First Commandment: A Hunter Quinn Mystery

This book is a work of fiction

ISBN 9780463097984

Copyright © 2018 by Dick Yaeger

All Rights Reserved

November 2018

For Bette above all

SPECIAL THANKS

To David LaRoche, Madeline McEwen, and Anne Visnick Sanders who have struggled with me, challenged me, and remained steadfast for so many years. To Rich Saito, Deborah Hansen, and Beatriz Franco who eagerly shared their time and stories of the San Jose Police Department. And to Christy Distler for her immaculate editing.

Other books by Dick Yaeger

Foulness Island

Myths ReImagined

Walls of Wilusa

Nicki’s Discovery

Niki’s Touch

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

I opened the window to placate my partner. He was a health-and-fitness guru who refused to come into my office if I was smoking. When I worked a problem, a good cigar with some smooth-sipping bourbon always relaxed me. It allowed me to think outside the box as the cliché goes. In my line of business, that’s important. If the problems people brought to me were solvable by the usual methods, no one would pay my exorbitant fees. I’m a private investigator—a good one.

The challenge today had been how to tell a client that his legally married wife was also legally married to someone else. Yeah—a bigamist, the weaker-sex version. Worse, his wife’s other husband was a woman. My client thought his flight-attendant spouse was just banging someone in Denver for sport, and he was willing to forgive her if she repented. I felt a little sorry for the poor guy. He really loved his wife and would be devastated with my findings.

After forty minutes with an Illusione Epernay Le Petit cigarillo and three fingers of Wild Turkey, I decided not to divulge the lesbian angle, just the bigamist part. Eventually he’d find out about the non-hetero stuff anyway, but not at the same time. The bigamist part was against the law, so I had to tell him. I also had to report it to the Denver police, but there was no hurry.

Business was good for PIs in San Jose. The local police were understaffed and overworked, filling out forms, often pressured to pursue infractions of countless trite laws passed by California’s über-liberal legislature over the last decade. I spent seven years on the force, the last three as a detective. I thrived on the mental challenges and excitement, but more often I was burdened with minutiae. Investigating a teen for cyber harassment, arresting a half-naked happy drunk on St. Patrick’s Day, or tracking down a kid for writing graffiti on transgender bathroom walls wasn’t my idea of useful law enforcement. That’s why I left. Too many rules. Too many boundaries. I needed my freedom—needed to make my own choices.

There was, however, another reason.

The sound of the outer office door opening returned me to the twenty-first century. My computer displayed a potential client via a camera behind the reception desk. A TV screen on the wall below the camera showed the same image. Text at the bottom of that screen said RECORDING in blinking red letters.

A new client’s unadorned attitude and reactions were valuable. Were they timid or bold? Slumping or standing upright? Eyes focused or wandering? Crying, bright-eyed, or smiling? Well . . . I don’t remember anyone ever smiling. Decisions about their honesty and trustworthiness were crucial if I accepted their business. I’d often insist they share some of their most intimate secrets and required the unblemished truth, not bullshit. Most clients had a fantasized version of themselves that could lead me in the wrong direction.

Some of their first reactions were predictable. When they opened the frosted door that said Hunter Quinn & Co., Private Investigations, their eyebrows usually raised. The solid oak furniture, plush chairs, and deep white carpeting gave the appearance of an upscale lawyer’s office. Novels and movies about traditional down-on-their-luck PIs had conditioned them to expect a shabby metal desk, folding chairs, and a scuffed wooden floor. After all, what did they expect from a fourth-floor office overlooking Santana Row where stylish women strolled the street in Jimmy Choo heels with bulging Gucci bags?

Another predictable reaction, sometimes amusing, was the curious first look at my partner behind the receptionist’s desk. Bubba Brookins is six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds of three-percent-body-fat muscle, not the blond bimbo they expected in a PI’s office. He’s Harry Belafonte handsome—even gorgeous when naked—and without uttering a word, can instantly charm you with a sparkling toothy grin or intimidate you with squinting steely gray eyes. Oh . . . did I mention he’s black? I’ve known Bubba since high school, before he went off to the Marine Corps and I went to Stanford to study the classics. A decade later, we bumped into each other at an Irish pub in downtown San Jose. I was bemoaning my boxed-in police career and he was nursing a bad back from years as a professional wrestler. When they closed the bar, we had agreed to go into business for ourselves.

The guy who just entered our office—an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair—offered none of the aforementioned regular clues. I was intrigued.

I need a private investigator, he said. Is Mr. Quinn available?

Bubba never corrected them.

Of course, he said, and handed the man a three-by-five index card and a pen. Please print your name, email, and phone number, and have a seat. Hunt will be right with you.

The man wrote the requested information, took a business card and brochure from the holder on the desk, and sank into an overstuffed oxblood leather chair. While Bubba checked his name on Google, LinkedIn, Facebook, and a host of other social media sites, I watched the prospective client browse our brochure. It listed the services we provided, our experiences, and numerous skills. The last page displayed our rates. When he got to that, he grinned. I liked him already.

For ten minutes, Bubba typed interesting tidbits of his searches onto my computer screen. When he finished, he knocked twice on the door and opened it.

I stood up.

Hunt, this is Aaron Horowitz. He needs our help.

Mr. Horowitz’s reaction was finally predictable—he frowned. All guys frowned. Women, on the other hand, smiled because I was also a woman.

I relieved him of any embarrassment. Father wanted a boy, I said before he asked about my name. Saved time. Please have a seat Mr. Horowitz.

I sat down. Bubba left and closed the door.

Are you a hunter? Horowitz asked, sliding into one of the two leather chairs in front of my desk.

Mostly two-legged bad guys and gals. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda? Juice?

No, thank you.

Then tell me how I can be a help. Relax. Take your time.

I’ll try.

And let me remind you that our conversation is being recorded. It’s protection for you to document any agreement we might reach. And it’s help for me because I can never read my handwritten notes.

He nodded with the minimum required grin for my attempt at humor. I’m fine with that.

Please go on, then.

I want you to find a murderer, a terrorist. He