Discreet Inquiries

By B.R. Stateham

The criminal underworld is teetering on the brink of war, and only Smitty can quell the storm.

The disappearance of math prodigy Donald Irving ignites a fuse that could blast the city's crime syndicates into oblivion. A bloody showdown between the gangs is inevitable, unless Smitty can unravel the mystery and find the missing genius.

Smitty is a whisper in the dark; a story passed between those who fear the night. A hitman, a thief, a specter bent on vengeance - he has an uncanny ability to navigate and survive the criminal world. Now, his skills will be put to the ultimate test.

The second book in B.R. Stateham's Dark Retribution Series, DISCREET INQURIES is a gritty thriller where intellect meets instinct.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023

B.R. Stateham

I am jut a kid living in a sixty year old body trying to become a writer/novelist. No, I don't really think about becoming rich and famous. But I do like the idea of writing a series where a core of readers genuinely enjoy what the read.I'm married, father of three; grandfather of five.

Book preview

ONE

He sat back in his chair and folded the paper back to reveal the Want Ads. Folding the paper in half again, he laid it down on the small kitchen table beside his eggs and bacon and reached for his cup of hot black coffee. Sunlight was pouring through the small kitchen window of his otherwise spacious condo and splashing across the kitchen table with a warm, clear light. Outside, the sky was that light cerulean blue which reminded him for some reason of Greece in the summertime. Not a cloud to be seen to mar the image. He smiled. It looked like it was going to be another beautiful day.

It was another Monday morning. Sitting at the table dressed in a blue shirt, top button undone, dark slacks, and still wearing his slippers, he glanced at his watch and noted he had another hour before needing to be at the office. Good. A good breakfast, then up to wash his teeth and slip into his shoes before slipping on his tie and knotting it, and he’d be ready for another day at the office.

But lifting the coffee cup, he paused and frowned.

There it was again. That strange ad. Taking up the right bottom corner of the Want Ads. Nothing special. Other than the size of the ad. An eighth of a page of the Want Ads had to be expensive. But there it was. With such an odd, odd lead line that instantly caught one’s attention.

Everyone, at one time or another, must face a Serious Security Crisis in their Lives.

Life is neither Fair nor Cruel. But People can be.

When that situation arises, and you need that Someone in your corner,

Call Me for a Free Consultation.

He lowered the cup onto the table, not taking his eyes off the bold black words in the process and read the ad three or four more times. Odd. So very odd. It was like something out of a TV show. Yes. That was it. He remembered the old show from out of the 60’s. What was it called? Ah! The Equalizer. That was it. An ex-CIA spy, retired, working the streets of New York City and helping those who needed protection and who could not do it themselves.

Silly. Really silly nonsense, if you asked him. Someone pulling a joke on the reading public. That’s all. Simple tomfoolery!

But, twisting his face into a thoughtful mask…

I wonder. Could it be for real?

He read the ad another half a dozen times. Ending, each time, by staring at the phone number. Finally, sitting back in his chair, he grabbed for his coffee and hurriedly slurped some of the hot fluid down before turning in his chair and reaching across the narrow confines of the kitchenette for his cellphone lying on the countertop beside the sink. Lifting the phone up close, he thumbed the phone icon and then paused.

Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to make a fool of himself?

Yes. He could use someone like this in his life now. Questions needed answers. So many questions. Questions he had been looking to find the answers to ever since coming to the city. He had promised. Made a promise to someone back home he would find out. Do everything possible to find out. Surprised, he felt sweat beginning to bud up like unwanted little dandelions across his forehead as he paused holding the phone in his hand, ready to dial. Yet his natural tendency to be cautious, to be circumspect, kept him from dialing.

Really? Really? Was he going to do this?

Yes. He was. Setting his face into a mask of stone, he glanced at the number in the ad and dialed.

TWO

Six.

The voice said to meet at 6 p.m. this evening. Just an hour after work.

In a parking lot of all places. A parking lot! The north parking lot in the giant Greenstreet Mall on the corner of Market and Greenstreet. His instructions had been specific. He was to pull into an empty parking space directly opposite the main north entrance of the mall and wait. Don’t get out of the car. Don’t use his cell phone for any reason. Just sit in his car and wait. Someone would contact him within fifteen minutes.

All day long at work he was a nervous wreck. His nerves strung out like a much too tight violin string. Any sudden movement, anyone suddenly turning and talking to him, and he jumped in shocked surprise. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t answer a phone. He kept finding himself staring out his office window at nothing in particular. Kept replaying in his mind the telephone call, and that voice, calling him just before he stepped out of his condo to go to work.

