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  “What case?”

  “The one you—turned down.” “Why? What kind of case?”

  “Missing person. Three year old—girl. Maybe still alive.”

  Brian thought about that. He knew he would do anything to find his daughter if she were missing.

  Marissa looked over at Brian and saw that he appeared to be daydreaming. She held up a hand and snapped her fingers.

  He turned his attention to her and said, “I want to know why they think the little girl is still alive.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brian’s father had been a private investigator, taking only cases dealing with cheating spouses. Will Cathcart died from congestive heart failure six years ago. He

  was only forty-one. Will had been obese but Brian had not picked up those genes. Brian had always liked his father’s work; the guidelines and rules were a joke to him though.

  Will’s best friend was a man named Charles Chislom, a man who was fairly successful with al sorts of PI cases. At age fifty now, Charles was living in Richmond Virgina and still working cases for a living. This Friday afternoon he was at a bar called Jukebox, sitting at a corner booth, gazing out the window.

  Charles was sipping whiskey from a glass when he saw Brian’s BMW pull up. The damn thing still had the same wrecked front end from when Will owned it. Charles smiled because Brian looked just like Will, minus the weight.

  Brian entered the bar and looked around.

  Charles threw up a hand up and waved him over. Fly Like an Eagle, by the Steve Miller Band, filed the air, and nearly every table was occupied. Brian walked over to Charles’ booth. “What’s up old man? You’re looking good, more grays, but you look good.”

  Charles stepped from the booth, laughed, and hugged Brian. “Good to see you. It’s been awhile. What, four years?”

  “Four years it is.” Brian released him, stepped back and said, “You got taller didn’t you?”

  Charles smiled. “Sit down. Want something to drink? Pecan pie?”

  “Nothing. I’m good.” Brian looked at the black man and said “I didn’t want to explain anything over the phone when I called.” “Well, you’ve driven a long way. What’s going on with you?”

  Brian said “You wouldn’t believe it. A week ago I killed a man, justifiable homicide, no charges; and my daughter’s mother died in a car accident less than three weeks ago.”

  “Aw that’s tough Brian. I’m sorry to hear that. How old is your daughter?” “Three years and ten months now.”

  “Wow. I’d like to meet her one day.”

  Brian retrieved his wallet from his hip pocket, dug out a photo of LaRia, and gave it to Charles. “That’s yours. Her name is LaRia Cathcart. Well, her name and date of birth is on back.”

  “This child is beautiful Brian. You take good care of this angel.”

  “I will. Listen, I’m interested in some PI work.” “Yeah? What can I do for you?”

  “Uh, I’ve already worked three cases. I solved a cold case homicide and two missing persons cases. Actually, I have help, a white girl around my age.”

  Charles said, “Wait a minute. You’ve solved a cold case?”

  “Yep. In fact, the last missing person case turned out to be a 12-year homicide too.”

  “I’m impressed. How can I help?”

  “I need a good resource in the FBI.”

  Charles said, “That should be no problem if you have the money. FBI agents need extra income too.

  Brian said, “I’m not a licensed PI, and I have no problem doing things that the police are not allowed to do.”

  Charles stared at him, waiting for the punch line.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles took another swig of his whiskey and said, “So you’re handling these cases illegally and expecting help from the FBI? How does that make sense to you?” “I know it sounds crazy, but the FBI doesn’t have to know that I’m breaking the law.”

  Charles laughed. “You sure you don’t want a drink? It might help you think more rationally.”

  Brian shook his head.

  “Okay, tell me, what kind of laws do you break?”

  Brian counted on his fingers while saying, “Illegal phone taps, bribery, extortion, assault, blackmail, threats—”

  “I get your point,” Charles said. “But why wouldn’t the FBI know you’re breaking the law?”

  Brian hesitated until another song filed the bar, this time I Shot the Sheriff, by Eric Clapton. “The same reason the local police don’t know I broke some laws during my first three cases.”

  “That’s different,” Charles said. “I assume you didn’t ask the local police for any help either.”

  “You’re right. Look Charlie, I just need information from their database from time to time. I don’t even use my real name when I work as a PI. You’ve been in the business for what, twenty years? I’m sure you have some good connections on a federal level.”

  “That’s twenty-two years, and my sources trust that the information they give me won’t be used to promote or support a criminal act.” Another swig of whiskey and the glass was empty. “Why’d you choose to do things the illegal way?”

  “I don’t take every case,” Brian said. “I only take cases that the police have given up on. Cold cases, missing persons cases that are no longer being investigated, cases like that. And I only take them if there is a suspect that the police focused on but couldn’t tie him or her squarely to the evidence because of technicalities.”

  Charles nodded, understanding. “So you need access to the FBI’s database and what else?” “Just CODIS, AFIS, and sometimes a criminal case file from the Department of Justice.”

  “Whoa, Brian. Fingerprints and criminal case files is one thing, but running DNA is probably out of the question. You can pay an independent lab to conduct DNA tests; they’re well experienced with paternity tests. But if you want to give an agent your suspect’s DNA, which you probably obtained illegally, a hit would raise questions about how that sample was obtained.”

