DAY ONE

 

Chapter 1

 

At one-thirty in the afternoon, the sun in late June fills the Central Florida sky with blinding neon, forcing motorists and pedestrians to scramble for awnings, beach umbrellas, baseball caps, heavily tinted windows, and polarized sunglasses.

Orange Avenue, loud and just as chaotic as it was two hours earlier, when I'd left my office for an early lunch, remained chaotic with constant bumper-to-bumper traffic.

I usually don't take two hours for lunch, but the morning had dragged on like a half-smashed cockroach. Rather than sit at my desk, waiting for a prospective client to pop on in, I decided to get up for a change of scenery. Besides, I hadn't had much breakfast, and my empty stomach was irritating me even more than my empty office.

Smilin' Susie's, my favorite breakfast eatery, had recently hired a new waitress, who turned out to be a babe. Everyone who knows me will tell you that I've always been a sucker for new babes. Now that I'm thinking about it, even used babes have been known to make me act like a clueless idiot.

This new waitress, however, was hands-off. The sad fact was that she truly was a babe, with everything going for her-long, flowing blond hair, big blue eyes, dimples, and a body with enough curves to make any guy lose his equilibrium. Her calves looked great in spite of the white orthopedic shoes she wore. To make matters worse, her name tag said Miranda-a name most guys dream about.

Everything about her was sexy, classy, and top of the line.

The deal-breaker was the huge glittering rock she wore on the third finger of her left hand.

In other words, breakfast was great despite the frustration of dealing with a waitress I couldn't even flirt with.

Just one block away, my tiny office, where I run my one-man detective agency, awaited my return. It was normally a three-minute walk. However, on this particular occasion, I knew even before I reached the end of the block that my trip back was going to take slightly longer than three minutes.

A rental car filled with foreigners had stopped abruptly at the curb right in front of me.

It's irritating when a vehicle stops right in front of you, blocking your way. It's also irritating when its passengers are all chattering away loudly at you, and even worse when they're doing it in a foreign language. I've lived in Florida most of my life and have heard just about every known language in the civilized world, but I had no earthly idea where this batch was from. They were all yelling at once--which made this even more frustrating. I couldn't tell anything about them by their clothes--tourists usually dress as if they'd just crawled out of a Goodwill donation box. Both sexes wore tank tops and bright-colored shorts. I also saw giant-rimmed sunglasses beneath their visors and two Mickey Mouse hats. A heavy cloud of B.O. mixed with cigarettes, coffee and cheap aftershave gushed out through the open window.

I knew better than try out my old high school French. Last year, when I was approached by a Frenchman, I tried giving him directions to Disney in French. He immediately stormed off, ranting in his own language, and flipping me the bird. Later that evening, when I consulted Google Translate to check out what I'd really said, I discovered that I'd mispronounced a few words, used the wrong verbs, and put the sentence in the wrong order. I'd actually told him that I wanted to disgrace myself in his pocket.

A few months ago, I tried the same thing with a tourist in his native Spanish. When he tried running me over with his rental, I knew I must have messed up again. Consulting the translate site once again, I found out that I'd told him his sister liked to watch me blow my nose.

Since then, I decided to just listen and see what turned up. When I heard them blurt out a familiar word or two, I quickly discovered that this case would be fairly easy. "Diss-nee" was one of the obvious clues. "Oonee-versai Shtoo-dios" also clearly suggested the source of their dilemma.

However, the long line of traffic waiting nervously behind them warned me of impending doom, suggesting I handle this problem as quickly as possible. Many of the drivers had already begun tapping their horns and yelling loudly. Since the yelling penetrating the atmosphere was in English, I had no problem understanding. Things were about to get ugly.

The tourists continued chattering away, eager to get to their destination. I'd been in this situation many times before. With most tourists, you don't have to say anything. All you have to do is point. They're usually so excited and in so much of a hurry that they'll zip away long before you've finished trying to help them.

I made a few quick gestures with my hands, pointing straight ahead, toward the south. I then held up three fingers and flicked my right thumb to my right, indicating west.

My instincts quickly proved right-on. The driver grinned and nodded eagerly. They all yelled "danke!" and "merci!" simultaneously. The driver raised his arm and waved, and another pungent miasma of B.O. swept toward me. The rental car squeaked away from the curb and slipped recklessly through the red light amidst another chorus of angry honking.

Satisfied peace had just been restored, I sighed in relief. Despite the two dozen or so frustrated drivers all caught helplessly at the red light, life could resume.

I stepped down from the curb and crossed the street.