That voice. Something slightly stronger than a whisper. But cold. Almost alien. Yet precise. Measured. Quietly giving out detailed instructions.

Jesus. What had he got himself into?

Why, for instance, would a private detective want to take these odd measures and meet him in a parking lot? Why not just go to his office, sit down in a chair, and explain his problem? Why not just explain everything over the phone? Why this elaborate subterfuge? Was there something illicit going on here? Was he getting himself involved in some kind of crime syndicate? Should he call the police?

And what, for Christ’s sake, would he tell them?

Officer, a private detective wants to meet me in a parking lot. No, I haven’t done anything wrong. No, as far as I know, the detective hasn’t done anything wrong. Yes, I saw his ad in the newspaper and decided to call. No, I’m not planning to do anything illegal. Or, at least, I don’t think I’m going to do anything illegal. Yes, yes… if we kill someone, we’ll be sure to call the proper authorities. Bye!

No. He shouldn’t go. That’s it. He just wasn’t going.

But. But. But.

Wasn’t there just a little bit of curiosity about all this? Why all this cloak and dagger stuff? Why all this secrecy? And Christ Mother Mary! What about the guy and his voice?! Who the hell talks like that? Something one might imagine a creature from Hell might use.

Curious? Yes. Scared? Oh, hell yes!

But he had to go. He had to see what this person looked like. He wanted to see for himself if this guy might be competent enough to find his brother. It was the worry over his brother’s well-being which was driving him on. Donald was missing. Gone now for two weeks. Just … gone.

Walked out of his bank and simply vanished. Like a puff of smoke. Like a bad nightmare. Just gone. Left his wife, Stacey, and the kids. The kids, Jeremey, age 8, and Leon, age 4. Left them. Stacey was the love of his life. And the kids? Well, the kids, were his reason to live. He loved those kids like any good father should. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them. There wasn’t anything he would do to hurt them.

But Donald wasn’t around. Nobody knew where he was. Stacey was barely functioning as a mother. Barely holding on. Something had to be done. Someone had to find Donald. Or, at least, find out what happened to Donald. Certainly, the police weren’t very helpful. Two officers came to Stacey and Donald’s house and took a report. They listened. They took notes. They said soothing words. And they left. That was it. Not a word from them after two weeks of waiting anxiously to hear from them.

Donald was missing. His brother was missing. Stacey’s husband and the father of her two children was missing. And it was as if not a person in the world cared.

That was it. All doubt left him. He would go. He would sit in the parking lot and wait for this mysterious voice to appear in human form. For Donald. For his brother. For his sister-in-law. For his nephews.

For his peace of mind.

THREE

He sat behind the steering wheel of his elderly El Dorado Caddy and stared out of the front windshield of the car and watched the birds flying around and landing in the parking lot. The almost barren parking lot. The north lot of the Greenstreet Mall was an almost bleak sea of black asphalt when it came to the mall’s clientele. This end of the mall contained a couple of restaurants and a nightclub. Establishments which didn’t open until after four in the afternoon. At six p.m., the lot had maybe fifteen cars scattered across the flat expanse of asphalt. And they had been here before he arrived.

The only movement he had seen since coming into the lot and finding a slot to park in were the Crows. Big, noisy Crows who circled the lot and landed and inspected the lot for any discarded flotsam which attracted their interest. The Crows walked from car to car, examining the asphalt underneath the cars, walked away, looked at a piece of paper lying around, walked away, moved to another parked vehicle, and began the process all over again.

Actually, he found himself becoming curious about the big birds. For a bird, they seemed to be quite intelligent. Certainly, more curious than, say, a Sparrow or a Robin. They showed an amazing ability of selectivity. Both in their choice of automobiles they examined and at the flotsam lying on the asphalt. The autos were four-door SUVs or big sedans. Or pickup trucks. They didn’t go over to check out the only motorcycle parked in a stall. Nor did they approach any vehicle which had only two doors. Only big vehicles which could carry a family.

And the discarded riffraff lying on the asphalt was interesting. Only the discarded wrappings left behind from food vendors. They barely glanced at small plastic bags. They didn’t look at anything that might be found in a small box. Only food wrappings. The Crows were hunting for their next meal. They were old hands at it.

Really quite amazing, if one thought about it. The adaptability of wildlife living in a world filled with human clutter. Doing it much better than a number of humans he knew living among humans.

