Bargains

By Jack Billings

Veteran detectives Betty Kovaks and Jeff Wheeler take an early morning call to investigate an arson and murder. With Kovaks’ intuition and Wheeler’s methodical style, their partnership combines astute crime scene assessment and scientific evidence to build a shrewd investigation.
Vetted by three veteran detectives, this work will appeal to crime drama readers who expect realism and crisp dialogue.
The investigation dives deeply into the grip of methamphetamine addiction and fencing stolen property. Unconventional twists await: murder, death by sepsis, a car bomb, deportation to India, and a fatal encounter with a PTSD afflicted homeowner.
The narrative’s underpinnings rise from the author’s decades of experience as a state trial judge, criminal defense attorney, and assistant district attorney.
"Interesting characters, engaging story, accurate police work. A good read."
– Kurt Wuest,
Lane County Sheriff’s Office Detective, (ret.)
"Crafted from his decades of experience, Billings weaves a compelling tale of criminals' lives in raw peril. He aptly portrays the addict as delinquent and victim in a savvy blend of mystery and suspense."
– Sherry Sandreth, PhD.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398431409

Jack Billings

Jack Billings is a retired jurist and attorney. He began writing for publication in 2016 as he authored four journal and magazine articles. These stories were derived from his international and United States river adventures and a flotilla cruise through the Inside Passage of British Colombia. In late 2019, he turned his attention to fiction and dialogue. His debut collection of short stories, Some of This is Real, was published by Amazon KDP in 2020. The last story, The Interrogation, introduced detectives Betty Kovaks and Jeff Wheeler. Bargains, his first novel, brings Kovaks and Wheeler together again in this complexity of murder, arson, and betrayal.

Book preview

The Fireball

Gordon Graham had just turned northbound on Route 218 when a concussive whump smacked his windshield, a billowing, dirty smoke plume shot skyward, glowing inside from flames below. A dense and acrid smell grew stronger. Heat rolled over the car. Eyes riveted on the fireball, Gordon debated whether to press forward. Breaking glass heralded fire boiling from store front windows. He pulled to the curb and grabbed his phone.

911, what is your emergency?

Oh, shit, there’s a building on fire on Route 218! Near Rosewood. Flames are shooting out front.

The operator requested his ID information. OK, Gordon, stay calm. What is the address of the building? Where are you now?

I don’t know the address. Near Rosewood. The Chevron is a few blocks back. I’m about a block away, same side of the street. I drive by it every midnight on my way to work but I never pay attention. It’s always closed. Nobody’s around.

All right, I have the fire department on the line. You don’t know the address on Route 218?

I don’t know. Like I said, it’s near Rosewood. There’s nothing out here.

OK, sir. Your phone shows you near a buy-and-sell place. Is that it?

Yeah, I think so. Man! It’s getting bigger!

Gordon, the fire department is on its way. Please wait for them to contact you. Stay back, we don’t know what’s in there.

Station three responded promptly and set up within minutes. Three trucks converged, each with three fire fighters. The incident commander hit the parking lot first to size up the situation. A corner hydrant provided strong pressure. Because commercial enterprises like The Buy & Sell seldom spontaneously burst into flames, Bob Cochran, the fire marshal and Herman Gates, the duty captain, were called out as well. They drove the department Suburban toward the scene.

Gates asked, You ever been in this place? I don’t know it.

You haven’t missed much. It’s just a big space full of used stuff. I was in there last month, looking for a cheap bike for my kid. An odd guy runs the place. Charlie something. I remember a dog too. Looked like somebody swapped parts, big head, funny body.

Captain? squawked the dash radio. You in route?

Gates thumbed the handset. Yeah, Fritz. Cochran’s with me. We’re about two minutes away. What’s up?

We’re getting the flames knocked down, but it will be a while. There’s a man’s body inside, looks like he was shot. And we smell an accelerant, something hydrocarbon.

OK, Fritz. I’ll call the ME and the Sheriff’s Office; this sounds like a crime scene to me. We’re on 218 now. Can you leave the body as it is and fight fire too?

There’s a ton of household goods on fire inside and no sprinkler system. But we’ll try to keep him in place.

