Justified: The Sandeen Mysteries, Book Four

CHAPTER 1

Wednesday, mid-morning

I was having a day so filled with boredom there wasn't room for anything else. I'd shut down my espresso shop more than a year ago, but thanks to my generous and fondly remembered grandfather, I still had lots of money. I wasn't writing a book because I didn't have anything to write about. One of my friends had died recently and I hadn't been invited to his memorial service. It was only for the immediate family. His passing had taken the wind out of the group of septuagenarian gossips and gadabouts who had inexplicably included me in their weekly meetings of mind and opinion, even though they were all decades older than me.

After checking the clock—nine-forty-five on a hot August morning—I checked the calendar to remind myself it was Wednesday. I'd crawled out of bed at eight—after some raucous prompting by my alarm—and engaged in a ninety-minute workout. Half an hour on the treadmill, half an hour on the weights, and another half-hour stretching and balancing on a large, inflatable plastic ball. A quick shave and shower followed, and I was ready for the world.

But what to do with it?

Maybe breakfast?

Okay, make it brunch because wherever I chose, I wouldn't be eating before ten. As I started for the the stairs, content with my plan of action, my phone played the first few notes of Hotel California. Caller ID said the call was from Elaine McClelland, my attorney and literary agent.

Sandeen, I said, reflexively. She'd called my number. Who else would answer?

Busy? she asked. I wanted to tell her the truth, but knew better.

I can fit you into my hectic schedule, I said. What's up?

I want to talk with you regarding one of my clients.

It sounds interesting. When?

Soonest?

I was just headed for the IHOP. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? I asked.

How about I buy you breakfast? she countered.

If she was willing to spring for breakfast, she really wanted something from me. She also knew curiosity was my greatest weakness. See you in ten?

Meet you there. She clicked off and I headed down the stairs and across the alley to my garage. Inside, I had to make a choice. Ignoring the three newer cars, I picked the metallic green '69 Mustang fastback, hopped in, buttoned the overhead door open, and thundered out into the alley. I barely remembered to remote the door closed in my haste to spend a few minutes with the exquisite woman who also happened to be my ex-main squeeze.

My Mustang wasn't original—even though it was titled as a '69 model. A guy I knew had built it with an all-new body, a lot of '70 underpinning, and a five-liter crate engine with a four-speed transmission. Then he'd added four-wheel Brembo disk brakes, vastly improved the steering and suspension, painted it metallic green with lots of clear coat, reupholstered it in beige leather, and tired of it immediately because he liked building classic cars more than driving them. I bought it for about ten percent more than a fair price because he knew how much I wanted the car. For all the expense, it turned heads, and I usually drove it with the idea of giving admirers plenty of time to enjoy it.

Elaine preferred classic Corvettes—she had three—and when I arrived at the restaurant, I saw she was driving the jet-black '63 split-window coupe she'd picked up in an estate sale a few months earlier.

Lookin' good, I said as soon as I got out. She stood near the front of her car looking great in a dark blue suit with the skirt cut just above the knee, a white silk blouse, a three-strand gold necklace I'd bought her when we were a couple, and leather pumps exactly the color of her suit. Her briefcase was smooth black leather.

Let's go inside, she said in her perfectly modulated contralto. I looked around. The parking lot was half-empty. Maybe we wouldn't have to wait for a table.

I followed her, having a bit of trouble keeping up. My left knee—where I'd been shot twice—was giving me twinges, and I figured the restaurant would still be around when I got there. Elaine noticed and slowed her pace.

Problems with the knee?

Gettin' old, I said with a wink.

Maybe I should hold the door for you, Grandpa.

I scoffed. That'll be the day. I played gentleman and held the door. Inside, we were escorted to a booth overlooking the parking lot. The hostess handed us menus and asked if we wanted coffee.

We did.

While we were waiting for the coffee to be delivered, Elaine said, I have a new client. I wondered if you'd be interested in snooping around a bit?

Snoop? I gave her a questioning look. I'm not a detective. Remember?

She kept smiling. We were a long way from serious negotiations. But you are a writer. Or as you've told certain officers of the law, an investigative journalist.

I scoffed. I haven't written a word in months. It's either writer's block or maybe I don't give a damn anymore.

She leaned forward. Don't you have books available for sale? I almost didn't answer because I caught a whiff of her perfume and had a hormone attack.

When I found my voice, I said, "I have books for sale from when I used to be a writer."

She shook her head. Her lustrous hair shimmered. "You are a writer. You're just on hiatus."

Just then, our coffees arrived. The waitress asked, Know whatcha' want?

Coffee's all I'll need, Elaine said.

Stack of wheats, side of ham, big OJ, I said. The waitress nodded, wrote our order on her pad, and went about other business.

What's this about? I asked.

She smiled some more. She knew she was ahead on points. I have a new client who says his wife got in her car a few months ago, drove off to go shopping, and never returned. As far as anyone knows, he was the last person to see her alive.

