The Black Widow

The Black Widow

Jerry Travis

Copyright © 2008 by Jerry Travis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

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

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Nights thoughts. Five more and I can escape from this life to a life of freedom and ease, to live as expensively as I want for the rest of my life. Only five more. It would have been only four more if that bigmouth hadn’t hung up on me. The arrogance of the man. Well, he isn’t arrogant anymore, is he?

And now I have another one who isn’t willing to pay. And he can well afford what I’m asking. It would be like buying another car for him, a Ferrari Enzo listed at exactly what I’m asking. He has one of those, a fire-red beast he likes to tool around in, and five or six less expensive he uses for his non-tooling trips. This time I’m going to vary my approach and do a number on the red Ferrari as well as his little toy wife. Two for the price of one. He’ll wish he’d paid me.

Precisely at 1:00 a.m. Predictable. Not too early, not too late. Must never overstay our visit, my dear. One last after-dinner brandy and then we go, waving to our host and hostess from our million-dollar Ferrari.

Through the glasses I watched him drive up the long approach to the house. Well, house is hardly adequate. Castle, mansion, mausoleum . . . crypt. All would be appropriate, especially that last. The red of the auto looked almost black in the night light, but as he neared the front entrance the lights above the overhang revealed the Ferrari red and the glitter like diamonds of the chrome and glass.

I readied the rifle against my shoulder, adjusted the scope, followed the auto as it drew to a stop. A young man sprang down the entry steps to take over the Ferrari and put it away with the collection of other cars the man owned.

Ready now, steady now. The young man opened the passenger door and helped the woman out, then rushed to the driver’s side to bow the man from the car. The young man got in the car. Too bad. He’s just a servant like me. But the car must go. He pulled away slowly. I let him get a safe distance away from the couple, about eighty yards. They were lingering near the entry steps, probably admiring the rear of their lovely, expensive Ferrari Enzo. That’s when I punched a tracer round into the location of the gas tank. There was a sudden WHUMP and then a blossom of fire as the car died, spraying fiery bits in all directions. The couple stood frozen in shock as they watched the demise of the young man and the red Ferrari Enzo. I’m sure the auto caused them more concern than the young man.

I aimed then at the woman, the back of her lovely head, flowing blond hair carefully coifed and highlighted against the black cocktail dress. A head shot. I wanted the experience for the man to be as painfully agonizing as possible, for him to know with the explosion of his lovely wife’s face and features that he had made a big mistake when he ignored my rather simple request. He will become valuable public relations for the next ones on my list. I may have no need to kill again, although the killing is an important part of the thrill.

Breathe in, release half, soft and steady pull on trigger. And then gone, woman sprawling forward like a broken doll, bonelessly falling, arms loose at her sides. The man appeared to scream as he knelt to turn the fallen woman.

Ah, what a satisfying sight it was. I could read his agony through the scope and was momentarily tempted to place one between his agonized eyes. But that would not serve my purpose, tempting as it was. I needed his agony. I needed him alive, not dead. I needed him to realize and forever regret his decision not to give me one stinking million dollars from the many thousands of millions he must have.

Five to go.

Chapter 2

He was at loose ends. Eight o’clock on a cool November evening, and he was sitting in his living room, thinking dark thoughts about his life and the way it wasn’t going, having a solitary Scotch on the rocks. Out his window to the west, spindly palms inked vertical lines against the dark sky, a few thunderheads hanging over what was probably Wickenburg. Not much rain in November in Arizona, but if anyone got dumped on, it would be Wickenburg. He felt like he had a few thunderheads over him too. Joe Btfsplk II.

Loose ends, and loose beginnings, and loose thoughts. Dark thoughts about times and loves past. And the November sky was gloomy enough to match his mood. Deep sigh.

