Unbalanced, p.1
Unbalanced, page 1
ALSO BY D.P. LYLE
The Jake Longly Series
Deep Six
A-List
Sunshine State
Rigged
The O C
Cultured
The Cain/Harper Series
Skin in the Game
Prior Bad Acts
Tallyman
The Dub Walker Series
Stress Fracture
Hot Lights, Cold Steel
Run to Ground
The Samantha Cody Series
Original Sin
Devil’s Playground
Double Blind
The Royal Pains Media Tie-In Series
Royal Pains: First, Do No Harm
Royal Pains: Sick Rich
Nonfiction
Murder and Mayhem
Forensics for Dummies
Forensics and Fiction
Howdunit: Forensics;
A Guide for Writers
More Forensics and Fiction
ABA Fundamentals:
Forensic Science
Anthologies
Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads (contributor); Jules Verne, Mysterious
Island Thriller 3: Love Is Murder (contributor); Even Steven;
For the Sake of the Game (contributor); Bottom Line
Copyright © 2024 by D. P. Lyle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ISBN 978-1-60809-555-4
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my wonderful agent Kimberley Cameron of Kimberley Cameron & Associates for her always steady guidance, sound advice, unwavering dedication, and friendship. KC, you’re the best.
To Bob and Pat Gussin, Lee Randall, Faith Matson, Tracy Sheehan, and the great folks at Oceanview whose dedication, professionalism, hard work, and creativity made this book better in so many ways.
To the fans who have allowed Jake Longly and crew into their lives and supported their adventures. You are the reason we writers write.
To Nan for everything.
CHAPTER 1
MY NAME IS JAKE LONGLY, it’s Monday, and I’m bored. Not a common affliction for me. Not that I have a bunch of stuff to do, or need to engage in any specific activities, keep to some schedule, or even strain my brain with creative thinking. In fact, the opposite is true. On a typical day, I have little or nothing on my plate. As Nicole and Pancake are quick to point out. They’re jealous that I have such an uncluttered mind. Regardless, doing nothing suits me, and I do nothing well. How could that be boring?
Back when I played Major League Baseball, fully scheduled days became the norm. During the season anyway. Which seemed to last forever. Not as long as the NBA, where they take a twenty-minute break before cranking up the next year, but the baseball season lingered long after my interest waned. I mean 162 games? Who came up with that number? Exhausting. Don’t get me started on doubleheaders. Particularly, if I wasn’t pitching either game. All day sitting in a hot bullpen with a bunch of dudes telling stupid jokes and embellished sexual escapades that recycled week after week. Worst of all, there was no place to stretch out and take a nap. Before fifty thousand fans. Not a good “team” image. I’d much rather be on the mound firing fastballs. That focuses your attention.
Back then. finding time to do nothing was no small task. Games, practice, meetings, press obligations, long flights, hotel ins and outs, dinners, drinking, and of course chasing the young female baseball groupies that collected in each city’s popular bars filled every day. I get a headache thinking about it. How did I do that? I was younger and didn’t know better, I guess. Now I do.
I own Captain Rocky’s, a bar/restaurant on the sand in Gulf Shores, Alabama. A place I bought with the ridiculous money the Texas Rangers paid me to throw a baseball. I was a pitcher, and not bad at it. When you’re a professional athlete, the team pays for everything so the funds that flow from your contract are cake icing. Unless you piss it away, as many of my teammates did, you ended up with a pile of cash. Like I did. So, I bought Captain Rocky’s from Rocky Mason, its original owner.
Most people believe that running a restaurant is a twenty-four-seven endeavor, and that’s true. Not in my case. More like zero-zero-zero. Carla Martinez, my manager, did all the work, which meant I had little to do. Except hang out at Captain Rocky’s with Nicole and Pancake.
Their absence now the cause of my boredom.
Today I was on my own, so I passed the afternoon napping in a beach chair beneath a yellow Captain Rocky’s umbrella. Perfect. For a couple of hours anyway. Then I became antsy, and bored.
That word again.
Pancake, my best friend since childhood, worked for my father, Ray, at Longly Investigations, a P.I. outfit Ray runs from his home not far down the beach. Pancake thrived on work. He enjoyed it much more than downtime, which he avoided. A mystery to me.
Nicole, my girlfriend, also wasn’t around. Last night we stayed at my home rather than at her Uncle Charles’ mansion out on The Point. My place is nice; Uncle Charles’ is insanely better. Like every other home out on Perdido Beach’s Peppermill Road. This morning we slept in before hopping into Nicole’s Mercedes SL and rolling over to one of our favorite beachfront cafes for an early lunch. Nicole then headed for her place to do some work. Another unpleasant word.
Nicole writes screenplays and has had a mega-hit movie titled MURDERWOOD and a couple of smaller film festival productions. She was working on a new project and had a Zoom meeting with a team of producers at Regency Global Productions, or RGP. Uncle Charles’ company. He of the Ultra A-list with a shelf full of Oscars and Emmys.
