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    The Ferguson Murder
    The Ferguson Murder
    The Ferguson Murder
    Ebook123 pages1 hour

    The Ferguson Murder

    By Wayne Greenough

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    About this ebook

    The standard private eye gimmick in Hollywood is to have a gorgeous blonde breathing minted mouth perfume at a downbeat detective as she asks him to handle a problem only he can solve.

    Real detectives are never lucky enough to get that type of client. That is until now. And she’s standing in front of my desk. I’m Thanet Blake, Private Detective.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereXtasy Books Inc
    Release dateSep 29, 2012
    ISBN9781771112789
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      Book preview

      The Ferguson Murder - Wayne Greenough

      If you’re deep in sleaze, see Thanet Blake, Private Detective.

      The standard private eye gimmick in Hollywood is to have a gorgeous blonde breathing minted mouth perfume at a downbeat detective as she asks him to handle a problem only he can solve.

      Real detectives are never lucky enough to get that type of client. That is until now. And she’s standing in front of my desk. I’m Thanet Blake, Private Detective.

      The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

      Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      The Ferguson Murder

      Copyright © 2012 Wayne Greenough

      ISBN: 978-1-77111-278-9

      Cover art by Carmen Waters

      All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

      Published by Devine Destinies

      An imprint of eXtasy Books

      Look for us online at:

      www.devinedestinies.com

      Smashwords Edition

      The Ferguson Murder

      Private Detective Murders 1

      By

      Wayne Greenough

      For my wife, June who is so nice she puts up with me. Thank you, my dear.

      Thanks go to the following

      My computer expert, Darragha Foster, who assures me that what little I wrote about computer hypnosis is frighteningly possible. And to Wayne Doane, thanks for your expertise on the weapons used by my characters.

      Chapter One

      A sign on my desk reads, There Is No Intelligent Life on the Planet Earth. Don’t Land Here.

      The sign is right. It’s a mean world full of mean mindless people. Okay, so I don’t understand the human race, we do seem to be a commodity of no value. Everywhere, people are killing people and nobody seems to care enough to stop the continuous slaughter. A year ago, the world situation became too much for me. I unhooked the cable from my television and told the cable company to cancel my subscription. I stopped reading newspapers. I do my damndest to hide from reality. However, because my body demands food, drink, and cigarettes, I have an occupation.

      I’m Thanet Blake, Private Detective, and like every shamus, dick, peeper, whatever you might want to call me, I have memories, some good, some not so good, and some damned scary.

      It was Wednesday, my birthday. I had become officially thirty-five years old when my wall clock chimed three times. I was very busy sucking on a rye bottle, smoking my favorite brand and singing, If the ocean were whiskey and I was a duck, I would dive to the bottom and never come up. I couldn’t remember the rest of the song so I sang happy-birthday-to-me and mumbled, To hell with the murderous human race. Give me the isolation of an asteroid miner.

      She didn’t walk into my office. She appeared right after the air became electrified. In the movies, all blondes are goddess-lovely and have green eyes that hypnotize your soul. The vision smiling in my direction had both of those highly desirable qualities. I eyeballed the designer jeans molded to a figure that would cause a century old man to shed eight decades, a T-shirt that hid nothing, and athletic shoes. In addition, I did wonder about my soul.

      Are you Thanet Arthur Blake, the Private Investigator?

      Her voice was husky and sensuous, one you could listen to all day, and hardly wait to hear her say spend the night with me. It could launch ships, melt steel, and talk me into anything. I remember thinking that my friend, Police Officer Lieutenant Gilhoolie, usually pulled a gag on my birthday and this one was a real ripsnorter, a blonde and a private detective. The blonde would, of course, ask the detective to solve a desperate problem as her eyes batted seductively and her breasts bounced like two dribbling basketballs. I managed not to laugh. I couldn’t stop a wise-ass smile as I decided to play along with Gilhoolie’s birthday gag.

      Yeah, I’m Blake, I said and accidentally belched a rye. The sign on the door should say so unless my landlord changed it. He does that when I haven’t paid the rent, which is this month. Then I become Lousy Deadbeat Private Dickhead.

      She gave me a bewildered look, brushed the dust from the chair in front of my desk, and sat down. I want to hire you, she said.

      This time, I couldn’t stop my laughter before saying, You’re good, lady. Where did Lieutenant Gilhoolie rent you? She opened her mouth to speak. I raised my right hand and said, Say no more. I’m a year closer to old age today and in no mood for gags."

      She closed her mouth and I dialed police headquarters. The chain of command, starting at the bottom and working upward, stalled for about two minutes before I finally got whom I wanted.

      Happy Birthday, Thanet.

      Yeah, I said. I’m sitting at my desk and staring at the birthday present you sent me. How come she didn’t pop out of a cake? And where are the chains, the whips and leather outfit? It’s an old Hollywood formula, Gilhoolie, a gorgeous blonde hiring a downbeat dick to handle a desperate problem that only he can solve. Anyway, she is quite a present and I thank you.

      Gilhoolie began laughing loud enough to vibrate down a brick building. It took him a full minute before he could talk.

      She’s a client, Thanet. However, if you want to make her into a present, go ahead. This year, I’m just sending you a birthday card.

      I hung up the phone and went speechless, which is a rarity for me. I did eventually manage to mumble my embarrassment by saying, You’re a for real client.

      She smiled and nodded. I could tell she was politely holding back laughter.

      My last client died in a car crash before I received my final fee from him, and because of that, I had a flat wallet. However, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take on another case. I was sick of the human rottenness I always uncovered.

      I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, and I doubly apologize for my extremely rude phone call. Tell me your name and why you want to hire me.

      You knew my father, Monroe Ferguson. I’m Drusilla Ferguson.

      I took a hard look at her face. She didn’t resemble Monroe Ferguson. I didn’t like him.

      His collecting ethics didn’t agree with mine. Was Drusilla like him, a borderline crook? My gut feeling told me that she wasn’t. I knew I had to find out. I reached in my desk and pulled out a pack of breath mints. I’ve been drinking rye whiskey and smoking cigarettes all day. I apologize for my belching and smell.

      She smiled. I could use a mint to hide my onion soup lunch, she said.

      Ladies first, I said, hoping politeness would excuse my previous bad behavior. She took a mint. I took two before saying, Several people told me how your father ended. That’s a tough way to go

      Surprise lashed her face. "Are you saying you never read about him in the Head Liner, or saw the television specials? Father was big news. The King of Memorabilia dies in a fire. The collecting world mourns and will never recover from his death. Why, the reporters haven’t had so much fun since their cameras caught the President in a White House bathroom with his one thousand dollar slacks down to his shoes."

      I smiled at that one and said, I agree. Reporters and buzzards are the same. They circle around waiting for their next victim. I don’t have a television that’s hooked up to cable. And I try not to read a newspaper. I find I cannot live with the sadness of the world so I stick my head in the sand. That’s enough about me, though. You said you wanted to hire me because I knew your father. That’s hardly a reason. What else?

      I want my father’s killer caught, Mr. Blake.

      She stopped talking and looked at my moving fingers, then said, Go ahead and smoke.

      I pressed my hands flat on my desk and laughed. Smoking is one of my bad habits, I said. One I should control. I bet your habits are good ones.

      She smiled and didn’t say anything. I shoved a smoke in my kisser, searched in all my pockets for a stick match, found one, struck it on my desk top

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