Yesterdays trouble carlo.., p.1
Yesterday's Trouble (Carlos McCrary, PI, Book 7), page 1
YESTERDAY’S TROUBLE
CARLOS MCCRARY PI
BOOK 7
DALLAS GORHAM
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CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Before You Go…
Four Years Gone
Also by Dallas Gorham
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Lester
Lester watched the YouTube video again. The lead singer’s blonde hair waved and danced in time to the music. The rhinestones on the cuffs and collar of her western jacket flashed and sparkled in the spotlight each time she strummed her guitar. Despite the poor quality of the cellphone video, it had garnered over a million views and ignited demand for the new country singer.
He muted the sound. Without music, she looks like a silly disjointed puppet. That’s what she’ll be if this tour gets off the ground—a puppet with me jerking her strings.
She wiggled her left thumb as she fingered the frets. Lester had studied the move hundreds of times in the three weeks since he had found the girl of his destiny. Found her after years of searching. He knew the video frame by frame. He poised his finger over the sound button. The chorus was coming… now. Unmuting the sound, Lester cranked the volume and sang the haunting chorus with her.
Heart, don’t fail me now.
Now that he’s come my way.
Give me power in this joyful hour.
To rise at dawn to a brighter day.
Lester screamed, “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” and logged off. He stared at the wall as if he had x-ray vision to see her miles away. The man you sing about who’s come your way is the wrong man for you. Your joyful hour will never come. You don’t realize it, but your brighter day will never dawn, bitch. Not until you’re with me.
He opened an email website. Let’s see… What would be an appropriate email address for this one? Let’s try purewhiteblood.
He tapped the keyboard on his laptop, then frowned. “Name in use.” Maybe if I add a number to it, say, purewhiteblood21. No, that’s imitative. Let’s try whiterulemillenium. Excellent. whiterulemillenium it shall be.
He composed an email and edited it until it conveyed his disapproval, his rage, and his message with the emotional overtones he wanted.
Send.
ONE
Carlos McCrary
The young woman—little more than a teenager—rose to her feet when I walked into the reception area.
Most people who visit my office near downtown Port City are not keen to meet me. I’m a private investigator, and most of my visitors are in trouble. Some are suspicious, leery—even hostile. The rest often come with a problem they expect McCrary Investigations—that’s me, Carlos McCrary—to solve.
This one was different. She flashed me a dazzling smile with straight white teeth that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. A smile that lit up the room as if the sun had emerged on an overcast day. Ah, the excitement of youth.
“Tank Tyler sent me. He made an appointment for me.”
Tank Tyler was my CPA and financial advisor. Tank had telephoned the previous week to make the appointment. “Cleo Hennessey is a budding country music star. She’s preparing to start her first concert tour. Her boyfriend LeMarvis Jones is a client. You know him?”
“Sure. Marvelous LeMarvis averaged 28 points per game last season for the Port City Peregrines. Makes $30 million a year and worth more. Over seven feet tall.”
“That’s the guy. FYI, he’s way over seven feet. Somebody’s been sending Cleo Hennessey threatening emails, and LeMarvis thinks she needs security on her concert tour.”
“You have an opinion?”
“Security is your job, sport; my job is to manage LeMarvis’s money. He’s been a client since the Peregrines drafted him eight years ago. I met Cleo a couple of times. Nice girl. Pretty too. LeMarvis is worried about her safety. I suggested he hire you to provide security. LeMarvis will foot the bill.”
“Is he aware that security for a concert tour will cost him enough cash to choke a trash compactor?”
“He’s underwritten the concert to the tune of over ten million dollars. A few hundred thousand more won’t matter.”
“Is this a millionaire sugar-daddy deal?”
“Nothing like that, chief. LeMarvis is not a woman-chaser who cavorts with girl-of-the-month types. He’s good, solid people. He and Cleo are in love, not lust. Between us, they plan to announce their engagement after the concert tour.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Anything else I should know?”
“Cleo is a country girl at heart. She doesn’t believe she needs extra security. She’s afraid it will cramp her style—keep her away from the fans. Also, she grew up poor and she’s tight as a guitar string with money, especially with LeMarvis’s money. He tells me she’ll be a tough sale.”
