The Dyeing Process: Neil Ames PI Mystery Series, #1

By Swinton Woolfe

 

"Murder is visceral and viscous. It sticks to you and won't let you go."

 

Private investigator Neil Ames is a haunted man. The murder of his fiancé still clings to his soul and PTSD flashbacks of his imprisonment in Afghanistan are his unwelcome companions.  

 

To fill his days, Neil immerses himself in sketching, drinking copious cups of coffee, and the timeless wisdom of Sherlock Holmes. But his true calling lies in exposing corporate corruption, tracing dark secrets hidden within the labyrinth of government conspiracies and the murky depths of the dark web.

 

When investigative reporter Katherine Sterling, a woman from his past, is murdered, Neil's fragile equilibrium is shattered, reopening old wounds. Reluctantly, he agrees to consult on the case, a decision that teams him up with Octavia Clarke, a beautiful, savvy, and cane wielding nightclub owner, with a gift for extracting the truth from even the most reticent of suspects.

 

When another brutal murder occurs, the two discover a link to a set of extraordinary handcrafted sneakers, propelling them from the lush backdrop of the Pacific Northwest to Japan, where they stumble upon a sinister  world of sneaker obsession and a global corporation's well-guarded secrets.

 

But as Neil and Octavia step closer to unraveling the chilling truth, danger lurks ever nearer. They find themselves in the crosshairs, and the line between the past and the present blurs, threatening to unravel their own pasts and forcing Neil's quest for justice to become a quest for redemption.

 

 

THE DYEING PROCESS is the first book of the Neil Ames PI Mystery series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swinton Woolfe Books
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223398370

Swinton Woolfe

Swinton Woolfe studied anthropology and criminal justice while attaining her BA in Religion and Theater. Then her real education began as a social worker, radio news editor, a director of museum services, an actor, director, and artistic director of a Shakespearian theatre company. She lives in the San Juan Islands of Washington State and can often be found walking her dog in the wind and rain as she works out her next mystery.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Pierce Transit bus was running late, and private investigator Neil Ames was the only remaining passenger. He put away his sketchbook, checked his phone, and slipped on his black-framed sunglasses.

Where are you headed? the driver asked.

Some place I’d rather not be. Neil growled.

They continued for several blocks, crossing over the Puyallup River Bridge and into the industrial zone filled with warehouses and manufacturing plants that transitioned into rows of luxury car dealerships and hotels.

Neil gestured to the side of the road in front of a BMW showroom, located several blocks from the upcoming bus stop, and said, Let me off here.

You’re going to get me fired someday, the driver said as he pulled over. He activated the automatic doors. Please tell me you’re going to buy a car.

No. Pierce Transit gets me where I need to go, eventually.

Hey, it wasn’t my fault.

Neil stepped into the blinding November sunlight, turned up his collar, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He hurried several blocks to a crosswalk spanning a four-lane commercial avenue.

Semi-trucks growled and hissed as they rolled to a stop at the red light. A line of luxury SUVs and black sedans with tinted windows idled in the turn lane. The scuffle of traffic noise faded as Neil strode through a parking lot toward the Destiny Pointe World Trade Center.

A blast of cold wind from the west sent people rushing toward the entrance. Neil lifted his sunglasses and searched the distant skies over Puget Sound. The weather was changing, but at this moment, the sky above him was a crisp blue, and the sun’s vivid rays made the building in front of him appear invincible.

The architects had designed the Destiny Pointe World Trade Center to glorify the power of international commerce, exalting the expanding port as the opportunities grew. The chrome roof shot the rays of the winter sun back into space, and the mirrored front of the seven-story building reflected the navy-blue water of the bay and the massive cargo ships loaded with blue and gray containers filled with fleets of cars, tons of steel, and the latest trendy fashions. Tugboats maneuvered the vessels around other vast ships, passing orange cranes and slicing through the currents en route to ports around the Pacific Rim.

Neil’s face hardened. He wasn’t fooled by the outward luster; he knew about the shadowy underbelly of the globalized trade deals brokered by conglomerates and lawyers. He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through the messages until he found the one he wanted. He tapped out a message.

I’m here.

He entered the belly of the beast, the climate-controlled lobby. The aroma of coffee—the signature scent of the Pacific Northwest—filled the air, and a line of baristas concocted the magical caffeine elixir. Overhead, Chihuly glass sculptures hung and dazzled as the natural light of the sun and clouds changed. Sculptures from contemporary tribal artists and carving masters made a monumental statement.