  Brian looked around the bar as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. He turned back to Charles and said, “On average, how much money to you make per case?”

  “Oh, about ten, maybe fifteen thousand.”

  Brian said, “And that’s before taxes. How many cases do you handle per year?” “About eight in a good year, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “How about I give you twenty grand cash, tax free, just to plug me in with somebody you know to be a risk-taking FBI agent. After two decades Charlie, I know you have at least one agent in mind.”

  “Alright. Let’s say I have your man—or woman. What sort of proposition should I take to them from you?” Charles picked up a slice of pecan pie and clipped half of it with one bite.

  Brian said, “Twenty-five grand a year in cash, or fifty grand if the agent is willing to deal directly with me and in person. I’ll trust the agent simply because you recommended him. Make sure the agent knows that he can trust me.”

  Charles stopped chewing and said, “How much damn money are you making with this illegal shit?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Three weeks after the shooting incident, Marissa was out and about but avoiding any strenuous activities. She was in a rental Audi in Fort Mil, South Carolina, parked in the lot of a Hardee’s restaurant. Dorothy Peekings was in the front passenger seat with a large handbag.

  Marissa said, “Brief me with the particulars.”

  Dorothy turned toward her. “The case is out of Springfield, Missouri A little girl named Rochelle Davenport was taken from her mother as they were leaving an upscale daycare center in Springfield. The mother was knocked unconscious and the child was gone when she came to. She got a good look at the attacker but was not able to recognize him from any photos of suspects that fit that MO.”

  Marissa said, “She’s a white lady?”

  “Yes, but the father of the child is black. She was taken fourteen months ago, and
she turned four years old last month. The parents are wealthy and, at first, thought it would be a ransom case. But they’ve never been contacted by the kidnappers.”

  “Any main suspects targeted by the police?”

  “None that would stick out. I told the mother that you would only take the case if there was a main suspect targeted unsuccessfully by the police. She thought you would reconsider because she would pay you six times your normal fees. The case file is large because there a number of suspects, but the police no longer seem interested and the mother doesn’t think the FBI is using any resources to continue the investigation.”

  Marissa said, “I assume the father was investigated at the time?”

  “Yes, and so was the mother. Nothing suspicious. They’re offering a $200,000 bonus if you can get their daughter back to them within ninety days of accepting the case.”

  Marissa said, “January? Sounds good but that’s probably not likely because there are no specific suspects to zero-in on. Did the daycare center have cameras?”

  “Yes, and there are photos and a video of the attack and kidnapping, but it isn’t really clear. The attack happened in the parking lot, not inside the building or up closer. The police think the suspect or suspects were waiting nearby, not necessarily for the Davenport kid.”

  Marissa lightly massaged her own chest at the collar bone area. “I’ll take the deposit and the case file. If my source decides not to take the case after reviewing the files, you’ll be fully refunded.”

  “The files are in my car. Do you want them now?”

  “Sure, but let’s get the money put away.” Marissa popped the trunk on the Audi As they got out of the vehicle she said, “So how did the Davenports become wealthy?”

  “Four years before the kidnapping they hit a $50 million lottery and took a lump sum. It was an Ohio lottery that’s where the couple is from.” “And we’re never supposed to contact the parents, is that correct?”

  “Yes, but only because your agency is illegal”

  “That’s not going to work. My source will want to talk with both parents, either as witnesses or suspects.” Marissa helped her toss the handbag of money in the trunk then closed it. “If they decline, then the deal is off.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday, shortly after one in the afternoon, Brian arrived at a convenience store called Roadway, just off an interstate in Huntington, West Virginia. He parked in front of the store and waited in his BMW.

  Through the all-glass front, he saw a black woman inside holding a conversation with a black clerk. Finally, when a customer entered the store, the black woman left. She stepped outside and, without deliberation, walked up to the driver’s side of Brian’s car. He lowered the window and said, “Can I help you? The woman was probably forty, even though she did not look like it. She was attractive, shapely, and apparently confident.

  She said, “You must be Brian.” “That’s me.”

  “Open the door.” She walked around the other side and got in. “I’m Teresa Groove, the FBI agent you wanted to meet so bad.”

  He smiled. “Nice to meet you.” “So you’re an unlicensed PI?” “Yes.”

  “And you’re handsome. You married?”

  “Nope. Why, you married?”

  She laughed. “Look, I get info for you, copy documents, and provide date on disks, run FBI searches and checks, and shit like that. I don’t discuss our dealings over the phone; I don’t send you shit over the computer; and I don’t falsify records or set people up for you. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I trust you because CC says you’re worth trusting, but I still did some checking up on your ass. You just killed a white guy after he shot his wife. You fucking her?” This time Brian laughed. “You fucking the clerk behind the counter?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You said you checked up on me; you should already know I’m not married. How old are you, forty?” Brian looked at her hands.

  “Forty-seven and ain’t ashamed to put it out there.”