“I’ll turn on my celebrated charm and dazzle her with my fancy footwork.”
“Humph. I’ve seen you dance, white boy. You try fancy footwork, you’ll trip on your celebrated size 12 feet and fall on your celebrated ass.”
From the looks of Cleo’s smile, perhaps she looked forward to meeting me despite what Tank Tyler said.
Cleo gazed down at me with pale blue eyes set in an unlined face that could have belonged to a twelve-year-old. She wore gold sandals with flat heels. She was six-foot-four at least. I stand six-foot-two, and she made me feel short. It was disconcerting.
She grabbed my hand. “Cleopatra Jane Hennessey. My friends call me Cleo.”
Her sky-blue slacks and shirt matched her eyes. She didn’t look like a country singer, even if her accent carried the sound of weathered Appalachian Mountains and tall trees. Perhaps she was out of uniform today. No rhinestone shirt or fancy boots.
“Carlos Andres McCrary. Everybody calls me Chuck.” We shook hands. “Is LeMarvis joining us?”
She peeked at her phone. “He’s stuck on I-95. An eighteen-wheeler jackknifed in the rain. He’ll be here soon. Can we start without him?”
“Sure. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Bourbon and branch would be good.” It was ten o’clock in the morning, but she wasn’t kidding. Was her southeast Kentucky birthplace speaking? Her website said she was born in the Appalachian Mountains. Too bad I couldn’t offer moonshine.
“I’m fresh out of both. Sorry. How about coffee?”
She shook her head and her blonde curls swayed around her ears. “I try not to drink caffeine.”
We settled on a ginger ale for Cleo and a coffee for me.
I punched the intercom. “Betty, a ginger ale for my guest and a coffee for me, please. And wh en LeMarvis Jones arrives, call me, then send him back. Otherwise, hold my calls.”
Whenever I meet with a client, I always tell Betty to hold my calls. It makes clients feel special, but Betty knows whose calls to put through regardless.
Cleo followed as I led her to my so-called conference room. With three people, it’s crowded. On rare occasions, I squeeze in five and it’s a circus clown car.
Like most people who see my conference room the first time, Cleo’s eyes wandered to the right-hand wall.
Matching picture frames displayed my PI license, my degree in criminology from the University of Florida, and a picture of my graduating class from the Port City Police Academy. To the right hung my Bronze Star, the medal citation, a photo of my Special Forces unit in Afghanistan, and my honorable discharge.
Cutting my eyes to the wall for an instant, my thoughts escaped to Ghar Mesar in the Afghanistan mountains. An old battle scar on my left bicep throbbed.
“I never seen a Bronze Star medal before.”
For the thousandth time, I wished I had never been there to earn it. That battle cost the life of a brother-in-arms. He was awarded his Bronze Star posthumously. For the thousand-and-first time, I pushed that image aside.
“A former girlfriend who was a marketing guru insisted I display all that. She framed them as my birthday present the day I opened my PI office. She calls it an ego wall.”
“What did you do to earn the medal?”
“I was in the wrong place at the right time. My whole squad was. The general had to give someone a medal; he chose me.” I didn’t mention the other Bronze Star recipient; that would depress us both.
“I’m impressed.”
“That’s what my girlfriend intended. If I ever see her again, I’ll tell her she was right. Please, have a seat.” I gestured at a chair where she wouldn’t see my ego wall. I didn’t want the wall to distract her during our interview.
She sat. “Why not?”
Betty tapped on the door and walked in with our drinks. “Here you are.” She set the tray down and left.
“Why ain’t you and her together?”
I swallowed once and changed the subject. “Let’s talk about you. Tank said you received email threats.”
“Don’t change the subject. I’m nosy; everybody always says that. Momma says everybody needs to love somebody. When me and LeMarvis met, it was almost love at first sight.”
I wasn’t there to discuss my life, so I followed her lead. “How did you and LeMarvis meet?”
“I was singing at the Tarnished Spur in Humbolt Springs last year. LeMarvis and some of his Peregrine players, they come in to listen to the music. I noticed right off on account of they were real tall. Do you know the Tarnished Spur?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I go to the Pick ’n Fiddle on South Beach to hear country music.”
