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  Joey looked over at his girlfriend then lowered his head pitifully.

  Brian said, “Once I hit record I’ll shut up to keep my voice out of your confession. I want you to state your full name and give me all the details about how and why you killed Rachael and where you buried her body. I’m being paid to find her body, so if you fuck me around, I’ll make sure you spend the remainder of your years on death row.”

  “What if I can top what you’re being paid?”

  Brian shook his head. “I want you off the streets Joey,” then he pressed the record button.

  Chapter Six

  Marissa Dawson was in her SUV in the parking lot of LLOYD’s Laundromat. Dorothy Peekings entered the vehicle leaving a large leather purse. Marissa helped her with the purse as the old lady closed the passenger door. Dorothy said, “Thank you. This is the balance, forty-seven thousand.”

  Marissa had watched her retrieve the money from the trunk of a Camry. Marissa produced a black shopping bag and helped Dorothy unload the stacks of bills. When they were done, Marissa struggled to place the bag of money in the backseat area.

  Dorothy waited eagerly for the information.

  Marissa faced her and said, “Twelve years ago this place used to be a construction site. A guy named Randy Paulson hotwired some heavy operating equipment called a backhoe. He dug a grave about four or five feet deep in a matter of seconds. Joey Paulson dumped your daughter’s body here and Randy used the backhoe to cover the grave quickly. This was about 11:30 on the night of September 7, 1999. The whole burial took no more than fifteen minutes and they were out of here.”

  Dorothy said, “So my daughter’s buried somewhere under this paved lot?” “Yes ma’am, according to Joey’s confession, which I’ll leave with you today.” “Does he say why they killed her?”

  “Well, he says he had gone out with her twice after meeting her on the job. Says they had drinks at Randy’s house and claims she consented to sex with both of them once she’d had enough drinks. Somewhere down the line she screamed rape and Randy panicked, strangling her to death with his bare hands.”

  Dorothy shook her head and simply said, “Rachael wouldn’t even drink a wine cooler, so all of that’s a lie.”

  “I’m sure Joey is only saying—trying to place most of the culpability on Randy, and maybe ninety percent of what he’s saying is a lie. But I’m also confident that your daughter’s body is here. There’s a CD in your home mailbox, or being placed there as we speak, and it reveals Joey’s full confession. Just tell the police you found the disk in your mailbox and they’ll handle things from there. In fact, I would suggest you contact Terrance Wilkes, the original detective on the case.”

  “I think I will. I really appreciate what you’ve done for me. The work you and your agency do is special.”

  “Thank you Mrs. Peekings—” Marissa’s Blackberry rang. “Excuse me.” She answered her phone by saying, “Steve, I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. Can I cal you back?” Steve was her husband but they were going through a nasty divorce.

  Steve said, “Who is Richard Gaston?”

  That stunned her. Nobody was supposed to know of her association with Brian. Assuming Steve had somehow gotten into her Sentry safe, or perhaps one of her hard drives, Marissa almost snapped. Instead, she smiled at Dorothy and said to Steve, “I’ll cal you and we’ll discuss it in about five minutes.”

  Steve said, “Looks like you and him are responsible for solving two cold cases in the past thirteen months. I’m impressed, but I’m also shocked that I don’t even know my wife.”

  “What do you want Steve?”

  “Twenty percent of every case and a $10,000 bonus. Honey. Or else you and your friend will be looking at some prison time. But hey, you’re busy. Call me when you have time.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brian was about 120 miles from home, Knoxville, Tennessee, when his cell phone rang. He saw that it was Marissa. “Yeah.” “I got some bad news almost three hours ago, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to break it to you.”

  Brian said, “Well, I got your text, so I already know that the balance was paid on the Peekings case.”

  “Steve knows about you and our private investigative service.”

  Brian continued driving and did not respond.

  “He’s shaking us down for twenty percent and a ten-grand down payment.”

  Brian finally said, “I understand you’re going through a divorce, but do you love him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You on your way to Knoxville?” he said.

  “Yes. I’m almost home.”

  “Good, so am I. Meet me at my girlfriend’s place in about two and a half hours.”

  “Will she be there?”

  “She better not be; I gave her three thousand dollars to take my daughter to California to see her grandparents.” Brian’s daughter LaRia was not quite four years old yet. The little girl was so beautiful, she didn’t even look real. Brian said, “How in the hell did Steve find out about me and our business?”

  “He won’t say, but I’m sure he must have gotten inside my safe or maybe had someone hack my hard drive.”

  Brian was damn near frowning now. A light rain prompted him to activate the windshield wipers. “I’m fucked up and confused. Why would any information about me or what we do be in your safe or your computer.”

  Marissa hesitated, “I thought records would be necessary just in case, we ever needed to look into a previous case, cross-reference evidence from one case to another—things like that.”

  “Why do white people find it necessary to write shit down or document every damn thing? Diaries, memoirs, journals—nothing but something to get you fucked up later. Hell, what stopped you from putting our business on Facebook?”

  “Brian, give me a break. I messed up,” she said.