But seeing a human walking from the mall to their vehicle, or from their vehicle to the mall, simply did not happen. No vehicle entered nor left the parking lot. Frowning, glancing at the clock embedded in the dash, he noted it was precisely fifteen minutes past six. He hesitated. Visibly irritated at the thought of being stood up by this crazy man, he wavered between starting the car and leaving immediately. Or sticking around for another ten minutes. That’s when hard knuckles rapped softly on the door window beside his left ear. A sudden and unexpected noise which made him visibly jump in surprise, sucking the breath out of his lungs at the same time.

He turned his head, color draining from his face, eyes wide, and stared at the black silhouette of a man standing beside the car door with the sun sitting low in the sky directly behind his head. A compact silhouette of a man. Not exceptionally tall. Not exceptionally heavy in build. But a silhouette who was, after blinking his eyes a couple of times and regaining his composure, very well dressed. The dark figure had on a dark blue sport coat, with a pair of matching slacks. Underneath the sport coat was an even darker blue shirt contrasted with a gun gray metal tie of pure silk. Finding some measure of strength in him, he hit the button, and the electric motor in the door slid the window down with a slight whisper.

Dr. Irwin, my apologies for startling you. My name is Smitty. I believe you called my office about your missing brother. Do you still wish to discuss the issue?

He nodded, swallowing with some difficulty, and watched the thin man walk around the front of his old Cadillac and slide into the front passenger seat. A man of average height. But darkly complexioned. With amazing black eyes. Truly amazing. He watched Smitty slide into the seat and wondered what he was going to say next. He didn’t wait long.

I should offer you a second apology as well. About this cloak-and-dagger form of meeting I asked you to participate in. Normally I would suggest we meet in a neutral site like a coffee shop or restaurant. But I’m finishing up a rather delicate case, and I have to keep my whereabouts incognito to a certain group of people. I should be finished with the case in the next couple of days. So there should be no problem in beginning my investigation in finding your brother if we agree to terms. Now, doctor. Why don’t you tell me about your brother Donald? Start from the day before he went missing, if you will. And leave nothing out in details, if you please.

He stared at the dark-haired man for some moments. It took a moment or two to regain some semblance of rationality after the man’s sudden, and rather dramatic, arrival. He glanced to his right and left at the parking lot. This man needed to keep his presence hidden from someone. Did that mean these men were intent on doing physical harm to him if he was found? Did it mean, perhaps, he was possibly in harm’s way?

Beside him, the dark-eyed man smiled.

You’re not in any danger, Dr. Irwin. I doubt the people who are interested in me are ones who do not want to be found. They will make no attempt to announce their presence to anyone. Now, about your brother, Donald Irwin. The president of the Workman’s Bank & Trust. I understand he has been missing for a few days?

Not just missing, Mister … uh …

Smitty. Just call me Smitty. Most of my clients know me by that name.

Dr. David Irwin nodded, frowned, and sat back in the car seat.

My brother walked out of his bank two weeks ago this Friday. Just walked out of the bank, got into his car, and apparently completely disappeared. He never made it home. He and his car seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth. He has not called his wife. He has not called me. My brother is married. Happily married, I might add. He leaves behind the love of his life, his wife, Stacey. They were high school sweethearts. They’ve known each other since the eighth grade. Besides her, he left two sons. One is eight, the other is four. They are precious little boys my brother loved with all his worth. He would never leave Stacey. He would never leave the boys. Never.

The soft, almost ethereal voice of the dark-eyed man drifted across the front seat, forcing the distraught brother of a missing man to push away his own fears and worries and concentrate on hearing the strange man’s question.

When was the last time you saw your brother?

Uh, well. The Thursday before he disappeared. We had lunch together at a bistro he likes to go to downtown, only a couple of blocks away from the bank.

How was he? Did he look well? Happy? Did he seem preoccupied over something? Did he look or act ill?

No, Dr. Irwin answered, shaking his head as the worry and fear filled his eyes again. He acted his normal self. Donnie is a jovial creature… uh, Smitty. Far more convivial than I am. He instantly connects with people, and the people he connects with seem to immediately take to him. While we lunched, I don’t know how many of the bistro’s regular customers either said hello or waved to him in that hour and a half we had together. He’s been this way since his first days in college. Outgoing, friendly, always jocular. Just a wonderful person to be around.

Has he ever kept any secrets from you, Dr. Irwin? Secrets perhaps about his job? Or his personal life? Perhaps his health?

