All Books Free 
All Books Free
Note that the Kindle & iPad versions can be found on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0050O7XII
Timothy Gilbert
zoomaster09@yahoo.com
First two chapters of my new book
The world may hate liars, cheaters and thieves, but not this gal. I have a job because of them. My name is Jackie Blue and I live east of East LA.
“That’s it, come to papa,” I muttered while shooting six pictures with my Sony Cybershot of Ronald Johansen playing golf with his buddies.
Dumb move by Ronald, who supposedly had what he and his doctors called a messed up spine due to a one story fall at a construction site near the LA airport. This joker had been receiving workers comp pay for seven months for that ‘injury’.
A bug landed on my head as I lay underneath a bush about 40 yards from Ronald’s group on the 16th tee. My scent from no shower that morning wasn’t too bad but maybe the bug thought differently. A black dog suddenly bolted across the fairway and spotted me under the bush. He stood over the bush and began to bark excitedly.
“That’s enough for today,” I whispered to myself.
I slithered out from the bush and sprinted across the 15th hole with the dog chasing for a hundred or so yards. Welcome to my sexy, wildly exciting life at its peak. The dramatic moment of six pictures needed several days of research of this yahoo, spent mostly in my thirteen year old Honda Accord.
I am a 26 year old investigator mainly dealing with folks who are cheating on their insurance. When these companies need someone to crawl under a bush or climb a tree to catch the cheaters, they call me. It keeps me busy almost every day, but, like I said, it’s pretty boring work. I live at Sunshine Trailer Park at 9563 East Garvey Avenue in South El Monte, CA. My trailer is owned by Alonsa Barbosa and his wife, Teresita, a sweet old couple who loves to have me over for dinner at their trailer down the street. Always the best meal of the week for me.
It started to rain a little, so I tucked my camera under my sweatshirt and began to dart toward my Honda in the parking lot. The car started making some funky noise this morning and I knew it was only a matter of time before the No Money God and I would have a little talk. My monthly rent on the trailer is $495 and most months I’m short. Damn.
My cell began to buzz as I started up the Honda. It was Rocky Venezuela, a probation officer for the LA County Courts.
“Rocky, what up, girl?”
She and I had been friends since 16 and I offered my investigative services to her on a few occasions. Given that judges are so busy these days, Rocky is charged with striking deals with smaller crimes like domestic abuse, drunk driving and small profile white collar crimes.
“Crappy, crappy day,” Rocky nearly shouted into the phone. “A guy that stole a few hundred thousand from a software company agreed to a prison deal I set up yesterday.”
“Okay…”
“Well, it was late in the day and the judge had already left…”
“So, he couldn’t approve your deal,” I filled in.
“Right… so, since he was out on bail, he left for the night with instructions to report to the court the next morning.”
“So, what happened?” I asked. “He not show?”
“Yeah, he disappeared,” Rocky responded. “Police found nothing in his condo around 9am this morning.”
“Did the company whack him for stealin’ the dough?”
“Nobody heard or saw anything…the police have zero clues,” Rocky whined. “Can ya go over to this guy’s house and check things out?”
“Hon, I’m no bounty hunter,” I let her know. “Hey, maybe they’ll assign Hugh to the case.”
Hugh was a very effective bounty hunter and we dated pretty intensely awhile back until he cheated on me and I told him to go to hell. We still see each other out and about in our line of work. Last month, I was investigating a guy up in Woodland Hills who got arrested and skipped on his bail all while I was looking at him for fraud. Hugh and I bumped into each other inside the guy’s house.
“I know that, silly!” Rocky yelled into the phone. “The guy was acting kind of cocky yesterday, though…like four years in prison wasn’t a big deal. I just can’t shake the feeling that the money wasn’t the only thing he stole.”
After graduation, Rocky became a stripper at Flamingo’s for a year until a gun went off in the club one evening and she saw the light. I couldn’t have been more proud of her for that, though it was kinda funny that she ended up in law enforcement. She lives on Brocton Avenue in West LA in an apartment building where UCLA students live, so every Friday night, we are out on her patio to check out the hotties.
“Was the money ever recovered?” I wanted to know as I made a reckless lane change.
“Only about thirty thousand,” Rocky told me.
“Hey, are we still on for drinks at your place?”
“Ya bet…I’ll see ya at six.”
We hung up and I zoomed out of the parking lot. My cell buzzed again and produced an unknown number.
“Jackie Blue,” I announced.
“Ms. Blue, Jim Collins here.”
Jim Collins was my boss at Allstar Insurance, one of the four insurance companies I do business with.
“Mr. Collins, how are ya?”
“Good, good…listen we have a jewelry theft project you need to look at.”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “That sounds good.”
This was a new area, maybe more lucrative than workers comp fraud, but also sounding like a ‘find it’ project which was totally new to me.