  “Marissa, we just made seventy-five grand in three weeks, while a damn recession is still in effect. We were building a brand name in a unique market with a full appreciated service. That was your damn break. That was our break. What do you suggest we do now? I know Maybe we can get our old jobs back at the factory.”

  “Brian, I’m sorry, okay? It will never happen again.”

  He laughed, but it hurt him to do so. He really wanted to yell at her, something he’d never done in the six years he’d known her. Brian had also never made a pass at her, never tried to reel her in any way. “Alright Marissa. I forgive you. You and I are straight, we’re good. I know of only one way to solve our problem and being extorted by Steve is not an option. So you better be thinking of an excellent alternative.”

  “I have no suggestions, and I don’t want to know your solution.”

  He smirked. “No suggestions? Then you already know my solution. The war gave him more than PTS. He was better off staying in the Army and staying over there in Afghanistan.”

  Chapter Eight

  After stopping by her home and finding that her safe had not been tampered with, Marissa checked her hard drives and found that the PI files had not been deleted.

  She made several trips to her SUV, loading two computers, the contents of her safe, clothes, hygiene products, and other miscellaneous items. It was 8:15 p.m. when Marissa left her home for good. Anything left behind was meant for Steve in an uncontested divorce.

  She drove for fifteen minutes then arrived at Vera Bailey’s home, which was in a modest but quiet neighborhood in Knoxville. She got out of her truck and walked past Brian’s BMW in the driveway.

  Brian opened the door for her than headed back to the kitchen.

  Marissa stepped inside, closed the door, and followed him. She took a seat at the kitchen table, across from him, and watched him eat cereal and milk. “Aren’t you too old for Fruity Pebbles?”

  “The only thing I’m too old for is prison,” he said, still chewing.

  “I was thinking. If anything happened to Steve, I would be the main suspect. After all, we’re going through a divorc
e, and the police have been to our house for domestic disputes.”

  He stopped eating and looked up at her. “What the hell do you want me to do Marissa? Keep paying your husband off? Go to prison for fraud, obstruction of justice, racketeering, and whatever else a grand jury will indict me on? No, you prefer I go on the run, right? Come to think of it—Steve would send both of us up the creek in the same canoe.”

  Marissa said, “I’m quite sure he never saw the documents in my safe. Nothing in there was touched. He obviously got his information from one of my hard drives.” “Uh, I really don’t care where he got—.”

  “It matters,” she said. “The documents are mostly my handwritten notes and photocopies of some important pages in our first two cases. I wrote your name down several times. However, the GPI files on my hard drives always refer to you as Richard Gaston. Always. That minimizes our problem because Richard is a fictitious character.”

  He considered everything she had just told him. “Okay. Mr. Gaston is a dead-end for the police, but what about Marissa Dawson? I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

  She smiled. “Aww. Think about it: We only work with cold cases and missing persons cases and so far I’ve only dealt with the parents of the victims. Those parents are grateful for the closure we’ve provided, and they know that we’re running an illegal service. I doubt they’ll help the police.”

  He shook his head then spooned more cereal. “You’re going to need an alias. Over the next couple of days, I want you to contact each person you dealt with in al three cases and let them know that you should be recommended as Susan Winters.”

  She nodded her approval but really didn’t like the name Susan.

  He said, “And what is a GPI file?”

  “The files for our service, Godsend Private Investigations.”

  Brian picked his bowl up and began drinking the sweet, pinkish milk. When he finished he said, “Godsend?” and then belched. “That’s what our first client called our service. Do you like that name?”

  He shrugged. “Keep the name but get rid of the files, all of them.”

  “They’re outside in the Nav.” She waited a few seconds then said, “So what happens with Steve now?”

  “Well, this is where things really get sticky.”

  Chapter Nine

  Steve Dawson hadn’t had much sleep. A second shift worker, he’d gotten home at half past midnight and quickly noticed that his wife had apparently moved out. At six in the morning he had received a cal from Marissa asking him to meet her and Richard at the Southside Breakfast Bar by seven. They would have his money.

  Steve was in excellent shape at twenty-eight. He was, after al, only two years out of the military. He and Marissa had gotten married in 2005, a month before his enlistment. Steve had an attitude problem—bipolar would be putting it mildly—and this ultimately wrecked the marriage. A white guy out of the army with post-traumatic stress and anger management issues has no idea how to be a husband.

  At 7:05 Steve was at a booth in the back of the restaurant eating pancakes and sausage. He looked up and saw a slim white guy approaching him with a briefcase. “Are you Mr. Dawson?” the stranger said.

  “I am.” Steve kept eating.

  “I’m Richard Gaston. Mind if I join you?” “Have a seat. You’re late. Where’s Marissa?”

  “She can’t make it. She has an appointment with a new client. She got the cal thirty-five minutes ago.”

  Steve said, “That’s good.”

  The man was seated now. “My briefcase is on the floor beneath the table. Take it.”

  Steve retrieved the briefcase and placed it on the long seat, next to himself. “Money?”

  “Of course. Ten thousand cash. Take a peek.”