A couple of minutes later, I reached my block. The strip mall buzzed with activity in front of the liquor store one door down, the Chinese restaurant on the far side of the building, and the tee shirt shop on the other side of my office. Only one vehicle was parked in front of my place. That was, of course, my classic black '75 TransAm. As I approached the heavy glass door, the three empty chairs lined up against my storefront window warned me of another quiet, unprofitable afternoon. But as soon as I pulled the door open, I saw that my office wasn't quite empty.

A female with a shock of fiery red hair sat at my desk, watching me curiously.

***

Under normal circumstances, I should have welcomed the intrusion.

After all, I hadn't had a client in two weeks. Coming back from lunch and finding a prospective client in my office should be a good thing. Especially when the prospective client happened to be a cute redhead.

However, this wasn't the case. The cute redhead sitting in my chair was no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

I've never been a great fan of kids. They were always loud and unruly, and walked around angry all the time. I'd never wanted kids and was grateful that my ex-wife Phil never wanted any, either. I hadn't liked being around them since I was a kid myself and saw no fondness for them as I grew older.

It was no wonder that I found it difficult to keep from grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, picking her up and tossing her outside.

Knowing that would most likely get me arrested, I tried staring her down. It worked for some, especially when I used my squinty-eyed, Clint Eastwood technique. However, others just weren't smart enough to get the message. They'd ask if something was wrong with my eyes-or if I needed glasses.

In this case, she stared back at me for a little while. Then she said, "Got something in your eye?"

I decided right then that I should try a more sensible tactic.

"Like some coffee?"

She wrinkled her nose.

"How about a drink?"

She gawked at me as if I were some laboratory experiment that had gone bad. "I'm fourteen."

She obviously didn't catch the irony. I reminded myself that my brilliant wit was oftentimes lost on less gifted individuals. I wasn't surprised in this instance. The last couple of generations had turned out a batch of strange, often clueless individuals who seemed to zone out automatically when dealing with actual people. If you weren't one of their Facebook friends or a name in their address book, they looked at you as if cockroaches were crawling out of your ears.

In any event, she hadn't scored any points with me. And the fact that she was sitting at my desk didn't exactly make me want to add her to my Christmas card list-even if I had one.

"I don't know if you're aware of this, but you're in my seat."

She regarded me curiously, as someone would watch some alien micro-organism swimming around in a test tube. She didn't get up, and I could tell she had no intention of doing so.

I had to convince her I was serious. She was a cute kid, with the biggest blue eyes I'd ever seen. Judging by her thick red hair and pretty face, I was confident she'd turn into a genuine babe in just a couple of years.

But she wasn't a babe right now, and that realization alone brought me to my senses. She was a bratty kid sitting where she shouldn't be sitting and daring me to do something about it.

Whether she knew it or not, she'd come to the wrong place and was showing her butt to the wrong guy. Since I hadn't been able to drum up any business in a while, I was in no mood for bullshit--especially from a skinny midget with big blue eyes, great hair, and a bad attitude.

Even so, I decided to put my frustration aside for the moment and try a more civilized approach. "Like I just said, you're in my seat. I'd really appreciate it if you stopped what you were doing and got out of it."

Still no reply.

"Listen...I don't know what you're doing here, but like I just said--"

"I came to tell you about a possible crime."

Her statement stopped me right in my tracks. That simple explanation hadn't occurred to me. I'd been so focused on her invading my personal space that I never once considered why she'd come here in the first place.

"Really?" I knew that sounded kind of lame, but she'd caught me off-guard, and I found that I was at a loss for words.

"You're a detective, aren'tcha?"

"That's what the sign says on the door..."

Those big blue eyes drifted down my shirt before climbing back up to my face. If she'd been fifteen years older, I would have enjoyed the once-over.

But she wasn't fifteen years older--she was a little girl. Someone's daughter. She was just a scrawny little kid barely in high school. I probably had scars older than she was.

It was time to get down to business. I jabbed a thumb at the chair facing the desk. "You really need to be sitting in that chair."

"Why?"

Damn, she was irritating... "Listen...and try to absorb this. This is my office and that's my desk. I might sound a little old-fashioned, but while I'm sitting there, it kind of makes me feel like I'm the one in charge-get it?"

"Isn't the person hiring you the one in charge?"

"You're really pushing my buttons, girl..."

She didn't reply right off, but I could tell she was thinking up a good zinger.

"You really haven't told me the actual reason why you came here, have you?"

"I just said I did. Weren't you listening?"

"Yeah. I had my listening ears on. I even had them plugged in."