“I ain’t played the Pick ’n Fiddle. I heard it’s a nice place.”
“Go on. LeMarvis and friends came into the Tarnished Spur…”
“The manager sat them down front at a reserved table because they were celebrities. Some drunk cowboys behind them, they complained they couldn’t see because LeMarvis and his friends were so tall. LeMarvis, he offered to buy them a round of drinks, but they wouldn’t have none of it.”
She lifted her ginger ale. “They were looking for a fight no matter what LeMarvis and his friends did. You know how some people are mean drunks?”
“Yeah. Some drunks get happy, some get sleepy, and some get mean.”
“Right. Before I knew it, chairs and bottles started flying. I seen bar fights before, and this was a bad one. LeMarvis, he seen how scared I was, and he left the fight and run to the stage. Stood like a shield between me and the fight until the cops got there. He apologized real nice. Said he felt responsible. He invited me out for a late supper and saw I got home safe. The next day, he called to ask me on a proper date.”
“That’s a great story. Now, about those emails—”
“You changed the subject again. Why ain’t you together with your girlfriend? What happened?”
Drinking my coffee, I gained control of my emotions—Lord knows I’d had enough practice doing that the last few months. “My girlfriend got angry because I put my clients first. She said I canceled one date too many for a client emergency, and she gave up on me.” That was true-ish. Maybe Cleo would buy it and get off the subject.
“Now, tell me about the threats.”
She set down her soda. “It’s some redneck country boys living in the past and talking whiskey talk. I wouldn’t pay it no mind, but LeMarvis…” She sighed. “He takes everything serious.”
“Does anyone you know want to harm you?”
“No. I don’t have no enemies.”
“Could it be someone you have a nagging suspicion about? Somebody who gives you a bad vibe?”
“Not really. I get along with everybody.”
“Is there anything in your past that might jump up to embarrass you or harm you?”
Cleo gazed out my window at the boulevard traffic. “Nope. I’ve led a pretty normal life.”
“What’s your background?”
She chuckled. “You being a private detective and all, I woulda figured you already read about me on my website.”
“I did, but marketing gurus write those things, so they’re usually full of BS. Besides, it said nothing about your family.”
“I ain’t seen my family in years.” She sipped her ginger ale.
The silence stretched as I waited to see if she would say more. She didn’t.
The wireless handset beeped and I picked it up.
“LeMarvis Jones is here,” Betty said. “I sent him your way.”
I stood as the door opened. The tallest man I had ever met ducked his head, bent his knees, and almost duckwalked into the room. My door is a standard six-feet-six-inches. When Tank Tyler comes over, he leans his head to one side. LeMarvis Jones folded his giant body. The Peregrines website listed LeMarvis as seven-foot-three.
I stuck out my hand. “Chuck McCrary.”
“LeMarvis Jones. Pleased to meet you.” His giant hand encircled mine.
“Take a seat. Is Betty getting you something to drink?”
“She offered, but I told her I was good.” He smiled at Cleo. “Hey, babe, sorry I’m late.” He bent low to kiss her on top of her head.
She beamed at him and the room lit up again. “That’s okay, honey. It’s raining hard enough to float a stump. I’m glad you made it safe.”
“Did you show Chuck the emails?” He took the chair between Cleo and me.
“There was more than one?” I asked.
“Three.” Cleo handed me three sheets of paper. “I printed them out. You can keep these. I keep the originals on my computer, or maybe they’re in the Cloud. Tech stuff confuses me.”
“Okay if I read these first?”
The emails were racist diatribes that white people and black people shouldn’t mix, let alone date. They predicted dire consequences to the human race and civilization if “mongrelization of the Caucazian race” continued. It read like an historical drama from before the Civil Rights Act passed—and that was before I was born. It was almost before my parents were born. In my head, I realized people such as the sender existed, but I had never met one. If I had, they had kept their opinions to themselves. When I finished reading, I smoothed out the printed sheets on the table and gazed at LeMarvis. “I presume Cleo showed these to you?”
