Noel: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #15

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson accepts the cold case homicide of 18-year-old Noel Fryer, occurring three years ago in his hometown of Pelham, Virginia. She worked at the local jewelry store and died from an apparent home invasion that turned deadly. Hank Fryer, Noel's father, becomes Frank's client. Of course, nothing is as it appears on the surface in his noirish world. Simple things become complicated, messy affairs where mayhem and violence come into play. As he probes deeper into Noel's case, Frank 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."

#1 New York Times bestselling author James Rollins writes, "Ed Lynskey's P.I. Frank Johnson's books are as hard-bitten and hard-boiled as they come.  The dialogue crackles with such sharpness that you'd swear sparks were jumping off the pages. And P.I. Frank Johnson is a character cut from the Tarantino mold:  tough, wounded, conflicted, and bad-ass."

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Lynskey
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223365181

Book preview

Noel

A P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery

Ed Lynskey

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2022 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 eBook 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: Girl Smoking Cigarette by Gage Walker at Unsplash.com was published on July 2, 2018. The Unsplash License permits the free use of this photograph for commercial purposes. Downloaded on 4/22/22.

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

Forge

Quarry

Lure

Pawn

Noel

Hope Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Nozy Cat 3

Nozy Cat 4

Chapter 1

I hadn’t signed up for a cold case homicide in a long while. My wingman and business partner, Gerald Peyton, and I investigated cases of disability fraud and such domestic issues as cheating spouses and missing persons. He also took side jobs working as door security (i.e., bouncer) and personal protection details (i.e., bodyguard). I performed background checks, ran bail skip traces, and filled in as a process server during our slow times. Occasionally, I backed up a friend when he executed his car repossessions, usually done late at night. If the client paid our retainer, and the job wasn’t illegal or unethical, I scratched my John Hancock on the dotted line of our standard business contract.

We teamed up to act as bail recovery agents (i.e., bounty hunters) and did the fugitive captures, which involved the use of firearms, putting Gerald on cloud nine. I wanted to put a stop to accepting any further cold case homicides, but I wasn’t in the financial position to be picky and turn away clients. Besides, our competitors also specialized in investigating them, typically defined as those homicide cases open for more than a year.

I completed my three-year stint as an Army MP, which included leading several homicide probes. I chaptered out as a sergeant at Fort Riley, Kansas, rode home on a Greyhound bus, and purchased a Glock 9mm handgun. Nearly every dollar of my discretionary income went to the purchase of target ammo. I practiced by slinging lots of it downrange until I became a deadeye shooter, and I developed the hand calluses to prove it.

Before you dismiss me as yet another angry White male, redneck, pistol-packing, right-wing, Second Amendment gun nut, let me elaborate. First, you should know that the riffraff element I often clashed with shot first and asked questions later. Second, like it or not, we live in a diehard gun culture, which I don’t see changing anytime soon. Third, when in America, do as the Americans do summed up my approach. Gerald had fielded the phone call from our new client, Hank Fryer, and set up our initial consultation.

For reasons known only to Gerald, he arranged for it to take place at a dive bar he frequented, even when he knew I was a recovering alcoholic. Two details you should know about Gerald: he was hardheaded, and he was mammoth-sized. Ticking him off was a dumb move. We didn’t find the ill-lit, angular barroom packed to the gills. Three of the barstools were still flipped upside down on the bartop. After we slid into the seats at his usual booth, he ordered a Rolling Rock. I got a club soda with a lime twist, a splash of cranberry juice, and hold the ice.

Why can’t you just get a plain club soda? Gerald asked.

Because I’ve got to be me, I replied.

It’s gotten so bad that I’m embarrassed to be seen with you in public.

Would you rather babysit a sloppy drunk all day?

How on earth does poor Dreema put up with you?

Why it must be true love, don’t you think?

She deserves a trophy and a gold medal.

Why did you ask Hank Fryer to have our sit-down here of all places?

He’ll feel comfortable enough to hire us on the spot. We can use the money in case you’ve forgotten.

What time is he supposed to be here?

He’s five minutes late. Chill. Sip your club soda and munch on the complimentary peanuts.

The damn bartender forgot the twist of lime and splash of cranberry juice. Should I send it back?

No. These few-frills bars don’t stock limes or cranberry juice. PBR and shots of hard liquor are it. You, of all people, should know that.

What do you know about Fryer’s case?

I gave you the basic information.

Next time, I’ll be the one who screens the new clients.

You weren’t in the office when Fryer called on the landline.

Dreema took off the morning to go shopping for a new mattress. She insisted I tag along with her and lie down to test the candidate mattresses.

How many furniture stores did you hit?

After the first half-dozen, I stopped counting. You should see the blisters I wore on the soles of my feet from hiking up and down the furniture aisles. I saw enough beds to outfit a franchise chain of brothels.

Brutal, man, brutal.

You don’t know the half of it. We shopped until we dropped, and I use no exaggeration.

After that ordeal, did you bring home the new mattress?

We narrowed it down to the top three, so I’ll take another morning to make the final selection.

My heart goes out to you, amigo. You have my sympathy for what it’s worth.

I couldn’t hide my canny expression. "Say, how old is your mattress?" I asked.

Gerald glared at me. Don’t you dare put Dreema up to it, he said.

She and Sharona are best friends, and I can’t monitor what they discuss in private.

Dreema has probably already talked to Sharona.

You’ll also shop until you drop for a new mattress and have the same fun as I did.

Our client has finally arrived. The fidgety runt in the John Deere gimme hat is Hank Fryer.