Colter Harrison Frazier, or Colt to nearly all those who knew him, was a private investigator barely making enough to keep him afloat. His apartment in Scottsdale said very little about his personality, the inner Colt: two bedrooms, two baths, a small living room with dining area off a tiny kitchen. Half-wall with counter and bar stools between the kitchen and living room. Tan walls everywhere with a few prints he admired, a large Mondrian called Broadway Boogie Woogie on the south wall of the living room—yellow, white, red, and blue squares, with yellow predominating. He’d often stare at it in quiet moments, trying to figure out why the artist had chosen the name. He never got close to an answer. But his admiration for Broadway theatre led him to buy half a dozen prints to sprinkle around the place, giving some life to the otherwise drab walls. Flanking the Mondrian were The Phantom of the Opera and South Pacific. Hamlet stared down from the north wall, holding the skull of Yorick, his look saying, Alas… I knew him well. The poignant French child in Les Miserables—hair of red, white, and blue, face reflecting the anguish of the French Revolution—decorated the right wall of the hall leading to one of the bedrooms, with Wicked and Carousel on the opposite wall.

His furniture was made up of used pieces picked up from various household sales, a leather sofa on the north, opposite a plasma high-def television set beneath the Mondrian. Two ratty overstuffed chairs and two slightly damaged end tables on each side of the sofa. A hanging basket of plastic plants from Michael’s in each corner of the south wall, the multi-colored green leaves showing traces of Arizona dust. Colt wasn’t the neatest of housekeepers, but then, what was a little dust on his artificial plants. A little dust on his artificial life. Not much to look at, but home to Colt.

He used the guest bedroom as an office—desk, computer, two 3-drawer filing cabinets he no longer used for files, since computers were so good for storing everything but the hard copy stuff one invariably had to save, three tall bookcases for copies of books he picked up here and there, some he had read and wanted to keep for the day he might like to reread them, others as fodder for long lonely nights. Among those he was saving were his favorites—Huck Finn, Thoreau’s Walden, The Great Gatsby, Catch-22, The Catcher in the Rye, and the complete series of Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder. God, he loved Scudder. He knew he probably wouldn’t read the favorites again but he couldn’t bring himself to throw or give them away. And the fodder books were too numerous to ever get read in his lifetime. But one always had to keep a reserve. In case he lived to be a hundred. Hah, he thought, that’s never gonna happen. Lucky to make it to sixty-five, the retirement benchmark for most people, still four years away for Colt. But then, he thought, he might not make that number either. In fact, all too often lately, he’d had dark thoughts about not waiting for his next birthday, dark images he could envision on his ceiling when he lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, a bed too empty now.

Another deep sigh. He moved to the rack of cd’s beneath the tv, looked through them, and finally settled on an early Carmen and a late Carmen. Carmen McCrae in her youth had a crystal clear voice that was wonderful, and then life caught up with her and her voice took on that boozy, smoky quality similar to Sinatra’s in the sixties, and then it was better than wonderful. He could use some of the crystal numbers, along with a tall Scotch rocks, for loosening up his loose ends, and then later mellow out with her in the smoke and booze of Ratso’s.

He put on an oldie, a cd from the mid-fifties called Blue Moon, and listened to My Foolish Heart and Until the Real Thing Comes Along. Good as they sounded with Carmen at her youthful best, they were just too close to the dark places that preoccupied him lately. So he went to the boozy side from late in her career and heard I Fall in Love Too Easily and Here’s That Rainy Day. Whoa! Still too close. They reminded him of all his old lost flames, lost to untimely death or lost because they couldn’t live with a cop who was too close to violence, or an ex-cop turned p.i. who was too close to violence.

So he tried to pull himself up with one from Carmen at Ratso’s, Tain’t Nobody’s Business, and he felt better.

She was singing the last of it, nobody’s business, what I do, when he heard a quiet knock on his door. He glanced at his watch, eight-thirty, and he couldn’t imagine who might be calling on him at this time of night. Certainly not someone interested in hiring him, and his social contacts were almost non-existent.

He opened the door and there was a face he hadn’t seen in years, Amber Grayne, from way back when she was dancing in one of the clubs downtown. Pole dancing, that is.

Amber, what a sight for sore old eyes. Come in, come in.

She was wearing red short-shorts and a black tee that said in yellow, Dancers Have the Best Buns. A black leather jacket was slung over one shoulder, her hedge against the chill in the air. She, as he and nearly everyone else he knew, was quite a bit older than when he’d first met her, but she still had that dancer’s body, still that vibrancy that seemed to shine from her face. He did some quick arithmetic and decided she was around thirty-two. He had first met her when she was twenty-four, with a face that could stop men in their tracks, and a body to go with it. A dancer’s body. Long blond hair down to there and she would twirl it around her as she danced, legs from there to the floor. Her face now had a few lines along the eyes and the corners of her mouth, but she was still beautiful.

