Lemons 01 Darkness Once More Read online

  “Come on, man, this is ridiculous, let’s get out of here,” Enzite said to Anderson.

  “You can leave, Douchebag,” I said, then in my best Irish brogue, “Just don’t trip over your pot of gold on the way out.” Then back to Anderson, I gave him a shoulder shrug, “Up to you, man. I’m pursuing, regardless.”

  I could see the strained look on Anderson’s face. This was the hardest thinking he’s done in a while, I could tell. I don’t know why he is convinced I murdered my wife and right now, I really don’t give a shit. I’m diving headfirst into this case, no matter what. I will lie to Mrs. Fick.

  “Alright, Lemons. I don’t like you but I’ll go along with you on this one. Who knows, maybe you’ll fuck up and I’ll nail you.”

  “Thanks for the words of encouragement, Detective. Let’s go.”

  “And tell me, Mr. Wizard, where do you think we should start?”

  “Let’s start at the hospitals. Pretty sure you can’t buy succinylcholine over the counter yet.”

  7.

  The impromptu meeting at Amanda Colley’s house had ended on a high note for me. Of course, I would have preferred to have not had a reason for the meeting in the first place, but since I can’t change the past, this was a good way for me to move forward. For the first time since my wife died, I felt a small surge of excitement flow through my body. I was told to go home and wait for the toxicology report on Ms. Colley’s body so we could be sure we were headed in the right direction. I was assured there would be a rush put on it and that Detective Anderson and Detective Dickstretch would contact me as soon as they had the information.

  I decided to go back to the office instead of going home. I needed to get to work on Monica Fick’s case. I needed to call her, too. A task to which I was not looking forward. I remembered I was out of Rockstars at the office and pulled into the next mini-mart I came across, a place called King Liquor. A store I have passed a thousand times but never felt the desire to step foot in. Once inside, I realized my previous decisions to never come here had been good ones. It had to be at least eighty-five degrees in here. I understand that it is cold outside, but my god! I’m supposed to buy cold drinks from a place that feels like Orlando in mid-July? And ghetto! This place was so fucking ghetto even I gave thought to robbing it! But alas, I chickened out and just followed the rows of beer to the fridges in the back and reached for a few Sugar-Free Rockstars. Apparently, these fridges were fridges in appearance only as the drinks I pulled out seemed warmer than the air in the store. I glanced to the fridge door to the left and noticed there were no blue mountains on the Coors Light cans. Eff this place, man.

  I turned to head to the cashier and noticed a man standing by some cheap bottles of wine, pretending to be really interested in them. He must have come in right after me. Maybe he was giving the same thought to robbing this place as I was. I made it to the cashier and put my drinks on the counter. The angry-looking Indian fella took my drinks and put them in a bag, making sure to shake them as much as possible for me. I glanced towards the wine guy and saw him heading towards the checkout counter, too, then right after he passed the door two young uniformed police officers walked in to get some refreshments, apparently. The clerk acknowledged the two cops while continuing to ignore me. I grabbed my bag and turned to leave, accidentally bumping into the man who had been trying so hard to act naturally. He looked familiar.

  “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” I asked.

  “Fuck off,” he answered.

  “Thank you very much.” Maybe he really was going to rob this place. I’m not sticking around to find out. I kept my head down the entire way to my car, got in and high-tailed it out of that hell-hole

  Back at the office with a fridge fully stocked with the world’s most expensive Sugar-Free Rockstars, I sit at my desk and go through my notes on Monica Fick’s case. Just the basics on her husband. His name was David Fick, age forty-four. Gambling problems. I was told that would be my best lead. He headed to Vegas often and often lost. His casino of choice over there was the Wynn, a super classy, five-star hotel near the north end of the strip, with high minimums and even higher maximums. A place for someone to easily get into a lot of financial trouble.

  When he wasn’t gambling in Vegas, I was told he frequented a few Indian casinos that were nearby. While these places were not as nearly glamorous and glitzy as the fancy Vegas casinos, they would take your money just the same and not even offer you the free booze to take the sting away. He also had a habit at hanging out at the OTB, often losing large sums of money on the horses. Another place I would need to check out. However, before I do anything I needed to make a call.

  “Mrs. Fick, this is Archie Lemons.”

  “Yes, hi. How are you?”

  “I’m doing okay, ma’am, I just wanted to tell you I will not be having any more contact with my previous client and I am holding your file in my hand as we speak, ready to get started for you.” Totally not a lie!

  “Fantastic, Mr. Lemons. I knew I could count on you. And I want to apologize for the way I acted before. I am very upset and worried, and just want to know where my husband is. If he is dead, like I suspect, then I need to know as soon as possible. Forgive me?”

  “Of course. Your frustration was very understandable. Believe me, I know.” And just like in the movies, I hung up. I’m getting this action-hero thing down. No time for goodbyes! Time to get into action!

  My phone started ringing. It was Monica Fick. I answered.

  “Mr. Lemons, I believe our call must have been dropped. You were saying…?”

  Backfire!

  “Oh, just that, um, I’m going to get to work on your case now and I’ll be in contact with you again soon.”

