Frisky Business: T. J. O'Sullivan Series, #4

By Larry Darter

Frisky Business is a gripping tale of danger, deception, and determination, as T. J. O'Sullivan takes on a missing person case that leads her down a dark and treacherous path. With twists and turns that will keep readers on the edge of their seats, this novel is a thrilling ride through the seedy underbelly of Honolulu. Join T. J. as she navigates a dangerous world of crime and corruption, facing off against powerful adversaries with nothing but her wits and determination to guide her. Will she survive the deadly game she's been thrust into? Find out in Frisky Business.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Darter
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224542710

Larry Darter

Larry Darter is an American author best known for his crime fiction novels written about the fictional private detective Malone. He is a former U.S. Army infantry officer, and a retired law enforcement officer. He lives with his family in Oklahoma.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He was a tall, thin young guy outfitted in full Western attire. His blue plaid shirt had the curved stylized yoke on the front and back, dual chest pockets with pointed flaps, and pearl-snap closures down the front. The dark-washed, pressed cowboy-cut jeans had creases like knife edges. The shiny brown leather boots had distinctive pointed toes and moderately high heels. He sat on the edge of the visitor chair in front of my desk, nervously rotating the wide flat brim of the tall, rounded crown black felt hat through his fingertips. He looked quite like the blokes I’d seen working on my uncle’s cattle station in the Queensland wop wops when my mum and dad had taken me across the ditch to Oz when I’d been a wee girl. Since that was my frame of reference for cowboy garb, I mistook him for an Aussie until he opened his mouth to speak. He meandered around his consonants and lingered over his vowels until they seemed to stretch on forever. His accent, decidedly American Southern, differed in that it had more of a flat, nasal twang. I’d known a guy from Texas once when I’d lived in Los Angeles and readily recognized this guy’s Texas drawl.

So, how much do you charge for your services, Miz O’Sullivan? he asked shyly.

I wished he’d stop preceding my name that way, as Miz to me was accepted slang for miserable.

What is it I’m meant to do for you?

Well, you see, ma’am, I need some help to find my sister. I’ve been to big cities and all plenty of times, but this Honolulu is about as close to what I’ve seen before to nothin’ as you can get without fallin’ in. I’ve looked for her for almost a week. But then I told myself, you ain’t gettin’ nowhere. You may think you are. But you ain’t.

You’re sister has gone missing, then? Here in Honolulu?

Yes, ma’am.

Perhaps you should have a word to the police about it.

Oh, no, ma’am. You see, back in Abilene, we’re the kind who saddle our own broncs. We don’t go a-runnin’ to the police with every little thing. And this is a right delicate matter.

Yeah, right. Then we might start with your name, perhaps.

I’m Carroll Mitchell, ma’am, from Abilene, Texas.

And, what is your sister’s name?

Barbara Jean Mitchell.

He’d said Barbara Jean like it was all one name.

When did you last see Barbara Jean?

Mercy, it must be goin’ on five years now.

Your sister went missing five years ago? I asked in astonishment.

Oh, no, ma’am. You said when did I last see Barbara Jean, not when did she go missin’.

Ah, right. So, when did your sister go missing, then?"

He stared at me for a moment, still turning the hat round and round.

If I have to tell my family affairs to a total stranger, ma’am, I at least have the right to know what you charge, he said, blushing ever so slightly. It’s all very confidential, private business."

All right, sure, I said. Three hundred a day plus expenses,

Mitchell looked shocked. I—I beg your pardon. That’s a mite more than I expected.

What is the going rate for private investigators in Abilene, Texas? I asked.

We ain’t got no private detectives in Abilene. Just regular police. That is, I don’t think we do. I expect you probably have to go to Dallas or somewhere like that to find one.

So, what did you expect to pay?

Mitchell stopped twirling the hat and squeezed the edges of the brim with his fingertips hard.

I couldn’t possibly afford more than two hundred dollars. I’m not on no vacation. I’ve got to buy my meals here, and my hotel is awful expensive.

So, you traveled here to Honolulu to look for your sister?

No, ma’am. You see, I met this fella in Las Vegas at the National Finals Rodeo. He’s a bootmaker and offered to sponsor me to ride in the Makawao Rodeo over on that island they call Maui. You know, so that I could advertise his boots a little while I was there. That fella is looking to expand his boot business. So anyway, he paid for my airplane ticket, the entry fee, and my room and board. I accepted that fella’s offer because I wanted the chance to visit my sister. But after the rodeo, since I came here to look for Barbara Jean, I’m hauling my own freight.

So you haven’t got heaps of money?

