Walt Murphy – Part Two – 26

As always, as much as I sometimes hate to admit it, Ricky was right. By mid-morning, after I took care of other business that kept my agency in the black, I was on the computer checking out the Shreveport address. It turned out to be a large apartment building that my map program said was in the center of the city.

A search gave me the phone number of the management company. A call, and several transfers, put me in touch with the woman responsible for that particular building. Once I identified myself she was willing, after a few moments of hesitation, to give me the name and number of the building's onsite manager.

She paved the way for me, so when I called the man he was willing to talk to me.

"Ms Engel? Yeah I remember her. Nice woman. Good tenant. Her and her boyfriend. Wish we had more like them. Always paid on time, didn't cause any problems."

"How long were they there and do you remember the boyfriend's name?"

"About ten months, until he took off. Poor woman. She was devastated. His name was… Hang on a sec and let me check."

He was back a minute later.

"Yeah, thought I remembered it rightly. Frank Milano. Good looking kid. Dark hair, dark eyes, sorta reminded me of Al Pacino in that movie about kids on drugs, or in 'The Godfather'. Dating myself, huh? Anyway, he was maybe five years younger than her but he didn't seem to care. Treated her like a queen while he was still in the picture."

"Does he have a middle name?"

"Yeah. Vincent."   

"Did Ms Engel say why he left?"

"Nope. I sorta figured he met someone his own age, despite the fact he seemed to dote on her. About two weeks later she moved out. Said she's inherited some money and was going off to"—he chuckled—"the big city. Now I know Shreveport isn't New Orleans or New York but we're not Podunk either."

The 'inheritance' thing interested me. Made me wonder if somehow she finagled it from the boyfriend. Or stole the money from him and he split when he found out, rather than try to get it back. Especially if he couldn't prove he didn't give it to her. Of course first I needed to find out if he had money. According to the dates she was in Shreveport she would have been thirty-seven, thirty-eight. That would have made him in his early thirties, so his having money wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

I thanked the manager for speaking with me and then it was on to what seemed to be my lot in life at the moment. More Internet people searches.

I got no hits for Frank Vincent Milano or Frank V. Milano, and only three for just Frank Milano. None of those men were within the correct age range. Then, because of his last name, I decided to try Franco and Vincente, or variations there of. Finally! I clicked on Francesco Vincente Milano. Right age, looked sort of like Pacino.

Further searching brought up an interesting piece of information. Milano's father was Amedeo Milano, a reputed mobster, whereabouts unknown at the moment. "I wonder…" I muttered.

I knew a man who might be able to give me more information on the Milanos—father and son—than I've been finding online. Of course Nicolò Caiazzo denied that he had 'connections'. On the other hand, he was reputedly the head of a sophisticated theft ring—something he also denied, although from personal experience I knew better.  

I made a call to Caiazzo's place of business, a local and very reputable bookstore.

"Walt," Caiazzo said when I reached him, "a pleasure to hear from you." He chuckled. "Are you searching for another rare book?"

That's how we'd connected in the first place. When I'd suspected he might have been behind the theft of a book valued at well over forty thousand dollars.

I laughed, admitted I wasn't, and asked if I could drop by the bookstore to talk to him. He said he'd be there all day and would be glad to see me again. After letting Chelsea know I'd be gone for an hour or more I headed out.

Walt Murphy – Part Two – 25

When I got back to the office late in the afternoon, Chelsea told me Detective Sharp had called and wanted me to call back. I did, and received an earful about contacting Mr Whitmore.

"I told you," Tom said severely, "this is not your case anymore."

I played properly repentant before asking, "Have you found out anything more about her murder? Like, what kind of knife did he use?"

"It was…" Tom broke off, saying instead, "That's police business, not yours. As is what I just told you. It is not for publication."

"I had to try," I replied with a laugh. "And you should know me well enough to know anything you tell me is for my ears only."

"And Ricky's," he muttered.

"Well, yeah. Okay, I promise to keep my nose out of this from now on." A promise I didn't intend to keep, all things considered.

"Thanks." Then, a bit surprisingly, Tom gave me a quick rundown of what Mr Whitmore had told him, asking if it jibed with what the man had said to me. It did and I told him so.

That ended our conversation, and I realized it was later than I thought when Chelsea came in to tell me she was heading home. I closed down everything, turned off the lights, and after arming the security system and locking the hallway door, I took off as well.