  “Oh, very well. Good luck. Have a nice afternoon.”

  “Um, oh, you too Mrs. Fick. Ta-ta.”

  Ta-ta?! I go from Bruce Willis Badass to Ta-fucking-ta?!

  I studied the information I had on David Fick for a while, making notes along the way on where to start and questions to ask, before I moved my attention back towards the Colley women.

  I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I put down the files and allowed my body to completely melt into my chair. I checked the local news on my phone to see if they had printed anything about the story the police gave them about the death of Amanda Colley. We decided it would be best for the investigation for the police and the coroner to agree on a death by natural causes ruling, with no mention of my name or any other details. The news didn’t bother to print it. Maybe they didn’t care about Amanda Colley, but I did. I just needed a little rest first. I dozed off for a few hours and was awoken by a phone call from Anderson.

  “Detective?”

  “You were right, Arch.”

  Oh, I’m ‘Arch’ now, huh?

  He continued. “Suck…key-fucky-chlorine it is. We have us a murder case.”

  “Let’s rock and roll!”

  8.

  Have you ever noticed that there are no real great one-liners in life? Never once has the opportunity arrived where I could stab someone with a huge knife and literally pin him to the wall with it just so I could say, “Stick around.” And somehow, I’ve never gotten to throw a huge pipe through someone’s chest, have it come out his back and into a metal furnace, so steam literally is coming out of the guy so I can say, “Let off some steam, Bennett.” I don’t know, I’m just thinking about this for some reason. I often say Yippee Kay Ay, Motherfucker, but it never really fits and it never really sounds as badass as when John McClane says it. Oh well. Maybe one day I’ll get my own oneliner. Until then, I’ll stick to my Seinfeld quotes. I can always fit some of those in. Okay well, for now I’ll just get back to work re-filing all of these notes from my past cases.

  A lot of people don’t know just how much note taking is involved in private investigating. We have to note everything. If we’re ever called to testify for a case we worked, we have to be organized and ready. I have shelves and shelves of notebooks f
illed with these notes, much more than I would ever need for a case. I may be a crappy writer but I can take notes like nobody’s business. I noticed one of my notebooks was in the wrong spot so I decided to take them all off the shelf and completely reorganize them. It’s time for a completely new filing system. Why not? I told Detective Anderson I would meet up with them at 6 o’clock at a local coffee shop. That gave me almost 2 hours and I needed something to kill the time. Actually, I needed to work on David Fick but that out-of-place file would have haunted me. How did that even get in the wrong spot to begin with?

  I’ll worry about that later. Right now I’m clicking letters into place on my crappy old-school style label maker and re-labeling all these binders. I peel the backing off the plastic tape with a file name punched onto it and try my best to stick it to the binding as straight as possible. Not even close. I can never get these goddamn things straight and they’re impossible to get off. Ugh!

  I’m attempting to line up a new label, (slightly straighter this time but still a pathetic effort), and my phone rings. I reach across the floor for it and answer.

  “Archie Lemons”

  “Lemons, where the fuck are you?” It’s Detective Anderson. “It’s goddamn 6:45!”

  Holy shit, I hate when I focus on something and lose all track of time! “Holy shit!”

  “Getcherass down here!”

  “On my way!”

  I finished with my files before I left. I had to. I couldn’t leave a mess like that. Like I said…HAUNT ME! But, shortly after my conversation with Anderson, I finished up and was on my way to the lobby. I flirted with taking the elevator but I couldn’t risk it. Too small. What if someone else got in right when the doors were about to close? Disaster! That’s why my office is on the second floor, anyway. I pushed the door open from the stairwell and made my way towards the parking garage. I hear the theme from Magnum PI again.

  “Archie Lemons.”

  “Archie. It’s me, Elise.”

  Sweet Elise. World’s best sister-in-law.

  “Hi E!”

  “I just wanted to check up on you. See how you were holding up. I hadn’t heard from you since the funeral.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I was pretty bad for a while.”

  “I was afraid of that.” She seemed genuinely concerned for me. It was good to know I could still count on her to be there for me, even though she really didn’t need to. Her sister was dead and she could cut ties with me at any time. She chose to stick with me. In addition, she never once doubted me. That shows a lot about her character.

  “It’s okay, Elise. I’m doing better. I started back at work and I’m even working two cases right now. I think Marianne would be proud.”

  “I know she is proud of you, Arch. So am I.”

  I made my way through the parking garage and arrived at my car. I briefly filled Elise in on the case and my meeting with the detectives. Not details, though. She seemed impressed and wished me the best of luck. She even invited me over for dinner next week sometime if I was free. She said the kids missed me. Sigh. The kids. The closest to having my own kids now was being uncle to Elise’s two. They’re such absolute bundles of joy. I’ve never had much interest in children until I met them. They are the reason I was so excited to have my own daughter. Feels weird saying that. My Daughter. I never even got to meet her but I love her so much it gives me stomach pains.

  I told Elise that no matter what, I would make time for them. Nothing could be more important. The only blood relatives I have left are a bald asshole of an uncle, his fat, oddly shaped wife and their selfish bitch thirty-three year old daughter, my cousin. They live an hour and a half away and still didn’t even bother to show up for my wife’s funeral. I had decided that I would be the best uncle I could possibly be to my nephews. No one deserves an uncle as shitty as the one I have. I’ll make up for it by being extra awesome!