No, ma’am. All I’ve got is what’s left of the prize money I won riding bulls in that rodeo, but it seems rodeos are sort of a novelty here. They don’t pay the prize money they do back in Texas.

You ride bulls? Is that a sport? I thought people in Texas rode horses.

Well, yes, we do when we’re working stock and such. But some, like me, ride bulls in rodeos. It ain’t only a sport. It’s how I earn my living.

So you’re a performer?

I suppose you could say it that way. But, anyway, ma’am, I thought you being a detective and all, you could find Barbara Jean right away. That’s why I reckoned two hundred dollars would do it.

I nodded. All right, but let’s return to the question I asked earlier. When did Barbara Jean turn up missing?

He thought for a moment and frowned. Then he studied my face as if making up his mind.

It isn’t like Barbara Jean not to write to us regular. But, she only wrote three times to mama and twice to me in the last six months. And the last letter came two months ago.

I see.

Aren’t you going to write this down? Mitchell asked. I thought detectives wrote notes down in those little notebooks.

In the event you tell me anything useful, I’m happy to take notes, Mr. Mitchell.

Shucks, ma’am, you can call me Carroll. Everyone does.

Right, I’m happy to call you Carroll if you will stop calling me ma’am.

Mitchell seemed taken aback, but then nodded. Yes, ma’am.

I gritted my teeth. Do you have a photo of Barbara Jean? I asked.

Mitchell brightened. Yes, ma’am, he said, squirming on the chair for a moment before producing a long leather wallet from his hip pocket. He looked through it for a moment and then took out a photo and placed it on my desk.

I looked at it. It was a good snap of a beautiful young woman in her mid-twenties. She had a pale, milky innocence and bright blue eyes, thin and somewhat frail-looking.

She was twenty-three last February. Barbara Jean has straight light brown hair, much lighter than mine, and keeps her hair shoulder length. She’s five feet seven and weighs no more than about one hundred and twenty pounds. She’s sort of bony.

What brought her to Honolulu?

You see, ma’am, we belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Mitchell said. Barbara Jean was real smart in school, and Brigham Young University here in Hawaii gave her a scholarship. So she came here for her schooling to learn how to become a news reporter.

Five years ago?

Yes, ma’am.

So, did she complete her education, or is she still attending uni?

She graduated last year. Then Barbara Jean found work here and stayed on in Honolulu.

As a journo?

A what, ma’am?

Um…news presenter, reporter?

Oh, no, ma’am. That’s what Barbara Jean was studying, but she took a job with some kind of movie company by the name of FB Entertainment. Some fella offered her the job the year she graduated. Barbara Jean wrote to us the job was a perfect fit for her talents.

What does she do there?

Barbara Jean never said exactly. I expect she must help with the filmin’. She’s always liked takin’ pictures. Mama bought her an expensive camera when Barbara Jean was in high school helpin’ on the school paper. One of those digital cameras with a powerful lens you can take pictures with in any kind of light. She liked takin’ pictures of people, even when sometimes it made them mad. But Barbara Jean says folks should see themselves the way they really are.

I still had taken no notes.

You mentioned letters, I said. Do you have an address for your sister?

I’ve already been there, Mitchell said. She’s moved. It was just a cheap rooming house, and I didn’t care for the manager at all. He said she moved a few weeks ago, and he didn’t know or care where. All he cared about was drinkin’ his liquor and smokin’ his cigarettes. I don’t know what Barbara Jean was doin’ livin’ in a place like that.

How about her place of employment? Did you enquire there?

Never found it, Mitchell said. I asked the fella on the desk at my hotel if he could look it up on his computer. He tried. But there wasn’t any listing, not even a phone number. And, I tried her phone number as soon as I hit Maui, but it’s disconnected.

I had a bad feeling about the kind of film company Barbara Jean Mitchell might have taken employment with and doubted she was working behind a camera."

It sounds as if your sister isn’t missing, actually, I said. It seems more like she has moved house, and you just don’t know where. And you’re afraid she might have taken a partner, and she’s living a life of sin somewhere.

For goodness sakes, ma’am, Mitchell said. I don’t think nothing of the kind about Barbara Jean. She ain’t that kind of girl. I’m a little worried, that’s all. She might have had an accident or somethin’.

If it were anything like that, you would already know, I said. Most people have identification on them. So if your sister had an accident, the authorities would have contacted you and your mum.

Mitchell gave me a sour look that was not too admiring.

Are you trying to discourage me from lookin’ for Barbara Jean? Mitchell said.

If so, I’m getting nowhere fast, I said. What do you think happened?