Never! the balding and slightly overweight physician snapped, a flash of anger reddening his cheeks. Donald would never do that. Over the years, he has indeed had some medical issues. A slight murmur of the heart, for example. And chronic high blood pressure. But he’s always confided in me. Always. As to his bank, I dare say there is nothing going on there that would alarm him in any way. I am one of the major shareholders in the bank myself. I am constantly in contact with the bank’s auditors and administration. If there were any discrepancies going on, I assure you I would hear about it.

Smitty’s dark eyes seemed to be a constant stare aimed directly at the doctor. Unnervingly, they seemed as if they never blinked. But that was absurd. And anatomically impossible to achieve. Yet, looking into the man’s dark eyes, the good doctor felt distinctly uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.

Does your brother have enemies, Dr. Irwin? Anyone who might want to do something to him?

Certainly not! My brother is the president of a small bank. He has a doctorate in Mathematics. He is a deacon in his church. And a generous benefactor of a number of different charities. He does not have an enemy in the world.

A cruel, humorless grin stretched across the dark-eyed man’s lips. Shaken, Dr. Irwin had the impression of a King Cobra smiling. Unnerving. Very unnerving.

There’s not a soul in the world who does not have at least one enemy, Dr. Irwin. Perhaps they are unknown. But they exist. The question we have to come to grips with is whether your brother Donald had an enemy, or enemies, who might wish to harm him. Or did your brother face some crisis that shook him to his core and forced him to disappear from the world he knew and loved. I am afraid something has happened to your brother. And if you want me to take on the case, you must accept the possibility that my inquiries may turn up disturbing conclusions.

Dr. Irwin stared at the quiet speaking man and felt himself growing weak. He felt faint. He was sweating. He wanted to lie down and push all this out of his mind. He wanted his brother back. He wanted his life and the lives of his sister-in-law and nephews to return to normal. But the slightly terrifying, soft spoken man was telling him the truth. Something had happened to his brother. Something that, in the end, may bring news no one in the family would want to hear. It was a possibility he could not deny. He had to accept the possibilities. But more importantly, he simply had to know what had happened to his brother.

Find my brother, Smitty. Find him and return him to us if it’s at all possible. I don’t care how much it costs. Just find him.

Smitty nodded, opened the car door, and disappeared somehow in plain sight. The good doctor sat staring at the now-empty passenger seat for a few seconds and feeling as if he was going to be very, very sick. But, eventually, he controlled his urge to open the door beside him and hurl up this morning’s breakfast and lunch. Instead, he turned in his seat, started the car’s engine, and slipped the gearshift into Drive. Silently, he drove out of the mall’s parking lot, his mind filled with terrible thoughts.

FOUR

Smitty sat behind the steering wheel of the black Dodge Charger and watched the good doctor slowly drive his Cadillac out of the parking lot. The doctor’s worry, the small, athletic-looking man knew, over his brother’s disappearance was real. The disappearance of Donald Irwin was causing a growing seismic disturbance within a certain segment of the city’s population. What Smitty had to ascertain was the possible involvement, either directly or indirectly, if the doctor was involved with his brother’s disappearance. His gut was telling him Dr. David Irwin had no idea about his brother’s supposed secret predilections.

But that was his gut. What his mind was telling him was to be cautious and check it out more thoroughly.

With that in mind, he reached inside his sport coat and pulled out his cellphone. Thumbing a number, he lifted it to his ear and waited for the person on the other end of the connection to answer.

Jordan, I may have a job for you. About the abduction of Donald Irwin. Yes … I know he’s probably dead. But maybe not. I just spoke with his brother. The brother may know something. He’s a board member of the bank. Which, frankly, makes him a potential target. I want you to discreetly follow him. And find Jamison. Tell him I need him to watch Donald Irwin’s family. They too may be targets. Yes, standard rates.

Smitty heard Jordan agree to the terms and thumbed off his phone. Sliding it back into his sport coat, he bent forward and touched the Charger’s starter button. The rumbling, throaty grunt of sheer horsepower from the big Chrysler Hemi engine exploded into life. Pushing the gearshift back into Drive, Smitty drove out of the parking lot and made a hard right turn. Two blocks later he turned on a green light onto a street called Stateline and settled into the flow of traffic. In the far right lane of the four-lane street, his black Charger rolled over the sweeping arched Beatrice Bridge which spanned the Missouri River, momentarily giving Smitty a sweeping view of the wide-banked, slow-moving river to the north, and the picturesque view of the city’s downtown skyline which set atop a tall hill like some ancient Conquistador ruler.