Neil stood gazing up at the twenty-two-foot cedar story pole with the figure of Golden Eagle carved on top, above his two squabbling wives, Black Bear and Giant Woman. According to Puyallup legend, their constant battling had created the mountains and the rivers of the region. Below them were two black whales, who’d forged the rivers that poured into Proem Bay, the cradle of this port city.

Neil reached out and brushed his fingers against it, disregarding the Do Not Touch sign. He leaned in to take in its cedar scent.

Opposite the story pole was a twenty-foot carved Welcome Figure—a native female wearing a traditional woven cedar hat and white dress with a Thunderbird design, her arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. A subtle glint danced in Neil’s eyes. He knew the real meaning behind that gesture. What was being welcomed was economic development.

The tribal peoples owned a stake in the Salish Sea. It had been their open water freeway from Washington State to Alaska, and they’d used massive canoes—dug out and carved from old-growth cedar trees—to trade, fish, and hunt whales.

Now their casino gambling revenues were being used to fund the next evolution of the seafaring skills of their people: the construction of a deepwater container facility, the largest in the Pacific Northwest. The message was loud and clear. This was their land, and this land, the shoreline along the bay was theirs, and no one, foreign or domestic, was going to usurp their claim.

Neil approached the coffee bar and scanned the room. The lobby was filled with a microcosm of the world; the discussions generated a cacophonous yet muted hum thanks to the sound-absorbing walls. He recognized several of the faces; some were past clients and others had been the focus of his investigative scrutiny. A large, illuminated sign above the door of the conference room revealed the reason for the high turnout—Exploring the Possibilities: Uniting American and Chinese Power to Build the Future.

It’s probably too long to add ‘by building a methane refinery on the city shoreline. They’re about to find out that their delusions of grandeur are on the verge of collapsing.

He approached a barista with thick wavy hair tied into a low bun, wide green eyes, and a broad smile.

What would you like, sir?

Tall Americano, extra hot, with room.

Neil spotted his client, the new prosecuting attorney, Daniel Upton, and watched him work the room. A short silver-haired man with a big smile and twinkling eyes, Upton had hired Neil as a private detective to sniff out the wrongdoings, uncover the dark secrets, and follow the money during civil environmental negligence class action cases against major corporations. Neil’s long hours of diligent investigation had secured Upton’s winning record, which had led to his candidacy for prosecuting attorney, and he’d won by an overwhelming majority.

Here you are, extra hot with plenty of room. The barista flashed Neil a broad smile.

Neil tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the counter. Keep the change. He walked toward the condiment table and poured half & half into the cup.

The intercom filled the air with the delicate sound of chimes, as a melodious voice instructed everyone to gather in the Rainier Room. The crowd began filtering into the event space. Upton stayed behind and walked toward the coffee bar.

Neil, I’m glad you made it. I suppose you took the bus. You really need a car.

I don’t really need the stress. You called, I’m here.

Were you successful?

‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’ 

Upton shook his head. Sherlock Holmes, right?

Neil nodded. A Scandal in Bohemia."

Wait, are you telling me you turned up empty-handed? I need compelling evidence to shut them down.

Neil pulled a flash drive from his coat pocket and placed it on the counter. Fortunately, my search yielded results—a series of discrepancies scattered throughout the background documents. You’re welcome.

You had me worried, Upton whispered, his voice tinged with relief. What can I expect to find here? Upton tucked the flash drive into his pocket.

They’re using outdated and skewed methane values. There are numerous breaches of procedure, a lack of sufficient community input and only a cursory consultation with the tribe, among other things.

Upton’s eyes lit up. So, they provided erroneous information to make the deal with the city.

I suppose you could say that. Somehow, they managed to start construction months before getting all the permits. Neil took a sip of coffee. I wonder how that happened.

Who stands to gain from this . . . arrangement?

I have my suspicions, but I’ll dig deeper to find the evidence.

Good, but...

Startled voices came from the conference room. A young woman at the Japanese delegation table stood in front of an overturned chair, clutching a phone to her ear. She whispered apologies and rushed out of the room into the lobby.

There is a more critical reason I asked you to come here today, said Upton.

I thought something was up. We don’t usually transact business face-to-face. Neil watched as the young woman in the lobby paced while raking her fingers through her long, curly dishwater-blond hair and murmuring curt responses into her phone.