“Okay. I’ll send you the file, but it’s pretty basic stuff. Mr. Stewart claims that $1.1 million of diamonds was stolen at his house last month and we need you to find it. We can stall payment to this guy for another month or two, but beyond that, we have to pay him. You need to dive into Mr. Stewart’s life. Heck, start dating him, I don’t care.”
“Should I interview him?” I asked while dropping my sunglasses on the floor.
“We’ve talked with Mr. Stewart twice through our official channels. But we need you to do whatever you have to do to get these jewels back. I shouldn’t say anything more, but you get what I mean.”
I gulped. “What’s the address?”
“879 South Bundy, just off Wilshire,” Jim informed me. “Andy Stewart is the guy’s name.”
“Okay, I’ll keep ya posted.”
Do what I had to do? That sounded illegal and dangerous. Not that I had a problem with that, but I didn’t even own a gun. When I saw the number on my cell I thought it belonged to Lucy, my 19 year old kid sister who I was trying my best to put through college. She would be the first Blue family member to graduate from college, so I wasn’t going to let her down. Rocky had been pressing me to ask my insurance bosses for more challenging projects like expensive, high profile cases that would involve less hiding in bushes.
The house seemed like a logical place to start, to make an introduction to Andy’s life. I had to dig deep into this guy, know every routine, down to when and where he takes a crap each day. His job, what he looks like, relatives, career history, recreational activities, friends, college, bank account size – I had to have it all.
I hopped onto the 10 and made my way to West LA. Traffic is always such a bitch anywhere in LA, but I managed to find the condo in 25 minutes. The number was painted on the curb, which was a good thing because overgrown brush and palm trees blocked most of the view of the condo from the street.
My Uncle Lou had showed me how to pick a door lock when I was nine, a lesson that came in handy a few times year. I carried what looked like large tweezers in my glove compartment for just such an occasion.
I followed the sunken walkway around the side of the house and noticed a small, low lying deck with access to the condo’s first floor. White stucco and black shutters were the notable features of the structure and something on the property smelled like fresh paint.
Knocking loudly on the deck door, I listened for anyone inside. My heart was beating like a mad man on crack. Another knock…no sound. The deck door felt remarkably flimsy and may have given in with a swift kick, but a loud noise was something to avoid. I worked the lock and entered the condo in under a minute. Not a record, but close.
Inside, all the drapes were closed and the place reeked of cigarettes. Holding my stun gun out, I flung on the lights to find the place surprisingly clean and orderly. No clear signs of a break in. The deck door lock wasn’t damaged and the molding looked unscarred. A large painting of a naked woman hung over the fireplace and kinda fit with the art deco furniture. It was one of those paintings where it seemed like the woman was staring at me no matter where I was in the room. The drapes covering the windows were dark maroon colored and clashed with practically everything in the living room. Not that I’m the queen of interior design by any stretch, but it sure didn’t look like this guy was wealthy enough to hold over a million bucks of jewels. The interior also sported two huge bear rugs in the main living room and the hallway to the kitchen. It was a two story condo, with me entering the first story. This was the main living area. The basement looked like a game room, except there were no games, no furniture or anything. The furnace and water softener were in a small closet which I inspected. Then it was back upstairs, where I figured I’d start in the kitchen. A toaster was the only thing on the white counters and the near bare fridge held just a half filled grapefruit juice container and a package of cheese sticks. A cabinet in the island contained three pots and two pans. I saw a phone jack, but no phone or modem. Actually, I couldn’t find a modem anywhere in the house. How could he not have web access?
Finally, something interesting: the drawer underneath the island had Val Pak coupons, two magazine solicitations, and water and cable bills postmarked three weeks ago. The strange thing was the name in the envelope windows of the two bills: Robert Larson. Who was that? Andy’s roommate? Hot steamin’ lover?
Nothing else in the kitchen caught my attention, so I decided to look upstairs where the bedrooms were. One of the rooms was decked out in LA Dodger colors, logos and posters. All boy, right? The closet was bare as was the dresser, but the bed was made. The other bedroom was empty with light pink curtains. Time to move on to the master bedroom down the hallway as master closets sometimes have attic storage. A good place to hide ‘stolen’ jewels. A wedding picture of a man and a woman, both in their 20s, hung above the master bed. I stared at the picture for about thirty seconds. The young man had bleach blond hair and looked to be about 5’11. He also had a small gap between his upper two front teeth. The woman featured brunet hair and a very strong tan. Standing five or six inches shorter than her groom, she didn’t match the naked lady painting above the fireplace.
