The Price For Harmony: The Duke Bradley Mystery Series, #2

Foreword

JEFFREY INVITED ME to create a foreword for this book, which I'm honored to do. So before you dive headfirst into this latest DUKE BRADLEY, PRIVATE EYE mystery, please indulge me by allowing me to give you an idea of what you're getting into.

Perhaps you've heard that Jeffrey's stories are noir mysteries, a la Elmore Leonard; or that they're of the hardboiled variety, along the lines of Mike Hammer or Sam Spade; or that they're like the crime fiction of Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett, or the whodunit detective fiction epitomized by Sherlock Holmes and subsequent incarnations of that ilk, or like a psychological thriller. The list of potential subgenres goes on and on, the distinctions between them often blurring and spiraling into pedantry.

Well, the shortlist for Jeffrey's tales, as you might have guessed, is all of the above, to varying degrees. They're certainly not cozy mysteries, in case you'd fleetingly entertained that thought, nor are they pure procedurals. And they're not strictly noir, since the protagonist is a detective rather than a victim, suspect, or perpetrator. But there are elements of urban noir in these stories, as evidenced by a focus on the underbelly of life in a typical city, and echoes of the American noir of crime writers like James Ellroy. And Duke is a traditionally flawed, self-destructive, and cynical noir/hardboiled character.

But though he's broke, disgraced, and an alcoholic, he's unique in being a reforming one who understands his addiction and is tending to vegetarianism and Eastern mysticism these days. And he has a partner, the lovely, and loving, Special Agent Shriya Thakur of the FBI, who's instrumental both in helping him garner reward money from cold-case homicides, and in shining some much-needed light on his gray corner of the world - gray being the key word here.

The overall tone of this story is not entirely one of pessimism and disillusionment. Akron, Ohio isn't a completely dark town in Jeffrey's world - rather, it's shades of gray; and unlike many other mysteries in the above subgenres, there's always the hint of a light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how bleak things may look at any given time. This isn't the lose-lose, black-and-white setting of most dark mysteries; it's simply gray, as Life generally is when you get right down to it.

So, that's the skinny. And now that you've been forewarned, are you ready to ride with Duke as he unravels another seemingly unsolvable mystery and learns THE PRICE FOR HARMONY? It won't always be a pleasant trip, given that Duke's process is like that of a crow worrying at roadkill, and due to the disturbing subculture that the unfortunate victim dabbled in; and things don't always go Duke's way. But enough of them ultimately do to make this, shall we say, Gray Mystery a satisfying trek - and there is light at the end of the tunnel. Enjoy the journey!

Garrett Dennis

Author of the Storm Ketchum Adventures series of Outer Banks mysteries.

Prologue

There was a peaceful corrosion about him. His hairline was a little different than it used to be, receding only in specific places, and in others it remained where it had started, but wiry. His skin was loose, wrinkled, and had turned yellow. And even though he hadn't breathed a drunken breath in over twenty-five years, his liver was failing. He knew it, and he didn’t care. There was nothing he could do about it. Might as well care about the phases of Callisto, the eighth moon of Jupiter. He knew as much about it as he did about livers. All he knew is that he needed one to live, and his had already bought the ticket for the midnight ferry.

The day before his sixty-third birthday, his wife died. He knew it was coming and so did she. He didn’t much care about that either. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He could only accept it. He realized, as he watched her close her eyes for the final curtain, that he wasn’t as tough as everyone said he was. He’d just learned acceptance. At any rate, he’d never cried for her. Not once in the last three days. And he accepted that, too.

It was Thursday and they’d promised rain, but a voodoo curse of sun mixed with drizzle burned off by noon and the July day was as it normally is. Hot. He came out of the front door to the funeral parlor and kicked around the idea of going left, but he knew he had to take a right. So that’s what he did. He had taken enough lefts in his life.

I WAS WAITING FOR HIM in front of the 99-cent store. There were plenty of people milling around, so it wasn’t going to be a private rendezvous. We didn't make eye contact as he got closer. He had this way of walking with his head low and shoulders square, but he could still keep aware of everything going on around him. Two tours in Viet Nam had taught him to have eleven extra sets of eyes that never closed. I knew he saw me. And I knew he knew I saw him.

When he got about three feet from me, he slipped his hand inside his suit coat. I stood firm and adjusted my hat. I was taller than he was, but his chiseled chin and biceps that strained against his sleeves told me he could still take me. All of a sudden I was eleven years old again.

Hey, Dad, I said like I had just gotten home from baseball practice.

He pulled a white envelope from his inside pocket and stuck it in my hand. For a mere second we made eye contact. I took the envelope and felt the thick skin of his fingers.