  I was just about to end the call when I got in my car and turned the key. Nothing.

  “Um, one more thing, E. Do you mind calling Triple-A again for me?”

  “Again?”

  “Ugh, I know. I’m sorry.”

  She laughed, “It’s okay, that’s why I pay for their crappy membership. Someone may as well use it. You really should think about getting rid of that piece of crap, though! That’s twice this month. Why don’t you just use Marianne’s car?”

  “Hey hey, me and this car have had some pretty good times together. Besides, it’s just the battery. I promise I’ll buy a new one this week!”

  “Car?”

  “Nice try. A battery. Thanks E. I’m at my office. Shoot me a text after you call them.”

  “No sweat, Arch. Please take care.”

  “I will, sis. Don’t worry. And thanks again.”

  “You owe me!”

  While sitting on the trunk of my car I called Detective Anderson to tell him I was going to be even later. He didn’t seem pleased with me but got over it fairly quickly when I told him we could meet at a real coffee house instead of a shitty diner-style coffee shop, and all his drinks would be on me to make up for my tardiness. He agreed and we set a new location for our meeting.

  After I hung up with him, I scrolled through my contacts and dialed up my buddy Jack who worked rather high up for the local paper. We needed something in the news about the ‘accidental death’ of Amanda Colley. He picked up after four rings.

  “Jackson Webb,” he answered.

  “Jackson! Archie! What’s up, my man?”

  “Well well, look who it is. I haven’t seen you since the funeral. What have you been up to?”

  “Not bad.” Ugh, pay attention. This answer does not fit his question. I hate when that happens. Like when you go to the theater and the ticket-taker says to you ”Enjoy your movie,” and you respond with ”You too!” Really idiot? You too!?

  He didn’t seem to notice the mistake.

  “Good good man, I worry about ya, ya know. You weren’t looking too good at the funeral.”

  “Yeah well, ya know, my dead wife was kinda lying in front of me, ya know…”

  “Sorry Arch, that’s not what I meant, man. What can I do ya for?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Shoot”

  “Earlier today a woman died in her house, in her bathtub actually. A detective gave a story to a reporter from your paper and I checked the online site and there is no mention of it, yet.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jackson, I really need this published. Even if it’s just a little blurb. It is for a case, you’d be doing me and the PD a favor here.”

  “Sure Arch. I can squeeze it in somewhere. What was the reporter’s name, do you remember?”

  I gave it to him and he assured me he would track him down and fit the story in tomorrow morning’s edition. “Thanks man. I really appreciate this.”

  “You owe me one!”

  While I was still waiting on crappy Triple-A’s even-crappier crappy tow service, I decided to make one last call. Again, I scrolled through my contacts list and landed on Max Raddich, childhood friend and employee of the BPD Records Department. I decided to dial Max’s cell number.

  “Hello,” he answered, obviously without bothering to check the I.D.

  “Yes, I am looking for a Mister Buster Cherry. Do you know where I might find him?

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Oh, my name is Michael J. Cocks and I was interested in doing some work with him.”

  These were our made-up porno names. We came up with them when we were twelve years old. You can tell how much we have matured since then.

  “Archie Lemons! How ya been man? I haven’t heard from you since…”

  “Since the funeral. I know. I kinda went in to hiding.”

  We then covered the same information that I realized I would be covering with every single person I talked to from this point on in my life who attended my wife’s funeral. When that was finally over, I got down to business.

  “I was ca
lling to see if you could do me a favor. I need a background check on someone.”

  “Sure thing, buddy. I’m not at work right now though. It for a case? Can it wait til morning?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured him. “And yeah, it’s for a case. Subjects name is David Fick. F.I.C.K.”

  “Ha, does he have firecrotch?”

  “Not sure, but his wife sure does. Or did? I dunno.” I giggled a bit and said aloud, but to myself, “Fire crotch.” We’re twelve years old. “Actually I don’t really have much to go on aside from the name. I don’t even have a picture yet, I’m just going on the basic information his wife gave me at this point. I guess he was pretty heavy into gambling. Vegas, Indian casino, OTB, you know. If you could bet on it, he bet on it.”

  “So what’s this guy’s problem? Is he into it with some sharks?”

  “That’s just the thing. We don’t know. The wife is actually assuming he’s dead. I guess she’s convinced he would never leave her and he’s never been gone this long before. Can you just run the name and give me anything you come back with?”

  “Sure thing, man. What’ve you got cookin’ in the meantime?”

  “I’m working another missing person’s case. An eighteen-year-old girl. Shit just turned hinky on it, too. And just like every character in a crappy George Lucas script, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “You want me to run the girl, too?”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. The name is Mallory Colley.” I spelled it for him. “Mother’s name is Amanda Colley. No father that I know of. You mind running them both?” I looked up and saw a tow-truck headed my way.

  “No problem, man. I’ll call ya tomorrow.”

  “My ride is here. Thanks again, Buster.”