I rested my chin on my right hand. Hmmm. The ol' missing-wife syndrome. How could I not be interested?

She laughed at my idiocy and then got serious. My friend, this one's custom made for you.

I'm listening, I said.

"My client assures me he hasn't seen or spoken with his wife since she drove away. After the mandatory waiting period, he filed a missing-person report with the city police. Their investigation was by the book and they found no evidence of foul play. After all this time, it's become a very cold case."

I tried the coffee before I asked, Why would I get involved in this?

You're over your writer's block. You can't wait to write another book. Good grief. Had she become Obi Wan Kenobi?

My former publisher was not happy when my last book didn't sell through the advance, I grumbled.

She curved her right thumb and forefinger into a big goose egg. Your publisher didn't spend a cent promoting your book. What did she expect?

I could have answered the question at length—but chose not to. When I wasn't selling books, Elaine wasn't getting a commission. She also knew many of the dirty little secrets of the industry.

Why should I write a book if I can't get it published?

There are other publishers. There's also self-publishing. You've given up too quickly.

I don't know. I drank some more coffee. So what's the rest of it? You're holding out on me.

She sighed before saying, There's a possibility my client may be indicted for the murder of his wife.

What? Where's the corpse? Where's the evidence of foul play?

Missing. Just like the wife.

Doesn't the local prosecutor have enough to do? How do you charge someone with murder without hard evidence?

She finger-combed her hair back. It brought back memories. They made me giddy. You don't, she said. Unless you have a wealthy and connected aunt pushing for an indictment and then a conviction.

Okay. What's the guy's name?

Curtis Redfield.

What does he do? I asked.

He owns several used car lots.

I wondered why I didn't know him. What do you want me to do?

Just what you normally do. Find his wife or learn her fate. If the prosecutor decides to run with this, he or she has a fairly hard sell for a jury. The problem is, other men have been successfully prosecuted for the murder of a wife based entirely on, 'Well, he must have done it, and hidden the body where no one could find it.' I don't want to let such a thing happen to my client.

Right. I finished my coffee. Where the heck was my break-fast?

You look unsettled, she said.

I shook my head. Just hungry. I'd had a good workout just before you called. It's late in the morning and I need breakfast.

She looked to her left and smiled. Our waitress is on her way with your grub, bub.

The food suddenly appeared in front of me. Elaine made sure she snagged the check. The financial aspect settled, I could enjoy my meal.

&&&&

Out in the parking lot, I said, I'll need access to your client.

She stopped for a moment. When do you want to talk to him?

You say he owns car lots. Tell him to choose one and meet me this afternoon at two. And tell him I want the VIN of the car his wife took and at least two of her most recent photographs.

A job for Boris? she asked.

I thought about her pet hacker, cracker, and netspionage expert—a shadowy figure I'd never met and probably would never meet. Sometimes, I wondered if he really existed, or if Boris was the name of a service catering to people who could pay dearly for hard-to-get information.

If the car exists, a VIN search will tell me if she's registered the car at a new address. Boris can handle it far better than I can. But if the car no longer exists, it gets a lot more difficult.

She got in her Corvette. I saw a flash of sculpted leg. Hot memories flooded my brain. Call me when you set it up. Don't tell your client anything more than necessary about me. I don't want him preparing defenses.

I'll tell him what you do. Dress like Clark Kent Convince him you really are a writer and I'm on the level.

Good idea. I closed her door, she started the engine, and I grinned at the roar of a barely-muffled V-8. When she rolled out onto Wanamaker, she popped a bit of tire smoke as she shifted to second. Someday, she'd grow up, but I hoped it wouldn't be on my watch.

CHAPTER 2

Wednesday, early afternoon

My destination was definitely not a glitter lot. More like a run down at the wheels lot. I couldn't see anything worth buying unless someone was desperate for private transportation. It was the reason I didn't know Redfield. Parking near the office, I checked my watch and then got out. I'd arrived two minutes early.

A medium-sized, middle-aged guy stepped out to greet me. Fair-complexioned with light brown hair, carrying maybe an extra fifteen pounds—and all of it at his waist—he wore brown slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a dark red tie with an ugly print. His choice of shoes—black New Balance joggers—told me he had sore feet or no sense of business attire.

Curtis Redfield? I asked.

He nodded and stuck out a limp, clammy hand. You must be Mr. Sandeen. He had a flat, midwestern accent wallowing around in a scratchy tenor.

I shook his hand and said, I was told you might have a few minutes in which we could have a conversation.

Sure. C'mon. Inside, Redfield told a young man in an ugly brown sport coat and an even uglier tie he was responsible for the lot, and the two of us would be tied up for a while. Then Redfield led the way into a private office and offered me a soft drink and a chair. I accepted both.

My lawyer called. She says you write books about people who've disappeared and you might be able to help me out.

I nodded. It's possible.

He played with a pen that had been lying on his desk. She said sometimes the people you look for turn out to be dead.

It's been known to happen.