I looked toward the entrance, taking stock of Fryer. At twice my age, he moved at a shuffling pace across the floor. As he drew closer to our booth, I caught a whiff of his caustic nicotine stench. Sucking on cigarettes had aged his craggy hatchet face by a decade, and I knew why he came in so late. The indoor smoking ban was the only way I could tolerate sitting in a dive bar. His bleached gray eyes fell on us, and his reptilian smile warned me that he was bad news writ large. We should have nothing to do with him or his case.

Let’s save some time by telling him thanks but no thanks, I said.

Give Fryer a chance to tell us his whole story, Gerald said.

I thought you said he just wants our assistance on the cold case homicide of his daughter Noel, I said.

It’s a little more complicated, Gerald said.

Which part did you skip when you told me his story? I asked.

Listen up and Fryer will fill you in, Gerald replied.

We’ll tell him we can’t accept his case, I said. Make a referral. What’s Bernstein got on his plate? He’ll take any overflow we don’t want.

Fryer’s case requires our expertise. You should hear him out first before you decide anything, Gerald said.

Okay, you win, I said. I’ll sit and listen to what he has to say.

Fryer scooted up an empty chair and slumped down in it at the end of the booth. He wore a khaki field jacket, unzipped, here in mid-August, along with khaki pants. He patted his shirt pocket, holding his pack of cigarettes as if he were burping a baby. His stubby fingers adjusted the green and yellow John Deere gimme hat as he exhaled in a croaky groan.

I wouldn’t say no to a cold one of those, Fryer said, nodding to mean Gerald’s green glass pony bottle of Rolling Rock.

We ordered our drinks after you didn’t make our appointment time, I said.

Sorry, I’m tardy, Fryer said. I grabbed a smoke before I ducked in here.

How is that our problem? I said.

Frank gets testy over punctuality, Gerald said.

The bar has a designated smokers’ patio in the back, Fryer said. It’s a clean and bright place with ashtray stands, benches, and jazz playing on the speakers.

Thanks for the warning, I said with sarcasm.

Fryer looked at me. Don’t you know smoking and drinking go hand in hand? he said. 

You mentioned on the phone that you have concerns about your daughter Noel’s homicide case, Gerald said. Give us your backstory.

Noel was my only child, Fryer said. She was born on December 25th, so Tess and I named her Noel.

Who discovered her murder? I asked.

I found her slain three years ago today, Fryer replied. Getting through each day since then has been a tortuous and exhausting road. I need to find closure and peace of mind. Her killer remains at large, and her justice never happened. I want to take a second chance at securing it before I get too old. Is that something you can do?

Gerald flicked a glance my way. Well, Frank…, he said.

We’ve investigated several cold case homicides, I replied.

Did you solve them? Fryer asked.

The authorities made an arrest in each of the cases, I replied.

You’re batting a thousand, Fryer said. Stellar.

I shrugged, deflecting any praise. Keep in mind that there’s always the first time for us to strike out, I said. We’re not infallible, nor do we purport to be.

Even so, I can’t help but like my odds, Fryer said. I’ll rest easier when her killer is imprisoned and not gloating in the shadows.

Did Sheriff Pruitt develop any credible suspects? I asked.

Not one that I ever heard of, Fryer replied. He got next to nothing done in my humble opinion.

Have you hired another PI agency to look into her murder case? I asked.

No, Fryer replied. I came hoping you PIs could get the ball rolling again.   

I assume Sheriff Pruitt cleared you of wrongdoing, I said.

He ruled me out as a suspect within the first week, Fryer replied.

Are you divorced? I asked.

No. I am a widower, Fryer replied.

Sorry for your loss, I said.

My wife Tess died of lupus 18 months after Noel’s birth, and I raised her as a single father, Fryer said. I had Tess cremated and scattered her ashes atop Old Rag Mountain as she wished. I never dated or remarried since then.

Do you still miss Tess? I asked.

I’d be a blatant liar if I said I didn’t, Fryer replied.

How did Noel’s murder go down? I asked.

Noel was left dead from a home invasion gone badly, Fryer said. She’d just turned 18. I came home and found her shot three times in the chest. She was lying on her bed, faceup. I called the sheriff and reported it.

Where had you been? I asked.

Been? Fryer looked confused. Huh?

What is your alibi? I asked.

Alibi? Are you kidding me? How can you suspect me? Fryer asked.

It’s easy, I replied. Have you got an answer?

Sheriff Pruitt said I’m innocent, Fryer replied.

I have zero fucks left for what Sheriff Pruitt said, I said. Why are you being evasive? Give us your alibi if you’ve got one.

I’d driven to Food Lion to pick up something for our dinner, Fryer said. 

Did any eyewitness place you there? I asked.

Three people substantiated my claim, Fryer replied. We chatted while shopping in the grocery aisles. Do you need to know their names?

Write them down before you leave. Of course, you could’ve pumped the three bullets into Noel’s chest and then left for Food Lion, I said. The ME can’t pin down the time of death to the precise minute. I should know. My wife works at the state crime lab.

Where did I get the handgun? Fryer said.

Handguns are a dime a dozen, I replied.

I had no gunshot residue on my hands or wrists, Fryer said.

Soap and water will wash it off, I said. What did you get for that night’s dinner?

My brown paper sack held a can of low-sodium black-eyed peas, a can of Spam, and a six-pack carton of Dr. Pepper, Fryer replied.

Who liked the Spam? I asked.

Noel baked it in the oven at 350°F for 20 minutes on a cookie sheet while I sliced mine up straight out of the can to go with the black-eyed peas, Fryer replied. "Do you follow the tradition to eat