It didn’t impress Smitty. He had seen it a thousand times before. What was keeping him occupied as he drove were the two separate issues, or cases, which he now found himself working on. The newest, obviously, was the Donald Irwin case. A friendly, outgoing middle-aged banker and co-founder of a small private bank with an incredible amount of liquid cash stashed away in its vaults. A vast amount of liquidity that, upon closer look, seemed improbable for such a new bank to have acquired over its short time of its existence.

The second case involved a young and upcoming Russian mobster by the name of Anton Illyrich Rostov. Little Anton, as he liked to call himself, wanted to make a name for himself. To do this, his growing mob of recently imported Russian thugs was making noise down in the Marketside area of town. Taking over territory that currently belonged to an old and well-established family headed by its current leader, Viktor Ulrich.

Viktor Ulrich was very old. Well past ninety, he heard. But clear-eyed. And just as potentially dangerous as ever. In World War Two, the old man had been a staff officer, as the rumors went, for Heinrich Himmler. The most feared man in all of Nazi Germany. How Viktor escaped the Allied sweep of finding and incarcerating every Nazi they could get their hands on was an interesting problem in itself. But Smitty never doubted the story. Viktor Ulrich was a highly intelligent, potentially ruthless, individual.

Viktor believed in proper Order. Class distinctions. Respect. And a clear chain of command. And most of all, he had little tolerance for those who wished to question his authority. Violence did not bother the old man. But years of experience taught him violence for violence’s sake, merely increased the need for more violence to keep and maintain proper order. Being a prudent man, the growing hostility between the Rostov Gang and his family’s empire was rapidly spiraling out of control. With a desire to refrain from the use of violence, the old man asked Smitty to be his intermediary. Smitty was to negotiate some kind of deal that would placate the young upstart on one hand and preserve the majority of Viktor’s empire on the other.

It had not been an easy task.

It took some persuasion on Smitty’s part to convince Anton Rostov a negotiated peace treaty between the two opposing forces would be in his best interests. Smitty held no opinion, either way, as to what Rostov would say at the meeting. His assignment was to convince Rostov a peace treaty and mutual respect had to be set in place between the two parties. Either through negotiation. Or through other, and possibly rather distasteful, means.

The meeting was to take place between Rostov’s number two man, an unpleasant Ukrainian by the name of Igor Domitrovich, and himself out in public view at a small sidewalk coffee shop. The shop was called Dorner’s and it seemed to be the heart of the college/art scene in a part of town called Liberty View. It also happened to be owned by Viktor Ulrich.

Smitty parked his car on a side street and walked calmly across the old red-brick street to the opposite side and stepped onto the sidewalk. The hot afternoon light and still air were a perfect combination for the college students to be out in large numbers. The six-block stretch of bookstores, specialty shops, fast eateries, and beer pubs featuring specialty brews that was Liberty Avenue was a sea of humanity. Approaching Dorner’s, his eyes quickly settled onto the entourage of heavies sitting at one table in a group, and Igor Domitrovich sitting alone at another. He also noted how the herd of college kids naturally made a wide berth around the tables, chairs, and umbrellas of Dorner’s. Natural instinct was telling them that perhaps today was not the day to sit down, drink a cup of mocha, and watch the pretty girls walk by in their short shorts.

He walked up to the table Domitrovich was sitting at, pulled out a metal chair from underneath the glass-topped table, and sat down. The Ukrainian eyed the relatively small, dark-complexioned, dark-eyed specimen in front of him with a mild case of surprise. Domitrovich was dressed in a silk Hawaiian-styled shirt, white slacks, no socks, and comfortable-looking canvas loafers. Layers of gold chains around his neck settled nicely on his hairy chest revealed by a half-opened shirt. A big diamond ring set in heavy silver decorated the right pinky finger. A three-day-old crop of salt and pepper covered half his face. Interestingly, the man’s left eyebrow was neatly split in half by a heavy vertical scar freshly healed. Apparently someone recently showed Igor Domitrovich how to handle cutlery.

So you are this mysterious creature called Smitty. This creature who moves unseen like a ghost in the night. Huh. I’m surprised. I was looking for someone … more intimidating.

Domitrovich spoke in thickly accented English. Smitty was told the Ukrainian had arrived in the States only a couple of months earlier. His intel also told him Domitrovich was ex-FSB, modern Russia’s old Soviet spy agency, and