I found the closet on the other side of the room from the hallway door. The door opened into the closet and would hardly move as something seemed to be blocking it. I opened it as much as possible and squeezed inside to hit the light. A body was staring right at me on the floor. A middle aged woman with a bullet hole in the forehead. Unable to even shriek, a guttural wail came out of me that would scare Ozzy Osbourne. It really would. I squeezed back outside and sprinted out of the room. Only then did I realize I had sharted. Damn.
Having just received a promotion of sorts from Jim Collins, I was left with a dead body in the bedroom and a mess in my pants. But, I was a big girl, so I sucked in some smoke odored air and found the master bathroom, where the usual toiletries lay in the drawers; I was happy to see toilet paper.
After inspecting the bathroom, I decided to take a few photos of the dead woman. I am no coroner, but she looked pretty fresh. And she wasn’t the lady in the photo above the bed or the painting in the living room.
As I suspected, the master bedroom closet had attic storage with ladder access. The light from the closet let just enough light into the attic that I could see entire emptiness. Nothing, nada, zippo. There were roughly 10 casual shirts hanging in the closet, as well as four pairs of pants and one suit. One of the shirts had an Evergreen Corporation logo on it. Maybe that’s where Andy worked. I’d hafta check that out later.
“That would have been too easy to find the diamonds here,” I muttered to myself.
Clearly, I couldn’t stay too long with a dead body in the house, but I had no intention of calling the police. Not for now at least. Maybe tomorrow. I left through the deck door, locked it, and walked back down the stone path to my car. If I decided to defraud an insurance company over expensive jewelry, I wouldn’t leave it in the house. I needed a different approach.
The dead woman aside, not much in that house told me really anything about Andy Stewart. Maybe he worked at Evergreen Corporation, though he could have gotten that shirt anywhere. The place felt like it was a part time home, but the cigarette odor smelled fresh. And at least two people had been in that condo in the last 24 hours: the dead woman and her killer. Andy Stewart and Robert Larson...just what was this relationship? If it was a gay thing, why have a picture of you and your bride above the bed? Same thing if Andy was divorced. That’s the last thing he’d want over his bed. At least I had a good idea what Andy looked like. If he was the one in the picture, that is. Crap, I didn’t know anything!
It was 4:40 in the afternoon and I decided I’d wait for an hour to see if anybody showed at the house. My cell phone found the number for the Evergreen Corporation in Santa Monica, ten minutes away.
“Yes, may I speak with Andy Stewart, please?” I asked the receptionist.
Just as I was saying this, two guys pulled up in a black SUV. They were arguing mightily about something, I could tell. Andy Stewart was not one of them. My car was across the street and one house down. From this vantage point, I could see the driveway through an opening in the heavy brush. The SUV pulled into the driveway and stopped before the garage. Both men came out of the car, still arguing, and entered the condo through the same deck door I had used. One of the men, bald and portly, was holding an empty hockey equipment bag. The other guy had dark slicked back hair and a goatee. He had a key to the house…maybe he was Robert Larson. I thought about shouting out, “Hey, Robert!”, but that might’ve gotten me shot at. They both looked like they were packing serious heat.
“Andy Stewart,” the voice in the phone said.
I panicked and hung up my cell. What the hell could I say to the guy? I got what I wanted to know which was that he was alive and he did work at the Evergreen Corporation. Should I have told him that there were two thugs in his house right then? Maybe, but my job was not to be sweet and nice.
Ten minutes later, the two guys emerged from the condo, carrying both ends of a now full hockey bag. They were no longer arguing. The bald one opened the back of the SUV and the stuffed bag was thrown into the back. They took off toward Wilshire Blvd. At this point, it seemed to me that one of the dudes shot the lady and went off to find help in dumping the body where it couldn’t be found. One of them had to be Robert Larson. Sure, it was possible that Robert came home to find the body, meaning somebody else shot the lady. But, then he would’ve called the cops and there were no cops in sight. My head was spinning at this point; I needed a beer.
The knock on my driver side window nearly scared the crap out of me again. It was an old lady, so I stepped out of the car.
“Hon, are you lost? You’ve been sitting here for a while…”
“No, no,” I responded. “I heard there might be a house coming up for rent on this street and I just wanted to sit and take in everything here.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “My name is Kay…I live five houses down that way. This is a lovely neighborhood.”
As Kay pointed up Bundy, I was praying she didn’t ask me which house I was targeting. Kay had short cropped white hair that she kept sort of spiked up at the top and she was wearing a US Army T shirt and shorts. Mid 60’s she looked. Probably a runner.
“Kay, it was a pleasure, but I need to take this call,” I said while putting the cell to my ear and faking an inbound call.
Kay smiled and walked back toward her house. I thought about asking her about Andy’s house. Just who was living there, I wanted to know. She seemed like the kind of person that would be all over that information. Neighborhood busybody. But keeping the conversation going was too dangerous. Simple as that.