She had asked if I wanted to go with her and hang out on the beach there, but I told her I needed to stop by Captain Rocky’s.
“Why?” she asked.
“I own it,” I said. “I have responsibilities.”
She laughed as she pulled to a stop in front of my beachfront house. “Pancake must be coming by.”
“No. He and Ray are into some case, and it’s been giving Pancake fits. Some financial thing.”
“That embezzlement deal they’re working on?” she asked.
“That’s the one. Pancake said it has umpteen moving parts.”
“Umpteen? That’s a lot.”
“His new favorite word. He’s used it umpteen times lately.”
“Get out, Jake. I have work to do.”
I climbed out. “I’ll meet you at Captain Rocky’s after your meetings are done.”
“In time for happy hour.”
She roared away. I climbed in my vintage Mustang and pointed it toward Captain Rocky’s.
That was four hours ago. Long enough for boredom to creep in and bivouac.
I slipped on my shirt, snatched up my towel and sandals, headed across the soft, warm sand, and climbed the stairs to Captain Rocky’s expansive and crowded deck. A good thing. Meant I could pay the rent.
On the way to my always-reserved corner table, I stopped and chatted with a few folks and waved to a couple of others. That little bit of schmoozing completed my work for the day.
Carla flopped in the chair across from me. “Poor baby.”
“How so?” I asked.
“No one to play with.” She shrugged. “It’s what happens when everyone has a job and you don’t.”
“Sure I do. Didn’t you see me stop and chat with the customers?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You must be exhausted.”
“I am.”
“I told Libby to bring you a margarita.”
Libby Sagstrom, a newer hire, had been doing a great job. The customers loved her. So did Pancake since she brought him food without him having to order. She knew what he was hungry for, which in fact was a hefty amount of anything and everything, and had it in front of him almost as quickly as he could settle in his chair. A win-win.
“You’re a stellar human,” I said. “So is Libby.”
Libby appeared. She placed a massive schooner of frozen green margarita in front of me. “Here you go, boss man.” She smiled.
“Do you think that’s enough?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe. If not, there’s more where that came from.”
“You’re a peach,” I said.
“Better than a lemon.” She gave a little wave and walked away.
“I have a pile of invoices and purchase orders,” Carla said. “Want to look them over?”
“Probably not.”
“Didn’t think so. That’s why I didn’t bring them.”
“You’re a smart woman.”
Carla glanced past me toward the entrance. “Speaking of smart women. Here comes your girlfriend.”
“Which one?”
“Yeah, right.”
I looked that way. Nicole wore black cargo shorts, which accentuated her long perfect legs, a tangerine cropped tee shirt that exposed her also perfect midsection, and a black baseball cap. She stopped and chatted with three guys, some of our regulars, laughed, and walked toward us. She was good at schmoozing too.
Carla stood. “He’s all yours. I did as much as I could.”
Nicole ruffled my hair. “My problem child.” She indicated my drink as she sat. “I see you’re off and running.”
“Carla and Libby forced it on me.”
“I’m sure.” She tilted the long straw her way and took a couple of sips. “Good.”
“You can finish it. Or get your own.”
“I’d better eat something first.”
Thirty minutes later we had finished some fish tacos and drained the schooner.
“Where’s Pancake?” Nicole asked.
“Since it’s near feeding time, I suspect he’ll be along any minute.”
Her cell chimed. She snatched it from the tabletop. “Speak of the devil.” She waved the screen toward me, revealing the big redhead’s smiling face. She brought the phone to her ear. “What’s up?” She listened for a full minute. “We can do that.”
We can? Several responses came to mind. I was too busy. I wanted another margarita. My stomach hurt and I didn’t want to go to school today. A waste of breath, so I remained silent.
Nicole listened for another half a minute and then said, “We’re on it.”
Those three words—or is it four?—three-and-a-half?—are the bane of my existence. Whenever they fell from her perfect mouth, what followed was never good.
She ended the call. “Pancake needs us to do something for him.”
And so it begins. Again.
CHAPTER 2
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” I asked.
“It’s nothing big, so relax,” Nicole said.
She maneuvered her SL through the traffic along Perdido Beach Boulevard toward Orange Beach. A short drive from Captain Rocky’s. It was nearing six thirty and the shadows of the high-rise condos that dotted the beachside lay long across the roadway.
“Where have I heard that before?” I asked. “Everything with Ray and Pancake is easy until it implodes.”
With the SL’s top down, the warm wind whipped around us. Nicole snugged her cap while wiggling past a delivery truck. “We’re picking up some papers from an office near here.”
“Pancake couldn’t do that?”
She glanced at me. “He’s busy. We’re not.”
“Yeah, but he gets paid for doing this stuff.”
“What else did you have on your dance card today?”
“I own a business. I have duties and obligations.”
She laughed again. “No, you don’t.”
“Maybe I needed another margarita.”