  Steve opened the case and saw the new money. He closed the case and said “I’m impressed Mr. Gaston. Now let’s discuss the details of our twenty percent arrangement.”

  You and I have nothing to discuss. You and Marissa will work out those particulars. This will be the last time you and I meet. If it had not been for the unexpected appointment, I would not have showed up here.”

  Steve smiled, “Are you fucking my wife? If you are, you better stop until our divorce is final. I will kill you with seven different guns, you hear me?” A waiter came over and said to Steve’s guest, “Can I get you anything sir?”

  “No. I’m fine.” When the waiter left the Richard stand-in said, “You mean you were foolish enough to come inside this restaurant with a gun?” “No. Should I have brought one?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me; I’m going to keep screwing Marissa no matter what you do.” He got up from the table. “And just so you know, if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t pay you a fucking penny.”

  Steve sprang up from his seat, noisily, attracting attention, clinching a fork in his right hand.

  Richard stand-in fled the scene shouting, “Don’t let him kill me.” Within seconds he was gone forever.

  Steve looked around and collected himself. He dropped the fork on the table, dug in his pocket for a twenty-dollar bill, and left the twenty next to his plate. He felt uncomfortable with al eyes on him. He picked up the briefcase and calmly walked out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Ten

  The scene of the accident was near a mall in Bakersfield, California. With four police cars and eight officers present, onlookers and diverted motorists knew the situation was bad. The siren of an ambulance grew nearer; the driver of the stolen Chrysler was seriously injured and could not be moved. Two victims in a Hyundai Sonata were believed to be dead.

  The driver of the Chrysler had stolen the car ten minutes earlier but had spotted the police three minutes later. The driver became apprehensive for no good reason, picked up speed, and attracted a veteran police officer. When the Chrysler blew through a red light at fifty-six miles per hour, it immediately met the front passenger’s door of the Hyundai with a violent smack, sending the Hyundai skidding and careening across lanes and into the path of a dump truck.

  The driver of the Chrysler, no stranger to the law, was twenty-two year old Lamont McCloud, and right now he was not al that lucky to be alive. A typical young black male with nothing more than some street sense and enough guts and stupidity to commit a frivolous crime.

  The ambulance arrived and, within seconds, medical personnel pronounced two people dead at the scene. In only ten minutes, Lamont McCloud had changed Brian Cathcart’s life forever.

  At almost 5:00 p.m. Brian arrived at Room 303 of the Laymen’s Inn. Marissa answered the door and invited him in. Brian closed the door and said, “How long do you plan on spending forty-eight dollars a day for a place to stay?” “It’s only for another day. I found a place on the other side of town. Everything will be in my aunt’s name.”

  He sat in a chair at a small table. “So tell me about this important idea you came up with.”

  She said, “I think we need to expand our operations to include other types of cases. I mean, the money is good but it’s slow. We’ve only had three cases in less than fourteen months.”

  He watched as she sat at the foot of the hotel bed. “But we’ve made

  $225,000 in cash, tax-free. That’s almost a hundred grand a piece in a year. We barely made thirty a year at the factory, and that was before taxes.”

  “And I appreciate the difference.” She rubbed her hands together. “But it occurred to me that this isn’t a long-term profession, our service being illegal and all. Six cases a year over the next two years and then we fold the business.”

  He said, “I suppose you already have plans for that kind of money?”

  “I would like to start an online dating service, unlike any that exists today. You could be a fifty-percent partner if you want.”

  He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “I doubt it. I don’t know what I would do with this kind of money. I haven’t thought about it.” “Well, think about it,” she said.

  Brian looked through the parted curtains. “
And we don’t need to take other types of cases; we would only need to take more of the missing persons and cold cases. To do that, we would need to promote our services and not wait on word of mouth. I don’t see how we can promote an illegal service without gaining the attention of every police department in the county.”

  Marissa said, “Let me work on that.”

  Brian’s cell phone rang. He dug inside the front pocket of his jeans and answered, “Hello.”

  “Yeah Brian...this is James.”

  Brian was worried now. His girlfriend’s father had never called him. “Mr. Bailey, how are you doing?”

  “Not so good Brian. Vera and Vanessa were in a car accident today. I lost a wife and a daughter less than four hours ago.” Brian was silent. Shocked. Fucked up.

  “LaRia was here with me and the other kids. I still can’t bring myself to tell her.”

  Brian dropped his phone and cried like a baby.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ten days after receiving the money, Steve was in jail. The Secret Service had arrested him for passing counterfeit bills. They had picked him up at his job, and even

  then Steve was in possession of six hundred dollars of the fake money. The fool had paid bills with the money, bought groceries, and paid for a few prescription drugs off the street. He knew that Richard Gaston and Marissa had set him up. He had every intention to tell the cops about the illegal private investigation service now, especially since his wife had not given him her new cell number.

  He had made a printout of the GPI files after paying a computer geek to hack Marisa’s hard drives. Steve assumed that the police would be willing to use the printouts as corroboration when checking the witness accounts of Richard and Marissa’s involvement in old criminal cases. If the cops failed to do their job, then he was going to kill his wife and her new lover.