Bent Halo: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #8

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson accepts a homicide case when Kitty Lovejoy seeks out his assistance in solving the grisly murder of her husband, Sloane, a retired pharmaceutical chemist. Of course, nothing is simple as it seems on the surface in Frank's world. As he delves deeper into the twisty investigation, more questions arise. All the while, he also deals with his 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: ECL Press
• Release date: Aug 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201571344

Book preview

Bent Halo

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: Photograph by hotblack (http://www.scottliddell.net) at Morguefile.com downloaded on March 25, 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

Hope Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Nozy Cat 3

Nozy Cat 4

Other Novels

Lake Charles

The Quetzal Motel

Ask the Dice

Blood Diamonds

Topaz Moon

Cops Like Us

Skin In the Game

Outside the Wire

Chapter 1

Yesterday had been hotter than deep-fried hell, but an overnight storm brought us cooler temperatures with foothill breezes. Gerald and Chet left town for the Peyton family reunion held this August below Tappahannock on the Northern Neck. Gerald invited me to go along, but I thanked my best friend and business partner. Shutting down things was bad for our bottom line. So, I stayed put and minded the office. The Commonwealth of Virginia licensed us to ply our trade as private investigators.

Our caseload hadn’t generated enough profits to pay our bills. We needed to ink a new contract like yesterday. My list of old clients to contact and solicit work from included the county school board for whom I’d run background checks on their teacher hires. For lunch, I brewed a drip pot of coffee to wash down the sliced banana and mayonnaise sandwich (an old Southern delicacy) I’d made and packed in a brown paper bag.

Back when Gerald was a bail enforcement agent, more colloquially known as a bounty hunter, he gained a reputation for his diligent, fierce style. He dated Kayla Wolff, a young woman from Daytona Beach also a bounty hunter. She rented the studio apartment over her father’s garage and excelled at her job when she wasn’t snorting up the lines of crystal meth like a shop vac.

Gerald finally had enough of her drug abuse, and they broke up but remained friends. A few weeks later, Kayla overdosed in the sunny, sandy dot of a town along the Florida panhandle. Bad news travels fast. He and I caught a dawn flight down to attend her funeral where we served as two of the white-gloved pallbearers. Her father, left devastated, cried through the service. After we returned home, I thought in his quieter moments Gerald was a sadder and wiser man. Life’s a bitch, he’d say.

I put on my marketing hat and phoned my contacts at the large PI firms to make my sales pitch to drum up new casework. I wasn’t too proud to beg if that’s what it took. They responded they’d nothing right then, but they’d keep me in mind for any future outsourcing or subcontract opportunities. I noted on my desk calendar when I would give each of them a follow-up phone call. Persistence, more often than not, proved a winner. I’d read online about the PIs who picked up new work from the hospitals, nursing homes, and hospices by doing their next-of-kin searches. We could also provide the service, but I needed to do research on how to implement it.

When I cut my teeth in the gumshoe trade, I’d used a home-based office in a spare bedroom or a corner of the garage. All I needed was a high-speed internet connection, a Glock 17 9mm, and a sturdy oak desk. The drip coffee maker was the cherry on top. The office fax machine, gooseneck desk lamp, and oscillating table fan were the cheapies I scrounged up at yard sales. I hung up my framed U.S. Army Honorable Discharge Certification on the wall. Most of the PIs I knew had set up their shops the same way. I never met a client at my home office. Keeping boundaries was one of the ground rules I followed.

Later, hanging my PI shingle outside my dedicated office showed I had arrived as a legitimate professional. I also didn’t have to fret about which coffeehouse or pizza joint I could hold my client meetings in each day. Our office layout was an open area with two desks, filing cabinets, and no cubicles, which I despised. We had four windows. Unlike some of my brethren PIs who shunned the private eye label, I celebrated it. Marlowe, Spade, Archer, and Hammer were my Mount Rushmore of hardboiled icons. My smartphone burred when I received a text message from Gerald.

R U getting any, shamus?

NOYB. R U having fun?

Grandma Peyton is a teetotaler like U R.

Ah yes, welcome to my boozeless life. Sad.

Chet brought a jug of Purple Jesus.

Yech! I’d rather guzzle cat piss!

ROFLMAO. Any new cases?

So far, nada. Is yr ETA tomorrow?

It might be tonight.

Why? Is Chet going nutso again?

DFQ.

DFQ?

Dumb fucking question. DFQ.

Got it. Is he packing heat?

Another DFQ.

Are you packing heat?

It’s a trifecta of DFQs. I gotta go.

Take it easy, Big Dawg.

Or any way I can get it!

ROFLMAO.

I’m signing off, shamus.

Over and out.

Knuckles rapping on the office door drew my attention front and center. As I set aside my smartphone, I should’ve smiled, but it slipped my mind, and no wonder. Her statuesque figure diverted me. Her flaxen blonde hair, elegant curves, and clear skin added to her ageless beauty. She didn’t walk so much as she sashayed over to the chair in front of my desk. The lady is in her late 30s, I assessed.

Granted, her entrance copied the lamest, creakiest PI cliché ever coined, but it was my first time, so I savored every damn second of it. You would have, too, if you sat where I did. She’d spritzed on a peachy body spray. I relished sniffing it again. With her quirked lips, hooded eyes, and beetled brows, she had CLIENT stamped in lipstick red letters above her eyeful of cleavage. She sat down. I exhaled. She broke the ice.