I had just made the turn onto the cross-street that would take me to the highway home when I noticed a motorcycle two cars behind me. Nothing terribly unexpected about that, since we have our fair share of them in the city. At least the guy riding it was helmeted. That was unexpected. Most bikers around here, at least in my opinion, seem to court death by riding without one.

That would probably have been my last thought about him if he hadn't been directly behind me when I took the on-ramp to the highway. And he stayed behind me even when I changed lanes. Hell of a way to follow someone if that's what he was doing. I tried to get his license plate number but it was covered with dirt, as was much of the lower half of the bike.

On a hunch, or from instinct, I got off the highway two exits before the one I needed. There he was, right behind me, until I pulled to a stop at a red light. Then he came up beside me. When the light changed I took off. He veered toward me, forcing me to cut a sharp right to the curb, barely missing a parked car. My windows were open, since it was a nice evening. He tossed something, then sped off.

I ducked and made a grab for the door handle, expecting to be blown up. It took me a couple of seconds to realize the missive was a piece of paper wrapped around something. After taking a few deep breaths to calm my fractured nerves, I unwrapped what turned out to be a message, around the usual missile for this sort of thing, a rock.

'Keep your nose out of Coleen Engel's death'. Short and to the point. For a second I had the inane thought that the biker had been Detective Sharp. He's probably laugh when I told him that. Of course I wouldn't tell him, because I had no intention of letting him know what had happened.

I made it the rest of the way home via side streets, keeping a careful eye open for the biker and, as far as that went, for the green car. The car hadn't been around before the guy had forced me to the side of the road, but that didn't mean it wouldn't show up now. That was presuming its driver had anything to do with my involvement with Ms Engel. That was, in my book, fifty-fifty.

Ricky was home when I walked into the house. He took one look at me and asked "What happened?" I told him, eliciting a very worried frown from him. "Are you going to drop it?"

"No way. I must be on to something—although I have no idea what—or they wouldn't have shot at us yesterday, or watched the house last night, or delivered their message the way they did."

"It makes no damned sense," he said, finally giving me a kiss and a hug to welcome me home, before heading to the kitchen. "I mean, what do you know about her?" I followed him and was met by the aroma of lasagna. That almost took my mind off his question. Almost.

"Damned little," I admitted. Then I filled him in on what Mr Whitmore had told me, while I set the table. Yeah, we shared chores. No big surprise there. When he cooked, I did the table and dish washing thing. When I cooked… Well given that I rarely did, I saw a lot of dirty dishes.

"Seems like she was a gold-digger par excellence," he commented, putting the meal on the table.

"Looks like. I still haven't been able to find out anything about her life between college and now, other than when she was with Whitmore. I have one other address to check out."

"Before or after Whitmore?"

"Umm, after if I remember right. He was in Wyoming; the other address was Shreveport, Louisiana maybe nine months later."

"Guess what you're doing tomorrow morning," he said, chuckling. Then we stopped talking so we could enjoy a damned good dinner. 

Walt Murphy – Part Two – 24

"Good morning Mr Murphy," the man answering my call said, his voice a deep baritone. "How may I help you?"

"I'm a private detective and your name came up in connection with a case I'm working on."

"Oh really? Intriguing. In what respect?"

"Presumably as the husband of one Coleen Engel Whitmore."

"Ex-husband," he said succinctly. "And I use the term 'husband' loosely since we were never actually married, although we lived together as husband and wife until she decided to move on. What's she gotten herself into now?"

"You make it sound as if she was prone to getting into trouble."

"Let's just say she was always looking for the main chance. For a while she thought that was me, but I wasn't ready to get married. Especially since I started to think she only wanted me for my money." He chuckled. "I'm not wealthy, but I'm not exactly poor either. Anyway, as I said, she eventually packed her bags and left. That's the last I heard of her."

"Why was she using your last name?"

"Because she hadn't done her research. She didn't know that Wyoming doesn't recognize common-law marriage. Not that she said that was her goal. She just asked if she could call herself Coleen Whitmore. That she'd feel more 'comfortable' doing that since we were living together. I cared about her so I agreed. It wasn't until I told her I didn't want to marry her that she brought up the common-law thing. She wasn’t happy, to put it mildly, when I told her that wouldn't work. She took off a few days later. Now my turn to ask a question. Why are you interested in her?"