I said hey, Dad.

I heard you, and don’t ‘hey Dad’ me. You gave up your ‘hey Dad’ privileges six years ago, John Marion.

Dad, come on, call me Duke.

And you call me Mr. Bradley, or sir. I have earned it.

I lowered my eyes. Yes, sir.

The only reason I even agreed to meet up with you is to give you that envelope your mother wanted you to have, he said. And don’t get too excited, there’s no money in it.

Yes, sir, I said.

Nothing has changed. We don’t talk. If you come to the funeral tomorrow, you can sit in the back or on the other side. Don’t get any romantic ideas about being a pallbearer, your sister's husband will —

I’m not coming, I told him.

He chuckled. Well, I would expect that. Planning on a good bender?

No, sir, I don’t drink anymore. Been over two years. I’m going to a meeting right now.

He blew a quick wisp of air through his teeth. Meetings. And what do you do at your meetings? Cry on each other’s shoulder? You know I did a lot of hard drinking after the war, remember?

Yes, sir.

And one day I said that's enough and quit. Just got up one morning and didn't drink. I didn’t need to go to any meetings and cry about it.

I didn’t say anything. He stared at me with his dark brown eyes on fire. Lines and wrinkles crisscrossing around the outside. He always had these... looks. This way of making me feel ashamed with just one glance. I’d rather get hit in the kisser with a sack of nickels than get one of those looks.

Dad, listen, I’m sorry for what I did.

Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’ve had enough of your lame-ass excuses. You pushed a gun into my mouth, John Marion.

I know, I know, I’m sorry. I was drunk. How can I make amends for —

You can’t. His eyes narrowed and his chest filled with air. You’re a grade-A disgrace. You not only disgraced me and your mother, but the FBI, your country, and the flag that I fought to protect. At least Julia had the sense to drop you like a bad habit.

Ah Jesus, Dad, can’t we —

No, we can’t do anything. I’m going to go this way and you go the other way. And what did I tell you about calling me Dad? Your sister’s the only one who can call me Dad. She did something with her life.

At this point, I knew this confrontation was over. He was a tough old-timer and nothing was going to change his mind. For six years I’d rehearsed every line, every word of what I would spit out if we ever went face-to-face again. I didn’t get a Chinaman’s chance to utter a syllable of it and I didn’t want to anymore. Besides, I was getting late for my meeting and had six blocks to cover on foot to get there. I shoved the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans and took a slide to the left to clear his path.

He took two steps, then stopped and looked me square in the pupils. Goodbye, John Marion.

I adjusted my coconut-straw fedora again and gave him a half-smile. Yeah, take it easy, doc. And you can call me Duke. Duke Bradley, Private Eye. I've earned it.

One

Seven months after I shot and killed Vinnie Torlino in self-defense, the city of Akron got this new assistant chief prosecutor who had it in for me. Now this guy, Robert Wells, is a special kind of jerk. He convinced the suits in the ivory tower to let him reopen the investigation of the Torlino incident, even though I’d been cleared of any charges. He liked to toss around the term ‘Vigilante Justice’. Apparently he got wind of the medical examiner's opinion that Torlino would have sucked air for another twenty to thirty minutes after I stuck my slim jim in his throat. Plenty of time to get him to a hospital. And that he was probably no longer a threat before I plugged him with his own bullet. I told Wells to bring it on. Because I’m here to tell you that I’m not a vigilante. I’m a private eye. Duke Bradley, Private Eye.

I didn’t have time for that jerk. I had other balls in the air. The three-minute egg of fame I’d enjoyed after bringing down that human trafficking circus was gone, and the five grand reward I got from the FBI for solving the Karen Linford murder had already evaporated. Cases were tapering off and I’d just gotten stiffed on a skip trace by a landlord looking for a tenant who went on the lam. Found the guy in less than a day, then waited two to report it just to make it look good. Then all I got was stories and excuses instead of payment. Things were getting hairy in a hurry.

That's when I met Harmony Bane. She was young, Gothic, and dead. Just twenty years old, she’d been sliced up, gutted, and stuffed into the trunk of her own car like a hunted deer. The Harmony Bane murder is one of the strangest cases I’ve ever agreed to take on. And it taught me a little about acceptance.

It was 8:10 p.m. on a sticky-warm July night. I walked out of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, where I’d been attending my regular Thursday night AA meeting. I didn’t feel much like sticking around for punch and cookie time. With this new prosecutor looking up my dress and my lack of real cases, I wasn’t the greatest company.

