One

ONE

by David Nivala

Copyright © 2009 David Nivala

Published by MagikWandMedia at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved.

No part of this ebook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

Cover Design: Reid Tregoning

MagikWandMedia

Editor: Alex Mitchell

Acknowledgements

Thanks to all my family members for supporting me in this venture. Both Reid Tregoning (publisher) and Alex Mitchell helped make this book see the light of day. To my friends who shared the journey - thanks.

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The Scene

The phone rang at 1:00am one Sunday morning in June. I do not like early morning phone calls; in my book, early mornings were designed for sleep. It must have been about the fifth ring before I was able to reach over and pick up my cell phone. A, little later I mumbled something into the phone. The noise coming out of that device was almost out of this world. The caller was obviously wide awake - talking, babbling and crying at a hundred miles an hour. It took a few moments to realize who the caller was. She was an acquaintance from some years ago, whom I had met during my music studies. She was telling me how she had found a body, a naked dead body, in her house. My first impulse was to tell her to call the police, but she was way ahead of me. She had already called them, and they were there with her, doing what police do, looking, poking and asking questions. In an effort to gather her senses, she had asked if she could call someone to be with her. She lived alone and didn't have any close friends nearby. She called me, although I didn't really know why, as I hardly knew her and lived about an hour's drive away. She had been a very popular girl in College. I first suggested that I come to her house the next morning after breakfast. However, she insisted that I drive down straight away, as she would not be able to sleep, and neither would I after what she told me in between sobs and sniffles. I agreed to go immediately; I was a sucker for the crying female. She told me her address - number 1 First Avenue.

Not being sure how long I would be there, I grabbed my one week pre-packed bag, just in case. It was a small travel bag with wheels and it was ideal as cabin baggage on a plane. It had been a gift from a past client, for helping with a neighborly dispute about fences and trees. I had an array of pre-packed bags ready to go if I was called out to a case. After all, I did run an investigations practice. Only being in the business for less than a year, I had had a lot of time to work out strategies for dealing with emergencies, like travel at short notice, evacuation and a whole lot of other things. None of my preparations had yet proved to be necessary. Business was a little slow in my line of work, since the police in my area had lifted their training requirements for officers and they were really doing a great job. The jobs I received tended to be either too routine for the police or a little offbeat. Perhaps this case would be the start that my fledgling business needed. I liked to plan, so this call and the need to travel urgently had me in a slightly grumpy mood. Not to worry, I thought, an hour of driving would allow me to reflect on the phone call. I could also reflect on the caller. I picked up my bag, took the lift to the parking lot and headed out to Sheila's place.

The drive to Sheila's house was uneventful except for the sight of a police chase as I left the city. Although I enjoy driving, I do not particularly enjoy driving at night. I don't want to end up as a road statistic, so I usually take regular breaks. Since this trip was only going to be about an hour, I had taken an iced coffee and a diet coke from the fridge. I had the iced coffee on the way. It was not difficult to spot the place, as the police were still there with their car lights flashing. One of the many aspects of police work that I don't understand was leaving flashing lights on stationery vehicles. Why do they have to leave all their lights on when they park? Surely, with the energy crisis they would switch them off when they arrive. Nevertheless, I was silently grateful, because I rarely needed to use my GPS to find a location when the police were about. Three police cars were there, so I presumed there would be between six and nine officers at the scene. Usually when the police but no other emergency vehicles were still at a crime scene a couple of hours after discovery, there was a lot of investigating still going on.

It looked like a typical suburban house, probably four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a double garage. The house was split-level in design with a basement where the heaters and laundry would be located. The grass on the front lawn had been trimmed recently, most likely yesterday or the day before, as I could smell the fresh grass clippings. The driveway leading to the garages was patterned concrete, but with an unusual theme - musical instruments had been stencilled into the concrete. One did not have to think hard to realize that the owner of this house may be a musician. There was a path on either side of the house, also of concrete but not with any color or stencilling. All the front windows were closed and the front door beckoned. I always try to take a first impression of my surroundings, and imagine how I would leave un-noticed in a hurry should the need arise. I could think of no reason to leave quickly from here, but there was sufficient space to get around either side of the house. I checked my microphone and turned it on. It was connected wirelessly to my cell phone. All conversations were recorded on the cell phone and simultaneously transmitted to my server. In my line of work, people always share words and in the old days, copious quantities of notes were written and then transcribed onto cards. I was blessed with technology and I exploited it as much as I could. All conversations I had were recorded, usually with the knowledge of at least one other participant. My voice recognition software then transcribed the conversation into text, which I occasionally printed off, but there was less and less need for that. Both the voice recording and text were stored in a large database. The database compared voices, sounds and phrases in a way that the human ear and mind could not do easily or quickly. Earlier in the year, I was able to link two terror suspects to the one organization, simply by identifying common phrases. The database I had developed gave me a point of difference in the investigating market place. I had thought on a number of occasions, that I should perhaps take greater precautions with my equipment should someone take umbrage to being recorded. They may attempt to damage my equipment or even me. I am not brave enough to protect a cell phone with my life. I also had a battery-operated printer in the car that connected to the cell phone with the older but reliable long-range Bluetooth technology. The printer was always turned on so I could print to it from almost anywhere.

Going to a job in a new police precinct was always a challenge, as they see me as an interloper. So this time I intended to simply introduce myself as Sheila's friend. Entering the house was easy. After I introduced myself to the police officer inside the front door, I just walked in. They seemed to know I was coming. Inside, the musical theme was everywhere. A saxophone shaped couch sat in the corner, the light fittings hanging from the ceiling looked like semi-quavers and every now and then, there was a thin, white vertical line painted on the walls. Even though I moonlighted as a piano player in B-grade drinking houses and associated with a number of musicians, I had never seen so much musical memorabilia in one place. Even the wallpaper in the dining room had musical notes. I could never imagine decorating a house this way.