I debated for a minute then gave him the very short version, ending by telling him she'd been killed. "I suspect you might be hearing from the police soon," I warned him in conclusion. "If I could find you, it's for sure they will too."

"Killed?" He sounded shocked. "Was it a car accident?"

"No. Some one murdered her."

"Oh my God." He sighed deeply. "Coleen may have had her faults but she didn't deserve that." After sighing again he asked, "Do the police have any idea who did it?"

"Not that I'm aware of." I told him what little I knew about her death. "It could have been a mugging, but from what I was told that seems unlikely."

"Poor Coleen. Look, if and when you find out about her funeral could you let me know? I'd at least like to send flowers. We might not have had a burning romance but as I said, we did live together for a while and until the end I cared about her."

"I will," I assured him. "And if you think of anything at all that could be relevant, please let me know?" I chuckled. "Something I'm sure the cops will say to you when they contact you."

"Something to look forward to," he said dryly.

After that comment we ended the conversation.

The rest of my day was taken up with other cases I was working on. One was setting up a security system for a family with a new baby. They hadn't thought having one was necessary until the kid came along and the in-laws had put the fear of kidnapping or worse into the mother's head.

Out today! - 'Don't Touch Me!'

Don't Touch Me! 

http://firebornpublishing.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_bookx_info&cPath=5&products_id=145

BLURB:

Cody Paige is an author with a newly-developed fear of being touched. When he becomes a suspect in his mother's murder--despite the fact she may be the victim of a serial killer--he hires PI Brent Harding to help prove his innocence.

Will Brent be able to help Cody discover the basis for his touch phobia? A necessity, as far as they are concerned, since they are attracted to each other. An attraction they won't be able to act upon if they can't even kiss without Cody suffering a panic attack.

EXCERPT:

Brent was almost to the pharmacy at the back of the drugstore when his sister gestured for him to stay where he was. He nodded, wondering why she didn't want him to come closer. From what he could see, Ashlie was only helping a customer--a young man, from the look of it. A very slender one at that. Finally, the man turned to leave, heading not to the front of the store but toward the back entrance. He was quite good-looking in Brent's opinion--fine-featured with cheekbones a fashion model would kill for.

"So what was the problem that you didn't want me to come over?" Brent asked Ashlie a moment later, leaning against the counter separating them.

"Not a problem, per se. It's just... Cody, the guy I was helping? He doesn't like anyone touching him. And knowing you..." She grinned.

"Excuse me? I'm hardly going to assault one of your customers."

"I know. But you don't have any issues with personal space. If you'd brushed against him or anything like that..." She shook her head. "The first time he came in to get a prescription filled, I reached to take it from him. My fingers touched his and, honest to God, he almost had a full-blown panic attack--shaking, hyperventilating. I thought he was going to pass out. I didn't know what was going on so I tried to grab him to keep him from falling. He backed away like I was going to jump over the counter to assault him."

"That doesn't sound good. Did you manage to get him calmed down?"

"Yeah. He said, 'Don't touch me'--sort of trying to explain and ordering me not to at the same time--so I didn't. I talked him through it then asked what was wrong. He said he just has this thing about being touched."

Brent frowned. "Sounds like more than 'a thing'. Was the scrip for medication to help him?"

"No. It was actually for his mother. She's old, he said, and not very mobile. I got the impression he takes care of her."

"That doesn't make sense. She'd have to touch him while he's helping her."

"I asked him. He thinks, since she's his mother, it's why he has no problem with her. At least that's how he explained it. Besides, to hear him tell it, the problem only started about a year ago. He has no idea why."

"Has he been to a doctor?"

Ashlie shrugged. "I don't know. After what little I managed to get out of him, he refused to say anything else. He just asked me to be very careful not to make physical contact with him."

"Very weird. Oh well, it takes all kinds, I guess. Are you ready to leave?"

"I will be in ten."

"Take your time. You know Mom. As long as we show, she doesn't care if we're a bit late."

Ashlie snorted. "Define 'a bit'. I was fifteen minutes late last time and she about had a cow until I told her about my car breaking down."

"When do you get it back from the shop?"

"Tomorrow...or so they say." She crossed her fingers, laughing when Brent did as well. "Thank you for being my designated driver when I needed it this week."

"Of course I'm willing to help. I'm your big brother."