Upton cleared his throat. I need you to investigate a murder.

No. Neil shook his head. I don’t do murder investigations. His words were sharp and resolute.

Why not? Upton asked. You were a military intelligence officer. You’ve seen things.

And that’s precisely why I choose not to. Neil sipped his coffee. I prefer investigating corporate and governmental corruption. It’s analytical. There are no emotional bonds, and it pays well. Murder is visceral and . . . viscous.

Upton furrowed his brow. What do you mean?

A murder haunts you—it sticks to you. It won’t let you go.

Upton rubbed his forehead. Have you heard of Katherine Sterling?

Yes, Neil replied. She’s a respected investigative journalist. He watched the young woman finish her call, take a deep breath, and walk back into the conference room.

Her body was found in a hallway at the Trotter Apartments.

A jolt of anxiety set Neil’s heart racing. The Trotter Apartments?

Upton continued to present his case, emphasizing that one of Katherine’s exposés had helped him win his first class action lawsuit. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned forward. I liked Katherine, and I want to do right by her. I need your help. My expertise lies in prosecuting white-collar crime, not murder cases.

It’s impossible. Neil’s jaw tightened. And as I said before, my specialty is investigating financial crimes, not murders.

Please, begged Upton. I’ll owe you big time.

Neil stared out the lobby windows. Wind gusts forced the international flags to snap to quivering attention. He chucked his coffee cup into a blue recycle bin.

So, will you take this case? Upton pressed.

Damn it. I don’t want to get involved, but I have to. I owe that much to . . . her.

The clinking of cutlery against plates had ended in the conference room. There was a polite round of applause, but some disgruntled murmurs could be heard above it.

Neil struggled to force his words out. I’ll survey the crime scene and talk to people. You’ll get my invoice in the morning. He headed toward the exit.

As the doors slid open, Upton called out, You’ll be working with Detective Sergeant Wallace.

What?

You’ll be working with Detective Sergeant John Wallace.

Neil froze. The wind whipped through the open doors, blowing napkins off the coffee counter and swirling them around the lobby.

Is there a problem? asked Upton.

No, said Neil before swiftly exiting the building.

Chapter 2

Neil arrived at the murder scene in an Uber. The wind howled, causing his navy-blue coat to flap and dance around him.

With each step forward, he felt the icy grip of dread as he approached the Trotter Apartments, a place that had been his home twenty years prior—until Emily was found murdered. He froze and gazed up at the building. In that moment, all his emotions collided within him—grief, anger, longing—in waves of despair. He braced himself for whatever was to come.

Lock it down. Lock it down.

Longing was the first to be secured and locked away, then grief, and finally anger. All hid in solitary confinement in the deepest part of his mind. He could feel the wind again. He watched it blow ominous clouds from the east over Proem Bay. The gray granite of the building shifted from light to dark with the changing clouds.

Neil took a deep breath and rushed up the steps of the Trotter Apartments and approached a uniformed police officer. He handed over his ID and PI license. The officer hesitated for a moment before attempting to turn him away.

You can’t come in here, she said.

I’m working on this case at the request of the PA, Neil replied calmly. You can verify my credentials with the detective in charge.

The officer remained skeptical, but let him through after a quick radio call. The doors buzzed, and Neil entered the Trotter Apartments.

The scent of the lobby filled his nostrils; it smelled the same as when he’d lived there. The historic carpet had been repaired in several areas but was clean and held the essence of

a hundred years of history and a faded path to the antique elevator. A 1920s gilt mirror reflected everyone who came in, just as it had when the building was brand new.

The inviting sight of homemade peanut butter cookies sitting on a napkin-covered tray was too much to resist. Neil grabbed three of them and bit into one. A uniformed officer approached him, scowling.

Sorry, were these yours? They were crying to get off the plate—I think they all are. Neil took the remaining cookies, wrapping them in a napkin before slipping them into his coat pocket.

That’s Ames, said the detective, taking a breather from questioning Robert Carney, the building owner and manager. He shot Neil a look. You stay here until Detective Wallace shows up.

Neil walked to a worn pink settee. He sat next to a silver-haired hippie and started texting after popping the second half of the cookie into his mouth. He remembered Jerry, who’d worn the same kind of clothes two decades ago, but now they were faded, and he was much thinner.