“After the gallon you just knocked back, taking a break might do you good. Your liver will appreciate it for sure. This’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Bet it doesn’t,” I said.
“All we’re doing is grabbing a stack of documents and taking them to Captain Rocky’s. Pancake will meet us there.”
“Now it all makes sense,” I said.
“It does?”
“Pancake sends us on the mission so he can get to the menu quicker.”
“He’s a growing boy.”
“He hit his limit long ago. If he grows any more, he’ll wobble the planet out of orbit and we’re doomed. A fiery death spiral into the sun.”
“You’re an idiot. You know that?”
“It’s been said.” I glanced at her. “By you. Just yesterday.”
“Believe it.” She slowed. “Here’s our destination.”
She waited for a break in traffic and then turned left into a parking lot that fronted a single-story tan building with a dark brown roof. A sign over the entry door read, “Orange Coast Realty.” The small paved parking lot, lined with palm trees, held only a single vehicle, a white Cadillac Escalade.
“Is this for that embezzlement case?” I asked.
“Exactly. We’re to see Carl Davis, one of the owners. He’s accused his business partner, Mitch something, of skimming funds from the company accounts.”
“I hate it when that happens.”
“So does Carl Davis.”
The SL’s tires chirped as she jerked to a stop several slots away from the Escalade. “Wait here. I’ll grab the papers.”
“I’ll go with you. I’ve spent too much time on my butt today and need to stretch my legs.”
I climbed out of the car and scanned the area. A couple of hundred feet to my right, a business of some sort faced Perdido Beach Boulevard, and behind it a cluster of houses tucked into the sandy and scrub brush dunes. To my left, an open lot of more sand and brush, centered by a weather-chewed concrete pad. An abandoned construction project. I knew that beyond the real estate office were more dunes and then a spit of water known as Bayou Saint John. Its opposite shore lined with south-facing homes, most with docks and boats. None small or cheap.
The heat evaporated once inside the office; the AC cranked to arctic levels. Somewhere between refreshing and uncomfortable. The empty reception area, everyone gone home for the day, was so quiet that I could hear my sandals scrapping across the carpet.
“Mr. Davis?” Nicole called out.
No response.
We followed a hallway toward the back of the building, Nicole again calling Davis’ name, getting no response. Three open doors revealed dark offices, while a single closed door sported a WC sign. Light spilled through a cracked open door at the end of the hallway. A door sign read “Carl Davis.” Inside the large well-lit office, a comfy-looking leather office chair sat behind a desk topped with a computer and several folders and stacks of papers, but no Carl Davis.
“Hmm,” Nicole said. “Maybe he’s in the bathroom.”
I moved further into the room. A shoe and a pant leg extended from behind the desk. I walked that way. A man lay on his back near the chair. He wore tan slacks and a navy blue polo shirt and appeared as if sleeping. Except for his pale gray skin and the dark hole near the center of his forehead.
“He isn’t,” I said.
“Oh my god,” Nicole said, stepping up behind me.
I knelt and reached for his wrist. Not cold but cool, no pulse. No surprise there.
“Is he alive?” she asked.
I stood. “No. Call 911. I’ll call Pancake.”
“Let’s get out of here first. The killer might still be here.”
I needed no convincing. Once out in the parking lot, we each made our calls.
“They’re on the way,” Nicole said.
“Ray and Pancake too.”
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think someone had issues with Mr. Davis. If that’s him.”
“It’s his office.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s him.”
“I suppose.” She leaned against the front fender of her car and stared at the asphalt. “Do you think this has to do with the case Ray and Pancake are working?”
“That’d be a good bet.” I shrugged. “Don’t things like this always lead back to Ray?”
A black-and-white Orange Beach PD SUV rolled into the lot and parked at an angle. Two uniformed officers stepped out. The driver appeared young, mid-twenties, Hispanic, fit, with buzzed, dark brown hair. His partner was older, fortyish, with light brown hair and a well-trimmed mustache. Neither smiled, neither approached, remaining near their vehicle. The driver’s hand rested on the butt of his service weapon at his right hip.
“I’m Officer Ed Moran,” the older one said. “This is Officer Carlos Rivera. You the ones that made the call?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nicole said.
“Dispatch said there’s a body.” Moran scanned the lot.
“Inside,” I said.
“Anyone else inside?” Rivera asked.
“Not that we saw,” I said. “But we didn’t search the place. Once we found him, we hustled outside.”
“Good move,” Moran said. “Wait here.”
The pair approached the door. Each pulled a weapon.
Rivera pushed the door open. “Orange Beach PD,” he shouted. “If you’re in here, make yourself known.”
No response. They disappeared inside, the door closing behind them.
“I’d feel better if Ray and Pancake were here,” Nicole said.
“They will be.”
“I hope Pancake’s driving. Ray drives like an old lady.”
“Says speed racer.”
Nicole shrugged. “Is what it is.”
“I just hope they don’t arrest us.”