Her real name was Marilyn Schlotz, so it wasn’t any wonder she’d taken a stage name. He remembered once when he’d asked about the name Amber Grayne. She told him about a guy at the bar who’d asked her what her middle name was and she told him, straight-faced, Wayvza. She told him it was an old family name from when her ancestors lived in Poland. And the guy bought it. Amber Wayvza Grayne. Patriotic as hell. Another time, a guy asked the same question and she told him her old man once worked on a whaler in the Pacific and was so impressed with whales, he named her Amber Griss Grayne. Her old man, she said, had a sense of humor, but the guy never caught on.

She sat in one of the chairs, bounced a little as if testing the springs.

Jeez, Colt, you gotta get some new furniture. This stuff looks like Good Will throwaways. Looks like shit. She smiled up at him, a twinkle in her eye. But good, but good, she said, reminding him of that old joke about the cowpokes who would have to switch cooking duties if anyone complained.

I know, I know, but it suits my ascendancy to old age.

Oh, shoot, Colt, you’re still one of the toughest cookies I ever met. Let’s just say you’re really mature.

He wiggled his glass at her. Can I fix you something?

I’d have a beer if you’ve got it. I’m not much of a drinker anymore, but a beer sounds good.

He went to the kitchen and found a can of Bud Light and a mug from the freezer, thought for a moment and then refreshed his drink while he was there.

He popped the can and poured for her, then handed her the mug. She sipped and then looked up at him over the mug, the fingers of her left hand playing something against the icy glass. She seemed nervous, or maybe it was just the old Amber tingle in the air.

It’s been… what… six years since I last saw you? What have you been doing, Amber, still dancing?

Yeah, but no poles. Not for a long time, actually since you did me that big favor. Now I do some of the choreography for several dinner theatres in the Valley. And whenever a show calls for an older broad who can act and sing a little, and dance better than any of the others in the show, they stick me in. Not a career exactly, but I like what I do, and it makes me enough to live pretty comfortably. She patted the chair arm and a tiny dust cloud rose up. And I sure as hell have better furniture than you do. Cleaner too.

She was willing to go on, but he cut her off before she could catch her breath for more.

Okay, Amber, I love seeing you again, but there must be some other reason than catching up on old times that brought you here. What is it?

She bit her bottom lip and looked down, then back up to look him in the eye, brow furrowed with thought, or memory.

I remember what you did for me, the way you handled it and the way you handled yourself. I’ve never seen anyone so… efficient at what they do. You remember?

Certainly I remember, Amber. How could I forget? He remembered all right.

He knew her from when she was dancing at The Blue Room, over on Shea Boulevard. He would come in to roust a suspect in some crime he was investigating or to locate a snitch, and she’d be there, doing a slow, exotic turn around one of the poles, wearing only bikini panties. But she was never one to do the raunchy moves her sister pole dancers did. Her style was more beautiful than erotic, and many of her fans thought more about taking her home to mama than what it would be like to get into those skimpy panties.

On one of her breaks she spotted him at the end of the bar and came over, wearing a floor-length white robe. She told him once she hated walking around nearly nude. The dancing was one thing, but after the dance she wanted the robe.

Howdy, officer. You slummin’ or did you come to see me dance? she asked. She raised a hand to signal the bartender.

Colt gave her a quick smile and a pat on the cheek. Nah, Amber, I’m not slumming and I specifically came to see you. I always come in this joint to see you. When in hell you gonna get outta here?

Come on, Colt. You know I can’t just ‘get outta here,’ as you’ve been asking for almost two years now. Too many debts and no better way to pay them off. I’m getting close. Maybe another year is all. Haven’t seen much of you lately. What’s going on?

The Blue Room, as the name so obviously suggested, used blue lighting throughout, with five or six soft pink spots for the dancers. Amber’s white robe looked baby blue as she sat down on a stool next to him. Colt signaled the bartender for another draft. He brought the beer and a tall brown something for Amber, probably Coke, and she drank a long swallow, then set it on the bar in front of her.