Frank Johnson? Her breathy lilt, among other things, intrigued me. Are you the private eye? Am I in the right office? she asked.

I nodded, yes, like the shingle outside my door said.

May I see your credentials?

Taken aback, I looked askance. Everybody else took my word for it.

She smiled at my reaction. How else will I know if I can trust you with my personal secrets and intimate details? she asked.

I produced the necessary documentation—my driver’s license (REAL ID-compliant), my VA DCJS identification card, my concealed handgun permit, and my voter ID card—proving I was, indeed, who I purported to be.

Do you keep on file the references from your previous clients?

I can pull my folder if you’re interested. It consists of about 50 satisfied client references. We’ll be here awhile.

She waved off my offer. Perhaps later if I find it’s necessary, she said. Thanks for showing these to me.

Why did you bring up the references then? Not a problem. Now it’s your turn. Who are you?

Kitty Lovejoy is my name.

I didn’t ask her for a photo ID. Are you seeking our detective services? I asked.

"Our detective services?"

My partner Gerald Peyton is out-of-town right at the moment.

Do you expect him back soon?

I felt a jab of annoyance. He plans to return sometime tomorrow. Nevertheless, I can assist you now, I replied.

Do you charge more if both of you work on my case?

Our hourly rate is standard. How we do our job is our business. Again, how may I be of assistance, Ms. Lovejoy?

"I’m Mrs. Lovejoy. She gnawed on her bottom lip. Or I was as of this morning," she said.

The short hairs on the nape of my neck stood up. Murder. Why did it have to be murder? Again. I snatched up the stress foam ball, squeezed it twice, and put it back down. She fussed in her purse to pluck out a facial tissue as I waited for her to resume telling her forlorn tale. I’d heard it before from previous clients. I placed the box of facial tissues on her side of the desk.

This morning a ruthless monster fatally shot my husband Sloane in the back of his head. Her rage and grief made her tone quaver and her body quiver. She dabbed the corners of her teary eyes. I returned home from my car trip, went looking for him, and found his dead body out back by the peonies, she said. I’m left traumatized, numb, and bewildered, Mr. Johnson.

Sorry for your loss and distress, I said. It’s Frank, too, by the way.

Likewise, feel free to address me as Kitty.

I nodded. We skipped the handshake. I’d grown leery of the lethal viruses carried on palms. What do you need from us? I asked.

Isn’t it obvious? You’ll track down my husband’s assassin.

Haven’t the Virginia State Police taken the lead on it?

Aren’t two heads better than one?

Homicide isn’t the domain of private eyes, and I shy away from the cases. I find them tedious and awkward, especially while the police run their probe. Our lines get tangled, and we trip over each other.

I’ve asked around about you.

You exaggerate my effectiveness. What if I investigate Sloane’s homicide, and it becomes a cold case?

Then I paid you for trying to secure him the justice he deserves. I’m enough of a pragmatist to accept it may not end satisfactorily. I feel as if I owe it to him to give it my best effort. Do you understand?

I nodded. Can you talk about it? Or are you still in a state of shock? I asked.

Is there any advantage if I wait until tomorrow?

Your memory is fresh, and the trail hasn’t grown a day colder.

Then shall we get started?

Did you murder your husband, Sloane? I asked, studying her reaction. No offense, but I feel obligated to ask you the question.

No.

Do you have an alibi? I asked.

I’d gone for a leisurely drive up through the country on the back roads to Middleburg. Taking it once a week clears my head and relaxes me. My neighbors know I leave at the same time each Monday morning.

I’ve also driven over those scenic routes. Do you either own or have access to a handgun?

No.

Have you ever fired a handgun?

No.

Are you willing to submit to a polygraph evaluation?

But of course.

Are you certain you’ll pass it?

But of course.

Did a neighbor hear the gunshot from the murder weapon?

So far as I know, they didn’t. Couldn’t his killer have used a silencer? Are they legal in Virginia?

Yes they are, but a suppressor is ineffective on an open-chamber revolver if Sloane’s murderer used one.

She gave me a self-effacing smile. I don’t know beans about firearms beyond what I’ve seen on TV, she said.

My smile was a wary one. Tell me about Sloane, I said.

What in particular interests you?

Profile his personality. Was he an easygoing, laidback guy?

A few people described him that way.

Was he a retiree?

Sloane turned 65 last December 25th. We took our retirements together after he qualified for Medicare.

What did he do before he retired?

He was a research chemist for a pharmaceutical firm.

Did he like his job?

He loved working in the lab. His colleagues likened him to a genius, although he was too modest to accept the lofty accolade.

How did he occupy his time?

Sloane was a fervent gardener who puttered around the yard getting his hands dirty. Flowers became his passion. You should see his breathtaking gladioli, snapdragons, and zinnias when they’re in season. Our neighbors stop to snap pictures of them.

Friends, protégés, or associates?

Sad to say, Sloane had no genuine friends. He was an introvert who safeguarded his privacy and had no use for social media.

If he made no friends, did he make any enemies?

Sloane got along with about everybody.

Does the ‘about everybody’ also include you?

Our marriage had a long, glorious run. We seldom quarreled, and we had a fulfilling sex life if it’s relevant. We enjoyed cozier moments, too, like sipping a nice pour of dry, sparkling wine with a spicy cheese board and fresh fruit tray as we relaxed on the verandah.

My eyebrows arched in mild reproof. "No marriage can stay so content. Disagreements and