Chasing the tiger an int.., p.1
Chasing the Tiger: An International Mystery, page 1
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Good story.
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Also by Fritz Galt
Mick Pierce Spy Thrillers
Double Cross
Thunder in Formosa
The Geneva Seduction
Fatal Sting
Brad West Spy Thrillers
Destiny of the Dragon
Mind Control
The Shangri-la Code
International Thrillers
The Trap
China Gate
Comoros Moon (short stories)
International Mysteries
The Accidental Assassin
The Maltese Cross
The Canton Connection
Chasing the Tiger
Other Novels
Summerville
The Lost Cutlass
Chasing the Tiger
An International Mystery
Fritz Galt
Sigma Books
Chasing the Tiger
An International Mystery
© Copyright 2015 by Fritz Galt
All rights reserved.
Sigma-Books.com
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as expressing or representing the views of any U.S. government department or agency of any government body.
Note
This story says it’s about Errol Sweeney, but there’s no such person as Errol Sweeney.
You might have heard him mentioned in sensational and disturbing news stories from Europe and Asia. And people are still talking about him on CNN as well as the beaches of the Mediterranean, villas in Italy, markets in Bangkok and street corners in the seedier parts of town. But if you go looking for him, you won’t find him.
You see, Errol is a thing of the past. He was a small-town private eye on the East Coast. He was an avid sailor, a quiet neighbor and so eligible, it made women hurt.
But then it all went down.
It only took a couple of weeks for Errol Sweeney to burst onto the world stage then fall off the face of the earth, only to become an instant legend. Now he’s right up there with Bernie Goetz and Carlos the Jackal.
It was a frightening and exhilarating ride that he didn’t ask for. But in the end, he accepted his fate. He had to go.
At least, that’s what this journal says, the only account he left behind.
Strange how it all began as a simple act of generosity…
Chapter 1
“It’s missing. And I want you to find it.”
I stared into the two-car garage with a third bay built for a recreational vehicle.
There was a black Mercedes and a camper. But there was only an oil slick where another vehicle once sat.
“Fancy car?” I asked.
Joey Fonzo shook his prematurely balding head. “That’s the strange thing. It was my beater. The crook could have taken the Benz or Winnebago, but no, it was the 2008 Dodge Charger.”
“Go figure,” I said.
“That’s why I called you.”
I looked dubiously at the stubby young father standing before me. I was sure that with some hunting I could find the car. What I wasn’t so sure about was whether it would be worth my while to “go figure.”
“Joey, I’m not sure I’m the right person for this job,” I said, trying to be kind and candid at the same time.
I normally handled higher profile PI stuff, like delivering summons, finding bail bond jumpers, opposition research on candidates, marital investigations for divorce cases. The projects that involved rewards, PAC money, or at least alimony.
“How much was the car worth?”
“I’m not worried about the car,” he said, growing impatient. “Insurance can cover that. What I need you for is what was inside.”
“Okay,” I said, slowly drawing in my breath. “What was inside?”
“My wife!”
Chapter 2
Joey and his growing family were likely up to their eyeballs in mortgage payments for the small mansion they had squeezed into a 35-foot-wide lot. It was the kind of house that was all garage with a front door on the side.
He probably didn’t have the money to pay for an investigation, and just saw me as a neighbor.
But I was intrigued. Wives didn’t get stolen in this neighborhood.
Westfield, New Jersey, was too nice a town for something as sinister as a carjacking to take place. I guess I wasn’t really following Joey’s story.
“Was your wife driving the car?”
“Beats me. Here’s what I know. I come home, the kids are bawling, the garage door is open, and my car’s missing. And so is my wife.”
I looked over at my own house just down the wide street and under some trees. My garage door was closed, thank God, not that I had a wife to run away.
“Okay,” I said. “So did you call the cops?”
Joey shrugged. “I don’t want this in the papers. I’ve got my reputation to consider.”
I suppose running a limo service into and out of New York City required maintaining a good reputation.
I noticed the house was quiet. “Where are the little tykes now?”
“Up the street with my sister.”
“Good move. What does she know about this?”
“Nothing. And she’s not going to blab.”
I hesitated. Did Joey phone me fifteen minutes ago as I was preparing my Jameson Irish Mule for my Friday Happy Hour because he wanted to confide in a neighbor, or because he wanted a professional? Seeing as work was slow for me that summer, I hoped that he was more interested in my professional skills.
“Alright look,” I said. With the kids out of the way, we had some quality time to investigate his marriage. “Do you think this has to do with you and her?”
