluent enclave of Middleburg, Virginia. We often did investigative tasks for him. We also depended on him to extricate us from the legal entanglements we encountered, and he’d succeeded every time. I called him for his legal expertise more often than I wanted to, but you did what you had to do to get by.

The organist stopped playing when the priest with a raptor’s nose shuffled out to say the funeral mass. He wore Jesus sandals beneath his frayed robes. The smart altar boys had quit their gig. I stared off, thinking of how Webb Lohr had trudged into the office.

He was a friend of a friend of Gerald’s who’d heard we offered our snoop services for a price. From the get-go, I did not like Lohr. I usually tolerated our clients, but not him. Short, squat, and scabrous, he resembled a giant armadillo slopping around in his penny loafers. In addition, I never trusted a man with darting eyes.

To be trite as hell, he smelled like bad news despite his liberal application of truck-stop cologne. We didn’t shake hands. Gerald and Lohr did most of the talking while I sat on my desk corner, listening. Once or twice, I grunted to indicate I followed their conversation when I was bored and disgusted. However, a client’s fee paid our salaries, so I faked looking as if I gave half a damn, which I did not.

Lohr revealed Danica, his wife of 14½ years, was screwing around with another man. She exhibited the classic tip-offs of the cheating wife. She went on a fad diet, dyed her hair, and took up Pilates. She tracked his whereabouts and accused him of cheating on her. He’d scoured Facebook as well as other social media platforms and found no incriminating videos or photos. He was frantic to get the goods on her, and our task was to find them. My curled-up lip signaled my disdain. His infidelity case was sleazy, even by our standards.

If Lohr wanted to prove his old lady was doing the bone dance with a stranger, let him follow her around and take the snapshots or video on his smartphone camera. The footage was admissible evidence in federal court now. Why should we stick our necks out? I’d drum up the more desirable cases. We had experience with locating missing persons, surveilling for insurance companies, and tracking down deadbeat parents. Any case we took would be less repugnant than spying on his promiscuous wife Danica.

Have you hired a previous PI to investigate your wife? I asked Lohr.

You’re the first guys I’ve seen, Lohr replied.

Has she hired a PI to investigate you? I asked.

Not to my knowledge, Lohr replied.

Have you noticed any money disappearing for unknown expenses? I asked. Hiding an extra-marital affair gets expensive.

We keep our finances separate, Lohr replied. I run an insurance firm from my office in Pelham.

What are your plans for the information we ferret out? I asked.

Squinting, Lohr paused for a beat. Why do you care what I do with it after you get paid? he asked.

Frank is concerned you’ll do something ill-advised and regrettable, Gerald replied. You wouldn’t be the first husband to shoot his two-timing wife and her lover and then eat his handgun.

Lohr said nothing.

Simply put, we won’t be an accessory to murder, I said. We strive to stay on the sunny side of the law. Life is made easier that way.

I swear on a stack of holy bibles I won’t harm a hair on my wife’s head, Lohr said.

If she’s a murder victim, and we facilitated it, we get jammed up, I said. We lose our reputation and license.

Arms folded on his massive chest, Gerald nodded.

I’ll use your information in court to strengthen my divorce case, Lohr said. My lawyer can’t be armed with enough proof of her philandering ways.

Have you retained a divorce attorney? I asked.

His business card is in my glove compartment, Lohr said.

Have you confronted your wife with your suspicions? I asked.

It’d do little or no good if I did, Lohr replied. She’d lie and deny she was and say I was off my rocker. Do you think she’s having an affair?

We find the husband is right about 50% of the time, I replied. Adultery in Virginia is a Class 4 misdemeanor.

If she’s committed a crime, lock her up and throw away the key, Lohr said.

The bar for proving adultery in a court of law is set high, I said. Are you certain you can’t reconcile your differences with her? Is your marriage worth saving? Have you tried using couples therapy or your pastor?

We are way past that point, Lohr