Ahh, she said, I needed that. I don’t do anything very strenuous up there, but it makes me thirsty as hell. She swung around to face him, then leaned back to examine his face. I’ll ask it again, why haven’t I seen you for way too long?"

I’ve been busy starting a new business. You knew I retired from the force last spring, didn’t you?

She nodded.

Just didn’t want to put up with the political crap anymore and I had more than enough years in to get a pretty good pension, enough for me to live on if I didn’t get too rambunctious. But after four months of it, I decided I needed some hobby other than golf. So I opened an office in Glendale, put out some ads, and here I am, Mike Hammer at your service.

Who the hell is Mike Hammer? she asked, taking another large swallow of her soda.

He chuckled softly, "Yeah, you’re way too young to remember Mike Hammer and his quick gun. It was a series of tough-guy detective novels by Mickey Spillane. Started coming out in the late Forties, early Fifties, and set the tone for hundreds of other aspiring writers who wanted to get in on the pulp fiction bonanza. In fact, the first one, I, the Jury, came out the year I was born."

You’re right, I’m way too young for Mike whatsisname. That’s back in prehistoric times, isn’t it? And if you were born way back there, you must be some kinda dinosaur. She laughed and gave him a little chuck under his chin. There, there, old guy, you’re still pretty handsome for a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

So far, I haven’t had a lot of business, a few divorce cases where I tail one or the other and take pictures, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I guess I miss the excitement of being a cop. He drank the rest of his beer and held the glass up to the bartender.

He looked to the right where the other girls were doing their thing, about twenty half-drunk guys howling like dogs, as close to the action as they could get without being up there with them, stuffing bills into g-strings. He turned back to Amber.

What’s new with you, Amber?

She chewed at a fingernail, thinking about how she was going to say it. Well, Colt, I seem to have a problem you could maybe help me with. I’ve got some schmuck who’s been sending me notes about what he’d like to do to me. She made a face and went on. "He doesn’t want to do it with me, just to me. And most of what he says is pretty ugly."

Sounds scary, right?

Yeah, scary, all right.

How does he get these notes to you?

I found some of them under the wiper blade on my car, and twice he put them in my mail box at the apartment. God, I hate finding them. He doesn’t sign them or anything, and I can’t figure out who it could be. He’s gotta come in here where he sees me, but it could be any of hundreds who come around. She was shaking her head slowly, a pained expression as she looked beyond him, gazing inwardly at what the notes described.

You have the notes?

Yes.

"I’ll need to see them, have them fingerprinted. Did you handle them much?

No, I kinda thought you’d want them clean, so I held them by the edges and slipped them in an envelope. They’re on cheap yellow notebook paper, printed in caps with black ink. I’ve got them in the dressing room. You wait here and I’ll go get them.

She left him there and he glanced casually around the room, trying to spot anyone who might be paying them more than ordinary attention. Nobody.

Amber came back and handed him a manila envelope. He opened it and looked inside, a small sheaf of folded yellow papers. He took a pen from his jacket pocket and fished out one of the notes, unfolding it on the bar with the pen.

AMBER, I WATCH YOU DANCE AND YOU MAKE ME SO HOT. I WANT TO GET YOU TO MYSELF AND EAT YOUR FLESH. NOT EVEN COOKED. I’D WANT YOU RAW.

All caps written with a black medium-tip marker. Well, he said, he doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does he?

Amber nodded, working on the finger. He scares the shit outta me, Colt.

I’ll take them with me and read the rest later. I assume they’re all pretty much the same?

No, she whispered, they’re worse than that one.

Have you noticed anyone in particular, maybe here more often than others, or who seems to be looking at you even when you’re not on stage?

No, and believe me I’ve been trying to spot him, anyone who looks strange. I mean, this guy’s gotta be weird to write stuff like that. She looked around the room, once again trying to identify any crazy who might be watching them.

Notice anyone on the street when you go to your car? Or anyone hanging around outside your apartment?

Nobody. And I’m keeping my eyes open all the time. Nobody.

"All right, I’ll do what I can to stop this guy. First I have to