The sun was just starting to set and the traffic on West Market Street was down to a trickle. Typical summer night in Akron, Ohio. One that hangs on to the heat of the day, but can still put a chill down your spine. I smoked half a cigarette, then hopped the bus going downtown. My Taurus was in the shop.

As we got close to Main Street, I pulled the cord and got off. I decided to take the long walk home. I had to spill out some of the nonsense that was rattling around in my noggin, and walking is great meditation.

I finished the other half of my cigarette and flicked the butt into the waterway that runs along Canal Street, then made my turn onto Main. I was heading to my regular bodega for a pack of smokes and some lottery tickets. At 8:37 p.m. the cell phone Shriya got me started cock-a-doodle-dooing. I wanted to change that ringtone, but I didn’t know how and Shriya wouldn’t show me. So for the meantime I was stuck with the rooster.

Now, I have a hell of a time with that cell phone. My fingers are too thick for the buttons, and every time I try to use the damn thing I end up pressing 3 or 7 or emergency call. This time was no different. At long last, I was able to answer it. It was Special Agent Shriya Thakur, FBI, on the other end.

Hey Duke, how was your meeting?

I love her furry British accent.

Nothing new. Twelve ways to not drink, I reported. What’s up, doc?

Don’t call me doc, she said. I’ve got one you might be interested in.

You have two I’m interested in.

It’s a case, Duke. Six years cold. She ignored my innuendo. I’ve already got my director's permission to bring you in on it, if you’re still willing to work for the possibility of collecting the reward money like you did on the Karen Linford case.

Honestly, it depends. If the reward is good I’m in. If not, I have to focus on —

Twenty thousand.

She sang my favorite song.

Shriya, my love, I’m all yours. What’s the case?

Her name was Harmony. Harmony – wait — Harmony Bane. What do you know about Satan?

I was married to his sister for awhile, I said and switched ears. Now I rent an office from his love child. Why do you ask?

They’re saying this is some sort of Satanic cult slaying. Could be right up your alley.

How’s the file? I asked.

Well, she started with a fluttery high pitch. It’s light. Never any suspects. No credible witnesses, she said carefully, then added, but there’s an evidence box.

I thought it over for a minute just to let her stew. I heard her breath in the receiver.

Sure, what the hell. No harm in having a look at it. Bring it on by and we’ll see what we can figure out.

Should I bring wine? she asked.

Funny. Just grab a veggie pizza. Extra olives, green and black, I said.

I know what you like, Duke.

Good, then you’ll know what to wear. Check ya later, Shriya. I hung up.

I PICKED UP MY SMOKES and lottery tickets, then continued on down Main toward Howard Street. Nightlife traffic was picking up and the bars and restaurants were getting their early surge. I saw a lull in traffic, and was about to jaywalk to the other side when I found myself standing in front of the Civic Theatre. Now the Civic is a landmark in downtown Akron, been there since the rubber days when Akron was the place to be. A lot of famous faces have been through those doors in eighty-five years, with no signs of stopping. It’s one of the most majestic theatres I’ve ever been in and they keep tabs on the upkeep pretty well. The vestibule is all hand-carved wood, and the lobby and theatre are too opulent for me to describe.

The marquee was all lit up in ancient light bulbs with the announcement of a noir film festival for the coming weekend. I kicked around the idea of buying a ticket and getting a seat. Well, two seats. I knew Shriya would enjoy it, but then I’d have to listen to her mimic their slang for the next week and a half and ruin the whole thing for me.

I’d seen all the films on the menu a dozen times each, but not on the big screen like they did back in the Thirties and Forties. I love the old black-and-white noirs. Don’t make them like that anymore, and they probably wouldn’t fly nowadays anyway. People want shit exploding and super-sadistic villains. The simple crook just isn’t fancy enough and nothing is black-and-white anymore. It’s all gray. The real Noir is over. Those black days are gone, no matter how hard someone tries to hold onto them.

Maybe a new type of film and literature... Call it ‘Mystere Gris’. That's French for ‘Gray Mystery’. Came up with it myself. With Mystere Gris there’s always light at the end of the hallway. In those movies it seems the sun never shines and everything good happens at night. Well I’m here to tell you, it ain’t so. Sometimes the sun is shining bright as hell and you still feel lousy. Then others you can be happy as a hyena and it’s all gray and gloomy like I like it.

Akron gets gloomy. It’s a gray city with gray skies and people that’ll talk a gray streak if you let them. Akron, Ohio. It may not be as exciting and big-time as L.A. or New York, Boston, or Chicago. But it’s my town. It’s where I live and it’s where I work and I like it. Akron has its own color of gray sky. I haven’t seen a gray sky like it anywhere I’ve been in the world. It's a happy gray, a hopeful gray, a smiling gray. Stare into it and you know the sun’s behind it. Nothing depressing about it. Just happy.