“What do you mean?”
Damn. I had hoped he would catch my drift. I guess Joey wasn’t the kind of husband to even consider a bad marriage, much less someone else banging his wife.
I looked into his dark, alarmed eyes.
“I didn’t mean anything by that,” I said. “I was just wondering if she had personal reasons for leaving.”
“Maybe she did. I don’t know. But that wouldn’t explain how long it’s been.”
I tried to size up the problem. With just a half-empty garage and a quiet house to go on, I needed more background.
“So how long has it been?” I asked, sucking in my breath.
“A month.”
I let the air out.
Well, this was a case after all.
“Any contact with her?”
“None.”
“Did she take any jewelry? Withdraw any money?”
“Not a thing. She just took the car and poof.”
A month was a long time. A long time for Joey to stew over the problem without letting anybody in on it. A long time for her to use her charge card.
“Have you checked your credit card account recently?” I asked.
“Yeah, she hasn’t used the credit or debit cards.”
My questioning was meant to help assure him that the case was undergoing a thorough, professional review. Instead, the more I asked, the more depressed he grew.
Soon he was sitting on the white concrete step that represented the front porch. Unless the neighbor was listening through the hedges, we were all alone.
“So the car disappeared the same day she did?”
“It was July 3rd, a Friday night. I got home from the office and the garage was open and the garage light had already gone out.”
“What were you driving?” I asked.
“I had the limo for a 5:30 a.m. pickup at LaGuardia.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“I walk in through the open garage door and the inside door is unlocked. I step into the kitchen and call for Louise, and there’s no answer. I just hear the two kids hungry and crying in the crib.”
The memory made him momentarily distraught. Then he went on.
“I had no idea where she might be. She’s such a responsible adult. I called her cell phone, and it was switched off. Later, I found it in our bedroom.”
He looked like he was on the verge of tears.
I still had trouble understanding his thought process. “And you didn’t report anything. Why?”
“I keep hoping…” he said.
“Still, a month?”
“You don’t understand. My business is 24/7, and it’s all by word of mouth.” He looked up at the enormous house behind him. “This was all built on my business.”
“But your wife had a job,” I said.
He nodded. “Journalist.” He didn’t say it with the normal amount of respect one might accord one’s spouse’s chosen career. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I love her to bits and she’s whip sharp, but why does everybody need a fu ll-time career?”
A single, mournful blast of a distant commuter train momentarily drew my attention.
I listened to the buzz of locusts clinging to the giant oak trees and smelled dinners cooking from all directions as house lights were turning on. Soon streetlights would glow at each intersection and the quiet commuter community would be tucked into their cozy beds in their second- and third-story bedrooms. Such a life came with a hefty price tag.
Including my life.
“Look, Joey,” I said. “I feel bad about this. But without any evidence of foul play, it’s just another missing persons case. I can track people down. But unless there’s insurance or bail money involved, I’m not sure you can afford me.”
Joey eased off one butt cheek and pulled a checkbook out of his seat pocket. “Money’s no object at this point,” he said. “Name your price.”
I tried to come up with an amount he couldn’t possibly afford. “Two thousand a day,” I said, figuring I’d include expenses.
He scrawled something on a check, ripped it out of the checkbook and handed it to me.
My eyes almost popped out. It read, “$60,000.”
“One month,” he said.
I stood up and we shook hands.
We had a deal.
Only, I didn’t know at the time how big a deal it would be. In the end, it involved the world’s largest drug cartels, a crazy, edge-of-your-seat trip around the world, romance in unexpected places, and an invitation to my own murder.
Chapter 3
I extracted out of Joey Fonzo some of the details about the car and his wife, then got to work in earnest the next day.
Never mind that it was a Saturday, two thousand bucks a day meant every day was a workday.
That meant no trip to Trader Joe’s, the boat harbor or even early Mass, which I hadn’t attended in years.
It was an off year for elections, so I had minimal staff. I would beef up the office next year to handle the “oppo” research paid for by candidates, which was my cushion during the lean years. In fact, my staff only consisted of one individual at the present time: Doreen Wiseman.
Now don’t get any ideas. Doreen and I aren’t a thing. She’s a grandmother from Elizabeth who just happens to be ruthless and relentless on the phone. I think shaking people down for information comes naturally to her because she just enjoys talking to people.
I had been lucky enough to find her on the receiving end of an investigatory call one day and saw the promise of channeling her skills on my behalf. The pol she was covering for let her enter my employ in exchange for my quashing the investigation of his illicit affair. We all benefited from the arrangement: me, Doreen, the politician and his mistress. I also spared his wife from learning what a true scumbag he was.