Jerry’s the one with all the insider info on what happens in this building.

Neil munched two more cookies and brushed the crumbs off the front of his coat. A handful of residents were standing around, waiting to be questioned by the police. He pulled out his sketchbook and began drawing.

What do you know? he asked as he drew a box in the center of the paper.

Jerry squinted at him. What? he asked. Then a glimmer of recognition flickered across his face. I know you. You’re that guy, the one who thought he knew everything. Jerry shook his head. I suppose you’re still an arrogant so-and-so. He glanced at the sketchbook. Did you ever sell any of your drawings?

Actually, they weren’t for sale. They were experimental.

An experiment? What kind of experiment?

Nothing you would understand.

See, there it is. Nobody is as smart as you, according to you. I’m still trying to figure out what that nice girl saw in you. Jerry caught his breath. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.

That’s Jerry. That was the Trotter—a large family with all the grievances of a Thanksgiving dinner.

Jerry had never been fond of him, and Neil had often overheard Jerry telling Emily that she could do better, but Neil was unfazed by the criticism; he agreed with Jerry.

The antique elevator clanked and clicked as it descended.

So, what do you know? Neil repeated. The elevator came to a grinding halt with a clang.

Jerry’s face reddened, and he crossed his arms. What are you doing here?

A deep voice dropped over them from above. He’s Consulting Detective Neil Ames. You don’t have to answer his questions.

Detective Sergeant John Wallace towered over them. Neil gave him a sideways glance and continued sketching.

Tailored dark gray wool suit and Italian leather shoes. He’s dressed better than he used to be. He’s either trying to advance his career, or he’s got a new girlfriend who’s loaded.

This guy is a bigger jackass than you. Jerry coughed. If that’s possible. You’re a detective?

I’m a private investigator hired by the prosecuting attorney’s office.

I thought the police were the investigators for the prosecuting attorney? Jerry looked from Wallace to Neil, who answered him without looking up.

Well, the prosecuting attorney is new, and he may have heard rumors about the ineptitude of the detective unit.

Wallace stepped forward, put his hands in his trouser pockets, and leaned over Neil.

You’re still smug, huh?

Neil glanced up at him as he added cross-hatching to his sketch. You really shouldn’t put your hands in your pockets without unbuttoning your suit jacket. It’s unattractive and makes you look fat.

Wallace growled under his breath and unbuttoned his jacket. Neil flipped his sketchbook shut and noticed that a subtle smile had appeared on one side of Jerry’s mouth.

What do you know? Neil asked again.

Jerry’s smile faded. I already told the police I know nothing. I wasn’t in the building.

My detective already took his statement, said Wallace.

Neil kept his focus on Jerry. I’m sure the police were content with your answer, but I want to know what you do know. When did you learn that something had happened in the building?

Jerry dropped his eyes.

Neil urged him on. The smallest detail could lead us to the answer of what happened to Katherine.

Jerry took a deep breath and nodded. I’d just come in from taking out the garbage, and I heard a lot of commotion. The two young actresses who live on the fifth floor were in the lobby, crying and shaking. They said Ms. Sterling was lying on the floor in the hallway, lying there with her eyes wide-open. Dead, they thought. One of them called 911.

Neil scanned the lobby. Which ones are they?

They left after the police talked to them.

To get to the dumpsters in the back, you take the garbage down to the parking garage?

Jerry nodded.

Did you see anybody drive out of the garage or leave through the garage door?

Jerry shook his head. No, I had a cartload of trash, and I was separating the trash from the recyclables. Wait, I heard the garage door grinding after I closed it and was heading upstairs. But I didn’t see anyone coming or going.

Did anyone use the elevator or the stairs prior to all the commotion?

Like I said, I’d just come in from taking out the garbage. Jerry thought for a moment. I didn’t hear anyone, but the dryer was on in the laundry room when I passed by. I didn’t look in because it’s always busy.

What about when you got back here?

I can’t be sure about that. A couple headed downstairs toward the parking garage. I couldn’t tell you who it was.

Male? Female?

I don’t know. All I saw were shadows.

Tall or short?

They were shadows.

What about the people who came down the elevator? Anyone else use the stairs? A friend or a visitor?

The actresses were in the lobby when I came in. Jerry furrowed his brow and looked out into the distance. Wait. There was a young fellow with David. He visits pretty often. They left before the police arrived.

What’s David’s last name?