Buildings smile from the skyline with broken, dirty teeth that still have a gray film left on them from the old rubber factories. Back then when all the assembly lines were in full force, Akron was in its heyday. Rubber capital of the world. That was over seventy years ago and they’re still yapping about it. I don’t think a single tire or anything rubber has been made here for God knows how long. I could be wrong. But just like Noir, they want to hold onto the past. Let’s move forward.

So now Shriya got this new name stuck in my head. Harmony Bane. Sounds pretty cutesy. I was guessing it wasn't her government handle, but more of a nom de plume sort of thing. Unless she had it legally changed. We’d have to wait and see when Shriya came over. I was ready for my veggie pizza. And I missed her.

I went ahead and bought the tickets to the film festival for Saturday night, and decided to just put up with Shriya. I crossed Main and huffed up the Mull Street hill, then hit Graham, which took me back to the Lillian Building where my office is. I’m on the second floor over top of that rat, Nick Sutherland, and his farce of an insurance agency.

I got inside, flipped on the light, turned on the fan, and threw open the window. Then I went over to the desk, took out my Beretta from my back waistband where I keep it hidden under my shirt tail, and locked it in the bottom right-hand drawer. I sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and waited for Shriya to get there. And my pizza.

~DB~

Two

At 10:50 p.m., I was still scratching lottery tickets when I heard Shriya calling me from out in the hall. I jumped up, opened the door, and found her standing there with one hand under a medium veggie pizza and a thick file marked in black Sharpie that said ‘HARMONY BANE 10/26/10 UNSOLVED’ in the other.

Shriya is from a smaller mold, but made of brick. She was dressed in regular FBI dress code with the long sleeves of her sour cream-colored Oxford rolled up. She’s a regular at the gym and the way her khaki pants hugged her slender hips and flowed down smoothly over her toned thighs proved it. The belt around her waist was busy with her service weapon on the right side, and her badge clinging to the left. Her Indian skin has a natural brown glow, but now in the summer it was three shades darker. Her long black hair swept backwards into a simple ponytail that she normally kept pinned up and off her neck while on duty. The humidity made the shorter hairs dance like black lightning bolts. She looked at me with her chocolate eyes like she was trying to figure out her next chess move.

A little help here would be appropriate. She arched her trained eyebrows.

I took the pizza from her and put it on my desk. I lifted the lid and found olives to my heart's desire.

That’s our new case? I asked, nodding at the file. She set her bag on the floor, then plopped down on the couch by the fan. The shorter hairs that stuck out danced a jig in the moving air.

Yes, but on second thought, I’m not certain you’ll want to take this one, Duke.

Why not? What’s the pitch? I asked, then handed her a plate with a couple of slices on it and a napkin.

She took a healthy, man-sized bite, not the tiny little birdie bite you’d expect her to take. She talked while she chewed so I wouldn’t have to wait for the reply.

This one, she rounded her eyes and swallowed, is beyond strange.

Strange is fine with me. I’m no stranger to strange. I also took a bite. Besides, how bad can it be?

Mutilation. It looks like a human sacrifice. A ritual killing of some sort. I did a cross-reference to see if there were any others like it in the area, but nothing came up.

I carried my plate over, set it on the coffee table and sat down close to her, but left enough elbow room for eating.

Well, let’s have us a gander at the file, I said in a twangy hillbilly accent.

It’d been six years since anyone laid eyes on the case. She handed it to me. I opened it.

Now I’d seen some sick shit in my seventeen-year career with the FBI, but this was on the top ten of my list.

Harmony Bane, 20. Unemployed. Her remains were discovered in the trunk of her own car on the side of a well-traveled Summit County road. Her head and limbs were skillfully severed from her body. Her eyes and teeth were both ripped from their sockets. Her nose sliced all to hell. There were three Satanic symbols carved into her forehead. Her torso was cut open and all the organs removed — I looked at the coroner's photos.

That’s as far as I got. I closed the file and handed it back to Shriya. She was puzzled.

You don’t want the case? she asked with a string of cheese on her chin. I reached over and wiped it off with my napkin.

Something’s mixed up, I said. Got the wrong photos.

She thumbed through them. No, these are correct.

Is that so?

Yes, Harmony Bane. She was murdered and —

There, you said it again. She, I said. Those photos are of a man. Not a woman. I pride myself on knowing the difference. I picked out the photo I’d seen. See this? Then I pointed to be more specific. And see that? That’s a man, doc.