So I called in Doreen, and at 7:30 a.m., I could hear the sound of her 1990s-era Crown Victoria coughing to a halt below my Westfield office. I prayed that she wouldn’t rear end my sleek, scuba-blue Audi.
All the way into the building, she cussed out a double-parked patron of the espresso shop downstairs. That was Doreen.
She flew into the office with a whoosh and the scent of hairspray, the click of her heels and the heavy thud of her purse on her desk. She was breathing hard from the single flight of stairs.
“In here,” I summoned her into my office. “We need to huddle.”
She threw her cloud of red hair back and primped her cheeks as she strode in through my doorway.
“Take a—”
She was already seated.
“So, who’s paying for this one?” she asked, cutting to the chase.
“Joey Fonzo, a neighbor of mine.”
With that, she heaved a dramatic sigh and sank back off her perch on the edge of the chair. “You got me up at five a.m. on a Saturday morning for your neighbor? C’mon, Errol, you’re hurting, but not that bad.”
“Thanks for your kind analysis of my financial situation.”
“You’re welcome.”
I had to jump in fast to take control of the conversation before she took the reins.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Fonzo has paid in advance.”
She let out an ironic whistle of surprise.
“Two grand a day.”
That shut her up, for the moment.
I launched into the tale of Joey’s missing wife, Louise, the journalist. How she had been missing for four weeks, took the car, abandoned the kids, the whole sob story.
I expected Doreen to zero in on Louise’s lack of moral fiber, but instead she asked about her profession.
“Journalist, huh?” Doreen said, skeptical.
“So Joey says. I can’t say I’ve read anything by her.”
“Why would you? Maybe she’s not in the Star-Ledger.”
Doreen had a point. I spent most of my leisure time scouring the scandal sheets. If Louise had been preparing the graves for politicians who had it coming, I would have known about it. If there were a divorce in the offing, I would know about it.
“So who’s Joey Fonzo and why does he even deserve her?” Doreen shot out.
“Owns the local limo service. Hard working guy. They’ve got a big McMansion across the street from me.”
She rammed her painted-on eyebrows together. “And he’s got two grand to spend on you, per day?”
I waved the check in her face.
“See if it bounces.”
“I will,” I said defensively. “Later this morning.” Since we had the same local bank, I could see if the draft cleared.
“So, why would she leave a guy who’s that loaded?” she asked.
“That’s just it. Joey suspects that she was abducted.”
“Based on what?”
“Nothing that we can tell. No ransom demand, no contact with Joey by her or by kidnappers.”
“You don’t kidnap a journalist unless they’re poking their noses around some war zone like Syria.”
“I’m not saying kidnapped. Maybe she was otherwise detained.”
Doreen just stared at me.
“How about you get on the phone,” I said. “Figure out where she worked. The key is that Joey wants to keep this on the QT. So no direct calls to her employer, okay?”
“You want me to find her without calling her employer? What kind of a request is that?”
“Look, she disappeared four Fridays ago and Joey has kept a lid on this so far. We aren’t going to ruin our reputation for discretion now.”
“What reputation?”
I shrugged. “It sounded right when I said it.”
“Well, not when I heard it. What angle are you going to take?”
I was thinking about the missing late-model Charger.
Chapter 4
I swear, sometimes I wish I could be a cop. Armed with Joey’s Vehicle Identification Number and license plate number, I could ferret out where it was last seen, stopped, or sold.
But alas, I wasn’t a man in blue. Unless you consider my silk tie from Macy’s.
So I had to settle for the next best thing. I had the Internet.
Before I started looking for his car, I decided to run Joey’s wife through all the public databases. I typed a few relevant bits of information and the computer began to search the web for DUI and DWI records, criminal records, court records, warrants, and, God forbid, death records.
Unfortunately, Louise Fonzo hadn’t been drinking and driving, committed a crime, appeared in court or been served a warrant. She was as clean as a whistle. And not dead.
So, how about the car? At the Department of Motor Vehicles website, I typed in the Charger’s VIN and license number to see if it had been involved in any arrests, car thefts, accidents, insurance claims or sales. The computer ground away for several seconds, looking through gobs of records.
Sadly, the vehicle, like Louise, had vanished. Or at least evaded public scrutiny.
This called for a deeper dive, and my specialty: private investigation.
I had no fancy criminal record databanks, and the public records turned up empty. But I had the next best thing. As a private businessman, I wasn’t restrained by a code of conduct required of those in the public trust.