I guess if I knew that, ma’am, I wouldn’t be here askin’ you to help me find her.

I’m getting it, I said. In a family like yours, a religious family, someone in it is always the black sheep.

Mitchell shook his head vigorously. If you’re sayin’ Barbara Jean has done something wrong, I’m here to tell you she’s not the black sheep of our family.

I sighed. What about Barbara Jean’s habits? I said. What does she like to do for fun—besides not drinking, smoking cigarettes, or going about with men?

Mitchell gave me a surprised look. How did you know that?

Your mum told me.

He smiled. I was wondering if he had one in him.

Mostly Barbara goes to church stuff and likes takin’ pictures.

Did she take this one? I said, holding up the snap from his wallet.

Oh no. Loretta took that one. A girl I dated for a while.

What happened to Loretta?

She’s still in Abilene. He looked away. Mama doesn’t like Loretta much. I guess you know how that is.

Yes, I said. I know how it is.

All right, I said. Let me have Barbara Jean’s last address. I’ll go there and have a word to the manager."

I told you, Barbara Jean moved, and the manager said—

I held up my hand for silence. I know, but I need a place to make a start. And I might persuade the manager to tell me more than he told you.

Okay, Mitchell said. He gave me the address.

Carroll, prepare yourself, I said. I knew a girl back home from school. She came from a religious family. Her parents were very strict. When she was a teen, she rebelled against her dad and mum’s austere life. I think Barbara Jean may be doing the same, out here alone in Honolulu, and she doesn’t want her family to know about it. But she’ll likely set things right when she’s ready.

Mitchell stared at me for a moment in silence. Then he shook his head. No, Barbara Jean ain’t the type to do that, Miz O’Sullivan.

Anyone is, I said. Especially a young woman like Barbara Jean. She’s a small town pious type of girl who lived her entire life with mum on her neck and a church holding her hand. Out here, she’s lonely. She wants to experience a little sweetness and light, and not the kind you find in a church.

Mitchell listened silently.

So she starts to play, I continued, but she doesn’t know how to play. That takes experience too. Perhaps she’s found a partner she gets on with and maybe has drinks sometimes. Not that I have anything against that. Barbara Jean is going on twenty-four, and even if she is rolling in what you and your mum regard as the gutter, that’s her business. She’ll find someone to blame it on after a while, and maybe she will return to what she was before.

I hate to believe you, Miz O’Sullivan, Mitchell said slowly. I’d hate for mama—

I interrupted. I’d try to help Carroll if I could, but I was tired of hearing about the Mitchell family’s views on life.

You mentioned something about two hundred dollars.

He looked shocked. Do I have to pay now?

I know you aren’t the type that goes to see private investigators, usually, I said. But, yeah, that’s the custom here.

Mitchell nodded and probed the wallet he still held in his hands and took from it several bills—all neat and separate—eight twenties, three tens, a five, and five ones, and counted out the money on the desk. There seemed little left. He held the wallet so I could see how empty it was. Then he shuffled the bills into a neat pile, one on top of the other, and pushed them across the desk—very slowly, very sadly, like he was saying goodbye to old friends.

I wrote out a receipt and gave it to him, along with my business card.

Call me anytime, I said. My office and mobile numbers are there on the card.

I looked up at the clock on the wall. It said ten o’clock.

Call me in the arvo after five, if you like. I might have something by then. Or, I might not.

Mitchell stood up. I hope mama won’t think I’ve done wrong, he said. Hiring a private detective, I mean.

Just don’t tell your mum about it, I said. Leave that part out.

He blushed a little.

Thank you, Miz O’Sullivan, he said. Then he turned quickly and walked to the office door. There he put on the hat and went out."

I didn’t know why I’d accepted the assignment. Maybe I was bored of having nothing to do. Perhaps I was a bit too soft-hearted and couldn’t say no. But I’d taken his hard-earned two hundred dollars, and that seemed like far more money than he had left. So I’d spend the rest of the day doing my best to find out the whereabouts of Barbara Jean Mitchell. I put the money into an envelope, wrote Carroll Mitchell on the outside, and then dropped it into a desk drawer. I didn’t care to risk running about Honolulu with such a fortune on me."

Chapter 2

You could know Honolulu quite well without knowing Karratti Road, a street in the scenic Makiki-Lower Punchbowl-Tantalus neighborhood, which boasted views of the picturesque Punchbowl tuff cone and the Tantalus Lookout Puu Ualakaa State Park. But I reckoned no one in the neighborhood, or elsewhere on Karratti Lane, boasted about the sad-looking collection