  Brian said, “Now that we got all into each other’s personal business, can we get back to the serious shit, Agent Groove?”

  “Cal me Teresa. Never call me an agent. Did you bring the down payment?”

  “Of course. Twenty-five grand cash and another twenty-five once you’ve given me six months of service.”

  “Two more things you should know. If you want me to travel it would always be on the weekends because my job requires my presence, Monday thru Friday. And if I have to travel, I will expect to be laid by you; I like to wind down with sex after long-distance travel.”

  “That’s too aggressive, and plus you sound desperate, so I have to turn that part of the deal down.”

  “That’s fine, but there may come a time when you need for me to deliver something to you. Just don’t forget that I’ll be needed my bonus.” She smiled again. “You probably got a son my age.”

  “That’s not true. You’re five months older than my son.”

  “I think I like you, and I don’t mean in a get-naked way. I’m often accused of acting unprofessional, but that’s a switch that I turn on and off depending on the circumstances and the person I’m dealing with. You remind me of myself in that way.”

  She shook her head, disagreeing. “You act unprofessional because you’re not a professional. You don’t even have a simple-ass PI license. On top of that you’re a lawbreaking criminal doing good things for people but only for money. You don’t know it, but you have a personality disorder.”

  He looked her in the eye and said, “Sounds like more sweet talk to me. What exactly do you do for the FBI?” “I’m a criminal profiler, so mostly I sit behind desks and computers.”

  “Well, Mrs. Profiler, sometimes the police can’t solve a case because they have strict rules to follow. Nothing like that obstructs my justice. My agency is a necessary evil, and the people who hire me appreciate it.”

  Teresa said, “So do I. Where’s my money?”

  Brian saw the store clerk looking in their direction. “How well do you know the guy behind the counter?” She shifted her attention to the store. “Corey? That’s my husband. He’s the manager.”

  Back to Table of Contents

  Godsend: The Search for Rochelle

  by Kevin Elliott

  Chapter One

  Brian Cathcart had observed the apartment long enough to know that Julio Gomez was home alone. He tossed the binoculars in the console and got out of his

  BMW. He jogged through the abandoned park, headed for the run-down apartment complex. Brian wasn’t familiar with Missouri, but he’d taken a few days to learn this area of Springfield.

  He was walking by the time he reached the parking lot of the complex. He wore an Adidas windbreaker suit and sneakers. Underneath those clothes he wore a sweat suit. November was only a few day away, so 43-degree weather was not a surprise.

  Brian reached the apartment door and knocked five times. He waited a moment then heard footsteps approaching. It was getting dark outside but a few children were still playing tag, unsupervised.

  “Who’s there?” Julio asked in Spanish.

  Brian said, “If you’re the owner of a Maxima, you left your headlights on.”

  Julio opened the door. He saw the elbow coming but he was not fast enough to dodge it.

  Brian fell forward with the blow to Julio’s nose and was now inside the apartment and on top of him. He pressed the barrel of a handgun against the Mexican’s neck before the man could defend himself.

  “Be real still. Your fucking heart better not even beat fast.” He slowly pulled himself off the man and began searching him. Julio’s nose was leaking badly. Blood had run down the side of his face, into his hair, and onto the dingy carpet.

  Brian removed a semi-automatic handgun from the rear waist area of the man’s jeans. Then, he stepped back and closed the door, even locked it. “Sit your ass up, and don’t leave that spot.”

  Julio complied. He beg
an wiping the blood from his face with his shirt.

  Brian said, “I got questions; you better have answers, none of that Spanish shit. I know how well you speak English.”

  Julio was a small man with rich, black hair that was somewhat curly. He had the complexion of an Indian, and his facial features made him look unfriendly. He said, “What’s this about?”

  “First, let me make it clear that I don’t give a fuck that you got neighbors. I can leave a full clip in your ass and be gone long before they finish dialing 9-1-1.” “Okay, man. I will talk to you. No problem.” He tilted his head back and pressed a handful of shirt up to his nose.

  “You’re in a gang called the Cocodrilos.” Julio shook his head and said, “No mas, no more. It’s not a gang now. Too much heat from the policia.” “In about ten minutes, a woman is going to come here. Who is she?”

  “My girlfriend. I don’t have to let her come inside.”

  “It’s not your damn decision. Tel me about the Cocodrilos.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who started the gang and why? How did you get money to function?”

  “Chico Gonzalez is the one who started it, but he died early this year.” He tilted his head forward and checked the leakage. The blood was no longer running. “I don’t know why he started it.”

  “Why the hell did you join it?” Brian heard a phone ringing in a back room.

  “Yo, I was out there in Arizona. Everybody joined a gang, amigo.”

  Brian aimed the gun at his face. “I told you to save that Spanish shit. And stop acting like I’m your damn friend before I bash that nose again.” “Okay. I just answer your questions.”

  “What did the Cocodrilos do to get money?”

  “Steal cars. Beat up a few guys.”

  “Beat up guys? How does that get money?”

  “Sometimes people paid Chico to send the Cocodrilos after somebody they didn’t like.”