OK, take lots of pictures. Set up a perimeter and begin a log. Everybody keeps their eyes open, gloves and boots. Don’t touch anything you don’t have to, including the body unless it’s about to catch fire. What do you have for lights? You got enough personnel, hose?

After Fritz broke contact Gates sighed. It’s gonna be a long night. I’ve gotta have the sheriff’s office roust some detectives and send a tech over to take samples and find out what’s burning in there. We need to get prints off the body, find out for sure who it is.

So began the investigation into the identity of the dead man: how, why and who killed him. The first of those answers came quickly. He was Charlie Watson, proprietor of The Buy & Sell and he was shot to death. The last two inquiries would take time.

The Proprietor

In life, Charlie resembled a weasel. He was short, stooped, and sallow. Spiky hair jutted over his brow; thick glasses on an offset, prominent nose gave him a perpetually squinty look. Yellowed teeth clenched a nearly constant stogie. A childhood injury left one leg shorter with the foot splayed to the side; he listed to the left. His body always seemed at an angle to itself. He was well past middle age.

Charlie grew up in Arkansas, the scion of an alcoholic father and a mother whose life spark had winked out long ago. After his dad was fired because he reported drunk for work, he reverted to his earlier occupation as a burglar and thief. He employed ten-year-old Charlie as a spotter, sent to the front door to ascertain whether intended victims were in residence.

Dad, what do I say if someone comes to the door?

You tell ’em you’re looking for your dog. Ask if they’ve seen an old brown mongrel. I’ll be back in the shadows down the road.

Father Watson knew a good ’ol boy who bought enough of the cadged belongings to keep the well flowing. The arrangement worked until a homeowner got the drop on dad in the garage. Some of his other thefts were discovered and he was packed off to prison. Charlie’s mother was left without any support and all the responsibility for her young son.

When he was 13, the juvenile department removed him from his mother’s care. Thus began a series of foster home placements that taught him the fundamentals of staying alive, like making certain he had enough to eat even if that meant a beating for stealing food.

Doris, god-damn it, where’s the salami I was goin’ to have for dinner?

Leon, it was in the fridge when I made lunch.

CHARLIE!!! You little piece a shit, get up here right now.

Though Charlie denied the pilferage, the thumping was applied. There were no other suspects. A padlock was placed on the fridge.

His home life was always on the edge of or within the criminal element. Though never a user he understood addicts and their needs: money and drugs. He relied on no one; it was safer that way.

Released from foster care, Charlie’s life drifted from one menial job or co-dependent relationship to another, setting down no roots and forming no bonds. He eventually stopped in Ralston because he literally ran out of gas. The station attendant’s helper had just quit that morning. Desperate, the owner offered Charlie a job on the spot. He remained in Ralston mostly due to inertia.

After a short stint pumping gas, Watson tried his hand selling used cars. He did his best to promote the virtues of 15-year-old, dented Chevrolets. The dealership’s fleet was mostly purchased at auction and featured no warranties, expressed or implied.

Typical customers were a deferential, young couple with a babe in arms buying their first car. They could not differentiate between a lug nut and a spark plug. Charlie’s first task was to determine the maximum they intended to spend. He would massage that amount by at least 10%.

Hello, folks, welcome to our lot. I saw you looking at the Impala. Great looks and good gas mileage. Would you like to take it for a spin?

He later pitched the little old lady theme. The dented fender was blamed on her poor vision. Her daughter insisted her mom sell the car. None of his orations were true.

Watson found his stride when he opened a used household goods outlet, he called The Buy & Sell. It did not look like much, but it was his.

Needing inventory, he prowled estate and garage sales and pursued newspaper ads for furniture and sporting goods. He quickly sized up the seller’s levels of desperation and offered accordingly. He was a practical, if unethical, man who was good with figures.

The Buy & Sell was the anchor business in the shabby Buena Vista strip mall outside Ralston’s city limits. Tasteful displays were unnecessary. Any organisational scheme was indiscernible. The arc of his offerings included guitars and trumpets, microwaves, blenders, toaster ovens and other kitchen appliances, bicycles, sports equipment, used furniture and jewellery. The interior was a warren of narrow aisles among barely sorted stacks. A few nicer items were displayed near the front or in a back corner.