Frank. David Frank.

How long has he lived here?

I’m not exactly sure. He’s a designer. He’s always getting deliveries. ‘Sustainable organic material,’ that’s what he calls it. The FedEx gal delivered boxes from Japan a few weeks ago. He told me they were samples of the sneakers he was designing.

What’s his apartment number?

Apartment 506.

Detective Wallace grunted. That’s the same floor as the murder scene.

Jerry gasped. So, it’s true. I just didn’t want to believe. Sh-she was murdered? He bowed his head, and his shoulders shook. He took a couple deep breaths. She was such a nice lady. Who would want to murder her?

How well did you know her? Neil asked.

She always stopped to chat and ask how you were, and then she’d listen to you. You felt you were the most important person in the room. Next thing you knew, you would tell her your life story, secrets you could never reveal to anyone else.

Wallace gave Jerry a suspicious once-over. Maybe someone told her the wrong secret.

Jerry’s face paled, and he broke out in a sweat. He wiped his face with a bandana that he pulled from his pants pocket. He looked like he was going to be sick.

The medical examiner is upstairs, Ames, said Wallace. If you want to take a look before the victim gets transported to the morgue, come with me.

Her name was Katherine. Katherine Sterling. Jerry sprang to his feet, and the full force of his outrage sent spittle across Wallace’s face. People respected her. She won awards for her investigative reporting. She’s not just a nameless victim.

Step back. Wallace’s deep voice was calm but firm.

Neil rose to his feet, slipping his sketchbook into his pocket. "And they call me the thoughtless one. His phone vibrated. You’ve got a bit of spittle on your cheek," he said before looking at the message.

Wallace pulled out an initialed handkerchief and wiped his face.

I’m sorry, said Jerry, dropping his head. I didn’t mean to—sorry. His gut rumbled, and he grimaced and grabbed his stomach. I have to go to the bathroom. He bolted down the hall to his apartment.

Well, this was fun, Neil remarked, tapping out a quick response to his message.

Let’s go. Wallace opened the creaking elevator door. He held it open for Neil, who began scrolling on his phone. With a slam, Wallace shut the wrought iron door and pushed the button for the fifth floor.

Chapter 3

The elevator groaned like an arthritic grandmother climbing upward floor by floor.

Neil’s eyes were glued to his phone. Wallace sighed, and the sound of his exasperation hung in the air.

Why are you constantly texting? It’s very annoying.

You don’t think this is the only case I’m working on, do you? Neil replied without looking away from his phone.

The elevator clanged to a stop and bounced a little before the door could open. Wallace slid the gate aside and opened a heavy dark wood door to the fifth-floor hallway. The sound of a dog whimpering and police radios beeping filled the air. Two detectives were going door to door, interviewing residents on the fifth floor. One of them stopped to talk to Wallace.

We secured the dog in an empty apartment on this end of the hallway. Had a time getting it away from the body. We’re waiting for animal control. They’re at a pit bull incident over on the east side. A couple kids got hurt. The detective glanced at Neil.

It’s all right, he’s from the prosecuting attorney’s office, Wallace told him. He’s good at playing nice at a crime scene. Right, Ames?

Where was the dog when you got here? Neil asked.

Next to the body, replied the detective.

So, it contaminated the scene, Wallace growled. Great.

Who let you into the apartment? Neil asked.

The door was open. One uniform pushed the door open. It was empty, so we put the dog in there.

Let’s keep our attention on the reason you’re here, Ames, said Wallace as he gestured to the other end of the hallway. They walked toward a uniformed officer guarding the entrance to the blue plastic crime scene privacy shield.

Wallace handed Neil a pair of latex gloves and booties. Don’t contaminate the scene.

Don’t forget to cover your pretty Italian shoes. Neil smirked as he slipped on the booties. Then his smirk dropped when he remembered that once upon a time, they’d enjoyed the comfort of trading lighthearted jabs. Once upon a time, we were friends.

The medical examiner’s two team members, dressed in protective suits, gloves, masks, and booties, were taking photos and samples from the old red carpet. Keith Chen, ME, wore a white hazmat suit and knelt beside the victim. He glanced up as the two approached.

Neil, I’m surprised to see you. It’s been since, what? Upton’s election celebration? Ah, he must have sent you here.

Have you gathered everything you need? Neil asked Dr. Chen.

Yes, you can get a closer look.

Neil