Shriya laughed. I suppose I should’ve explained, she said. Harmony Bane was a man living as a woman. And don’t call me doc.

Oh. I hadn’t really been expecting that. I chewed on my prejudice for a minute, then swallowed. You mean like a chick with a —

Yes. She cut me off before I could finish. That’s precisely what I mean, Mr. Bradley. But I’m sure they prefer to be called transsexuals.

I’ll be damned. I took the file back and resumed my perusing. So this ‘she’ was really a ‘he’, I confirmed. A he/she.

Yes, but I don’t think they prefer to be referred to that way.

Oh, okay. I twinkled my eyes. Are you one?

A what?

A he/she.

Duke — She wasn’t amused. No, I’m not.

Prove it.

That’s when she smiled. I believe I already have more than a few times.

The lights were off, and it was dark, I said. I’m afraid I’m still not convinced.

She pushed my head playfully. Keep your mind on the case for now, Mr. Bradley.

I flipped through to the back, all of the notes and lists. It all looked pretty, but didn’t amount to a bucket of spit.

Doesn’t look like much to go on, I said. Not a single suspect. These leads are all speculation. Maybe you're right. I think I’ll pass.

Pass? She sat up straight and blew a lungful of pizza breath at me.

It’s an impossible case, I admitted. Don’t you have anything else?

You’re uncomfortable because it's a transsexual?

No – maybe — well, I might be but that's not why. I have a way of solving cases and I don’t think I can solve this one. It’s too light.

The Karen Linford case was lighter than this one.

Yes but at least Karen was a real girl.

Damn my mouth.

She put her slice back on the plate and gingerly rubbed her fingers together, then swooped her feet up and curled her legs behind her and leaned so her upper body was pressed against my bicep. Her tear-shaped eyes got a little feathered around the edges. She lowered her lashes and gazed at me from under her lids.

Well, if there is one man who can solve this case, I believe it’s you, she said.

Thanks, I muttered. I was taking the bait. I knew I was in for something good. But what’s with the buttering-up?

Well, if you must know, I’m up for review next month. Solving this one may make things go a bit more in my direction.

I glared at her. I think I’m rubbing off on you too much.

Hello! I care very much about these cases, she said as she sat forward. Feet went back to the carpet. And if it advances my career, then...I just want to be able to prove my skills as an agent. You know what I mean?

I knew what she meant and didn’t fault her.

So why this one? What’s so particularly special about it?

Well, the LGBT community has been pushing to have the investigation reopened. They say this is a hate crime and want justice.

I thought for a minute, then shook my head.

In my experience hate crimes usually make a statement, they want to be seen to send a message. Not hidden in a trunk, I said. Was Harmony active in their community?

She wasn’t connected with them or any of their activities.

I took the notes back out of the file and handed the rest to Shriya. She set it on her lap, then scooped up her slice and continued eating. I started reading. A big nest of shrieks and scribbles.

I can’t even figure where to start, Shriya said through another huge bite. So what do you think? Will you give it a go?

I kept reading. Nothing stood out. Then I decided I’d read too much and Shriya had waited long enough. She’d stopped chewing and held her breath.

Not until I hear the words, I said as I shoved the notes back into the file folder.

She swallowed.

Fine. Brilliant. She sighed loud enough for a gopher to hear, then straightened herself so her shoulders were square in front of me. Mr. Duke Bradley, you are the greatest private eye since Sherlock Holmes. I would be ever so grateful if you would help me with this case.

Is that all?

No. I forgot to say — pretty please with sugar on top.

Go ahead, I’m listening.

She leaned in close and smiled at me with half her mouth, a little wrinkled nose and all of her eyes. Pretty please with sugar on top.

I’m really just a sucker, ’cause I gotta tell ya, that’s all it took.

Well, I paused and composed myself. I guess we got ourselves a case.

NOW SHRIYA AND I OPERATE differently, and sometimes there’s fireworks, but it normally works out for the best. I don’t like to swallow the whole elephant in one gulp. Gets my mind set one way and I have a hell of a time letting it go. So I figure the less I knew from jump street the better. Start with the basics and do my own legwork. She thought she could solve the case from behind the desk with a pile of papers that did no good six years ago. And she likes to find easy clues the hard way.

We cleaned up the pizza and set the file in the middle of the coffee table like a sacred tabernacle. I love that coffee table. I hauled it home from a trash dump one night back when I was in a desperate way. A little sandpaper and some stain and it turned out as good as second-hand. A nice coat of lacquer gave it a slick sheen and made my office smell like a condom factory. The fumes had me singing giddy songs for three days.

I set an ashtray