Watson’s forlorn quarters upstairs had only two windows. Since he never opened them and smoked incessantly, the entire enterprise reeked of tobacco. Large store windows were streaked and plastered with broad brush exhortations to ‘Buy more and Save’. Bare, dusty light bulbs dangled from the ceiling.

His pride and joy was the red and white 1960 Ford Falcon parked in back next to the five-yard dumpster. Other than his dog, Trex, the car was his only possession not for sale.

Trex had a large brick-like head, thick neck and heavy brows suggesting pit bull lineage; the remainder of his body was less distinct. Short front legs and huge hams meant he resembled a sprinter in the starting blocks. He first appeared at the back of the business, carefully inspecting, and then marking the dumpster. When Charlie came out the back door, they eyed each other. Offering Trex some Doritos, they became fast friends.

The dog had the run of the place but spent most of his time in the back room near the space heater. The customers gave him wide berth; he was generally indifferent. Frantic digging by his hind leg testified to a blood thirsty flea population. Fiercely loyal, Trex was the in-house enforcer at night and when Charlie was away. He feared nothing.

Trex went out at least three times a day, snooping the dumpster, parking lot and grass berm along the highway. The space under the dumpster gave shaded respite from blistering sunshine on the asphalt. He was unbothered by the persistent aroma of garbage tossed in by residents and transients. Occasionally, he roamed into the next block, following other dogs’ urine trails. He ate anything organic; roadkill was a delicacy. His prodigious piles paid testament to his industrial strength digestive powers.

Charlie and Trex took errand rides in the Falcon. The dog’s head eagerly hung from the passenger window, tongue out and nose in the air. He was the on-board car alarm.

The two storefronts flanking The Buy & Sell were perpetually vacant; broken downspouts and piled debris displayed landlord indifference. The side walls were covered in low quality graffiti. Yet, Charlie persevered. In business almost three years, his inventory kept growing despite few customers. Without occupied buildings nearby, he had no neighbours to inquire, inspect, or report. His store front was prominent in a four block stretch of suburban waste land along Highway 218.

He acquired his stock in two ways: from those who owned the property and those who did not. The former included people down on their luck, forced to sell their meagre belongings to hang on for a while longer. Families moving away were another source. These sellers entered through the front door.

Such folks were often desperate but had no bargaining power. Charlie offered little, even when he spotted a nugget in the welter of ordinary goods. Some were well into the frail-elderly demographic, whose social security checks never went quite far enough. Others were young and naïve, like the ragged woman who entered with her grandmother’s silver and left with $30. Taking advantage was well within his moral compass.

The other part of his inventory was delivered in back, usually at night. Charlie was shrewd enough to avoid high value, locally stolen property. From time to time, detectives or burgled citizens would inspect the place for identifiable belongings. He only dealt with a few local thieves who brought items not easily traced. The bulk of his inventory came from an informal network, shipping hot goods from one side of the state to the other and beyond.

Weeks earlier a typical intra-county transaction began with a buzzing cell phone.

Yeah?

Charlie, you goin’ be home tonight?

Is this Burt?

Who else would it be, Mon?

Except for your Nassau accent, you sound like my ex-wife. What do you have?

I got a load of pretty good stuff that Darren can bring over this evening. I figure it’s worth two grand to me, you can double your money. There are a couple of wingback chairs that look good. I can send a selfie if you like.

Charlie had worked with Burt enough to trust him on value. Darren goin’ to have help with him?

There isn’t enough cargo and the kid helpin’ me just quit. Darren can be there in three hours.

Have ’em meet me in back at nine o’clock. It’ll be darker then and I need to get the cash together. He’ll be on his way back in an hour. Come to think of it, I’ve got some warmer stuff myself to send you. Mostly it’s furniture and sporting goods. I’d say the whole works is worth about a thousand. How about if I give Darren a grand and we call it good? I’ll pay for his trip back.

With that, the deal was closed.

The Buy & Sell had three spaces on the ground floor: the showroom, a back area with a metal rear door and a side room obscured by debris posing as merchandise. Here was where Charlie sorted and stored his new deliveries.

A few local burglars appeared in back from time to time. Pickup beds piled with housewares were quickly off-loaded into the side room. A down and dirty appraisal was always accepted because there were few alternatives.