"You're my only brother, so you have no choice."

Brent grinned. "I could have made you take cabs. Okay, go get ready or whatever it is you do."

* * * *

"Mother, I'm back," Cody called out as he came into the house.

"It's about time," she replied from the living room. "I'm hungry."

Cody sighed, going to join her. She sat in regal splendor in the center of the sofa. Her hair was perfectly coifed, her lips bright red from the lipstick she insisted on wearing. If she had been thirty years younger and weighed a hundred pounds less, she would have been beautiful. As it was, between her weight and the arthritis that had crippled her hands, she looked like...like a blob I have to take care of, like it or not. She was his mother, and he loved her, but there were times...

"What would you like for supper?" he asked.

"That chicken thing you make, with mushrooms and cream sauce. Is there still cake left?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good. And I need more coffee." She gestured toward the empty cup. "And change the channel. I want to watch the news." She looked at the bag he was holding. "Are those my meds?"

He nodded.

"Give me a pain one. I hurt."

He did as she requested, changing the channel, getting a glass of water, then helping her drink after putting a pill on her tongue.

"How is your book coming?" she asked, her attention vacillating between him and the TV.

Cody was surprised she'd asked. She was disdainful of his writing, despite the fact it was what kept a roof over their heads. That and the money she'd gotten when his father had been killed in an industrial accident at the factory three years ago.

"It's getting there."

"What is?"

"My book."

"Oh. Okay." By now she was fully engulfed in a news story about a murder of an elderly woman not too far from where they lived. "Another one. That makes two now. How horrible," she exclaimed. "Cody, is the alarm turned on?"

"Yes, Mother. Isn't it always?" he muttered in exasperation, walking into the kitchen to start supper.

Walt Murphy – Part Two – 23

I don't care what Detective Sharp said, backing away from the Engel case was not an option. Not after being shot at and then the—possibly—mysterious watcher in a green car in front of our house.

The first thing I did Monday morning when I got to work was call Carlo Donati to find out if he'd heard about Ms Engel's murder.

"I have," he replied when I asked. "A police detective called me last night. It was definitely a shock. Do you think it had anything to do with her looking for my—our son?"

"There's no way to know one way or the other at this point. All I can say is, it's pretty damned coincidental."

"I agree." He paused before asking, "Are you still going to look into her background?"

"Yep. That's what you hired me for so unless you want to drop it…"

"Not at all. In fact I insist on your doing that. Maybe you'll find out there was something else in her past to prompt her being killed. Or something in the present that has nothing to do with Ben."

"I'll probably be duplicating exactly what the cops are going to do."

"But you'll be concentrating only on that. I'm sure they have dozens of cases they have to deal with."

"Undoubtedly." I didn’t bother to tell him that his wasn't my only job. If he thought about it at some point, hopefully he'd realize that. If not…not much I could do about it. "All right, as long as I have your go-ahead, I'll do my best to find out all I can about her."

"You do," he replied.

Twenty minutes after we hung—having gone through the phone messages Chelsea had given me right after I arrived and dealt with them—I set to work. The first order of business, as far as I was concerned, was to find out who Mr Whitmore—Ms Engel's presumptive husband—was.

I went back to the site I'd used to find out about her, homed in on the AKA name and dug deeper. I was presuming, of course, it was her married name at one point. It made sense, since she'd used Coleen Engel as her first and middle names. My search led me to a Mr Gary Simon Whitmore, listed as her husband when she was living in a town in Wyoming. However, there was no record of their marriage---there or anywhere else that I could find.  

So I went on the hunt for Mr Whitmore and found four of them. One was in his late seventies, which would have put him at sixty-six when she lived in Wyoming. Two were close to her age, and one would have been in his very early twenties at the time. I eliminated the high and low end men and concentrated on the other two.

It was easy enough to eliminate one of them because, according to his records, he was already married to someone else within the time frame I needed. That left me with just one real possibility, unless Ms Engel truly was either a gold-digger or, as she'd put it, a cougar.

So, after finding his most recent contact information via his profile on LinkedIn, I placed a call to the most likely Gary S. Whitmore.

"Thompson and Whitmore, Clothing for the Well-Dressed Man," the woman who answered the phone said perkily.

From there we went though the usual routine, my asking if Whitmore was available, her saying she would check and see, after taking my name. Finally she admitted he was and transferred my call.