"Then why don't you believe me?"

"You've been busting my chops ever since I came back."

"Why? Because I'm sitting in your stupid chair?"

"Yeah, because of that. And by the way, don't say anything bad about my chair. She and I go way back."

"She? Seriously?"

"He would sound weird-don't you think?"

She didn't reply. I think I was beginning to confuse her.

"So...now that we've got everything straightened out, you can leave and go find someone else to antagonize."

She crossed her arms over her skinny chest and glared. "Name one reason why you don't believe me."

"You're too young."

"What's that have to do with anything?"

"I don't trust kids."

"Weren't you a kid once?"

"That's why I don't trust them."

"Figures..."

"If you really came here to report a crime, you would've already done it by now. You wouldn't be sitting in my chair, arguing with me..."

"Why else would I be here?" She looked around. "It's not exactly a cool place to be, ya know. You don't have a TV. You don't even have a cold drink or snack machine for someone to use while they wait for you to come back from your super long lunch. And unless you're a dweeb that likes watching traffic, the view isn't exactly first-rate, either."

I wouldn't have believed it possible, but she was getting even more irritating. I began wondering who I'd pissed off lately. It would take much too long to go through the complete list. Pissing off people was what I did, and I did it well. I considered myself an expert. But I wasn't in the mood for this. "I must have pissed off someone bad enough for them to send over a bratty kid as a practical joke..."

"You're really cold, Mister..."

"I get that a lot."

She finally got up and circled the desk. She went over to the chair and plopped down. She wasn't quite five feet tall and weighed maybe eighty pounds. She wore faded jeans and a turquoise tank top with a batch of glittering silver stars on the back, and her bushy red hair was tied in a thick ponytail ending a couple of inches below her shoulder blades. A cluster of tiny freckles peppered her cheekbones, but you couldn't see them unless you were really close. She really was pretty. I figured she'd be a knockout in two or three years.

But judging by her manner and her attitude, I didn't think she'd make it.

She shrugged. "Better?"

"I don't feel like doing a cartwheel or breaking out in a chorus of Kumbaya, but yeah, I'm reasonably satisfied." I sat down and pushed my chair closer. She'd moved my pen and doodle pad a couple of inches from their usual place on the blotter. I didn't like people touching my stuff, but I repositioned them silently, without making nasty faces or even giving her a quick glare.

"You always take two hours for lunch?"

"Listen, kid--"

"It's almost two." She glanced at the clock on the wall to my right. "I got here just after one. I've been waiting ever since."

"I had a slow morning. I needed a change of scenery."

"You should've left a note or something."

Now she was making me feel guilty for being out of the office. I thought once again about tossing her out into the street. This time, I smiled at the image.

"What's so funny?"

No need to tell her what I was thinking.

"Listen. Kid... You need to show a little respect when you talk to grownups."

"I hear that a lot--usually from my dad."

"You should pay attention to him."

"So...where were you for two hours?"

"Kid, you're too damned young to be judging people. Once you're old enough to venture out on your own, then you can start your own business and take as long as you like for lunch."

"You could've missed out on other clients while you were gone so long..."

"Kid, don't you have to be anywhere else right now? School, maybe? Boot camp, perhaps?"

"Boot camp?"

"I'm just grasping at straws."

"Why Boot camp?"

"It's where kids go when-"

"I know what it is. I'm not out of control. And school's been out for over a week. And by the way, I'm Tabby--not kid."

"Is that short for Tabitha?"

"No one calls me that."

"Tabby? Or Tabitha?"

"I just said--"

"Listen...Tabitha--"

"Tabby..."

"Whatever. I'm going to ask you this once again, and this time I don't want any bull, all right?"

"You can say bullshit. I've heard it a zillion times before. My dad uses it. My mom, too-especially when she's pissed."

"Watch your language. Just tell me why you're here so you can go. I've got stuff to do."

She watched me for a few moments and frowned. "How old are you?"

"What?"

"They keep telling me people get hard of hearing when they reach a certain age."

"For your information, I've heard every damned word you've said, thank you very much."

"Then why do you keep asking me why I'm here even after I keep telling you why I'm here?"

"Let me say it once more and leave it at that: I don't believe you're here to report a crime."

"But it's true."

"You're really here to report a crime?"

"Yeah."

"A real crime?"

She sent over another glare. "You mean, did I see a crime actually happen? Or am I imagining it?"

Her directness caught me off-guard. This girl was gonna cause a bunch of problems for a bunch of people when she started out on her own. "I didn't say that, but yeah, that explanation'll do."