To the right was a sofa where Sheila sat, holding a small white cat. Sitting talking with Sheila was a small police officer, with another officer watching from the side. I had noticed this often when one police officer talks gently with a person and another watches the body language from a little further away. The police were still taking notes with a pen. Perhaps the authorities were not yet convinced on the use of technology - I simply could not do my work without it. There was no dead body in the living room; the only things that looked out of order were a vase in the entry, which had fallen over and an upturned coffee table. It looked to me as though someone had just stumbled in the dark and knocked over a few items.

Sheila noticed me and jumped up from the sofa to rush over with a big hug and kiss. I had wished many years ago for a welcome like this but we weren't very close then. She had been smitten by another musician, who turned out to be a no hoper. Sheila looked much the same as I remembered her, except her eyes looked tired. She was still slim and wore a pair of stretch denim jeans and a tight red knitted top that hugged her body beautifully. She was a very attractive woman. She told me how great it was that I had come on such short notice and hoped I would be able to help her in this sordid business. She didn't seem anywhere near as sad as she had on the phone earlier in the morning. The police officer acknowledged me and I assumed they had calmed her down, reassuring her that the culprit would indeed be apprehended.

There was an awkward moment after the 'great to see you' phase passed, where I thought I should start a conversation. I asked Sheila how she was coping and what had happened. The police officer immediately interrupted, saying that the interview would be over soon so perhaps I could wait. I heard Sheila say a couple of times that she had no idea who the naked dead man was; although she agreed it was strange that there were no male clothes in the house. The police would be carrying out interviews with neighbors to ascertain if they had seen anything. I asked if I could see the crime scene, and was told clearly that the police forensic team and photographers were still there so I could not go in. In fact, the police officer told me quite politely that I would not be able to see the scene at all. In this jurisdiction, after a place was designated a crime scene, no-one else other than the police could view the scene until it was cleared. Perhaps this directive was one of those new measures that had been introduced to make an investigator's life a little more difficult. I showed a small degree of annoyance, but deep down I was pleased, as I do get a little queasy at the sight of dead bodies. I would much rather be with the living. I wondered if the police officer really knew what my profession was.

After about half an hour, Sheila gave the police officer her contact details and she was then told that she was free to go. They advised Sheila that she would need to move out of her house for the time being, as the police would need to stay there for at least another day or two. The police officer went to join her colleagues at the crime scene. Sheila told me again what happened. The body of a naked man was in her bathroom, facedown with a knife embedded in his back and a large quantity of blood on the floor. I asked if she had seen any blood on the walls or door but she couldn't remember any details like that. She wanted me to take her somewhere else as the house now frightened her. All she needed to do was to collect a few other things from her bedroom. The police mentioned again not to go into the bathroom. It took her a little while to pack and when she emerged, she had two large suitcases. If the suitcases had been mine, they would have contained all my clothes and half my other possessions. She must have realized what I was thinking and mentioned that she only packed a few things. She asked me to take the bags to the car, and I looked back to see her coming out with yet another suitcase as well as an assortment of smaller bags, which apparently contained musical instruments.

She looked ridiculous, so I laughed and commented, Lucky you don't play the piano. She did not find this funny at all, and suggested that I go and get the rest of her bags. I asked where she wanted to go and she replied, Take me to your place, please, then added, Then I can tell you what I think happened.

Oh no, I thought, not another amateur sleuth! At least she had asked politely, but I wondered how this would go with my neighbors. I live on the first floor of an eleven-story building with paper thin walls. My neighbors would go ballistic as soon as she started tuning her flute, guitar, viola and whatever other instruments she had packed. They had already made me move my piano to a friend's house, so I now practiced on an electric piano with earphones. It just wasn't the same as the Bechstein grand piano.

The main culprit was Mrs Pepperoni, a lovely woman who sent me a fresh lasagne every now and then and refused to take payment. She said she did it because You are a good boy, but I thought it was because she was nosy. I did sometimes wonder about her husband Luigi, and their three sons, Luigi, Pablo and Fred, who were all built like Sherman tanks. They all seemed to work odd hours, coming and going randomly throughout the day and night.

Sheila said she had nowhere else to go and couldn't trust anyone. I thought this was a strange thing to say, when she had discovered a crime and was pleading innocence. I started to wonder if there was going to be any income in this for me at all or just some free accommodation for Sheila. Not that everything revolved around money, but I had found on numerous occasions that it does help, and usually a lot. Sheila asked me to wait while she let the police know she was going. She returned and seemed to be in a cheerier mood, telling me she had given them her contact details as well as my home and cell phone numbers, home address and email address. How did she know all my contact details? We had not seen each other for many years. I made a mental note to ask her about this later. It seemed that I had little choice now but to take Sheila home with me.

She would call her neighbor in the morning to ask her to feed the cat. The cat was named Beethoven after a movie about a dog. There must be some logic to that; perhaps it was musician's logic. It was a little before 4:00am when we left her musical home and headed for my humble abode.

That was how I started my first real case with the simply stunning Sheila Griffen.

Almost immediately, Sheila asked to stop for coffee at one of the service centres. She bought a latte for herself, a chai latte for me and paid for the gas refill. I used a mid-range fuel in the small BMW, because I felt it drove more quietly. My mechanic, Michael, had told me that the fuel type made no difference to the engine noise and the feeling was simply in my head. I didn't care for his appraisal so I dismissed it as a misunderstanding. My car was a fifteen year old light green BMW. I had bought it the previous year from a dealer who had claimed that it had been a 'one owner' car. I found this statement was technically correct, the one owner had been a large company and the car was used as a pool car. I didn't really look after the outside of the car - cleaning it