A Smoking Gun

Prologue

Joan Cubrik set about her weekly ritual of house keeping. It wasn’t something she necessarily enjoyed but she knew that if she didn’t keep on top of it the house would quickly become, as she put it, a disaster area.

The wooden single-hung windows on the nearly hundred-year-old craftsman-style home on Bright Avenue didn’t fit well. Dust constantly blew through the cracks and crevices. Much of it congregated visibly on the white windowsills but the balance of it found its way into the rest of the house.

It was a constant chore but what could she do? Old houses, as anyone who has lived in one knows, come with their own quirks. You learn to live with it. Besides, the Whittier Historical Society is a formidable force in town. There’s only so much in the way of renovation that they would allow a homeowner to do.

She could hear the lawnmower from out in the yard as Stanley performed one of his few weekly chores. Initially she had worried that operating a power mower might prove to be too dangerous but he took to it like a champ. Once he got the hang of it he really seemed to enjoy the work. She didn’t mind that at all. It was one less chore to do around the house.

Having Stanley move in with her had been a good thing. She worried that he’d be a handful but that hadn’t proved to be the case. She also wondered what the ladies at church had thought – a divorced woman having a young man living with her. None of them had been bold enough to voice an opinion directly but from experience she knew that attending a small church was like living in a small town. Once gossip got started it was hard to put a stop to it.

Whenever Joan did housework she would get distracted. While dusting in the living room, she would find the TV remote. She would stop dusting to take the remote into the den where it belonged. In the den she would find the cordless phone, which belonged in the kitchen. Forgetting all about the dusting to take the phone back into the kitchen. Once in the kitchen she would stop to wash the dishes that had piled up in the sink.

Only after drying and putting away the last glass did she remember that she forgot to finish dusting the living room. She hung up the dishtowel and turned around to find herself staring into the dark barrel of a gun.

The gun looked so big that for a moment she could see nothing else. She had never in her life seen a real gun so close let alone to have one pointed at her. It was only when she overcame her initial shock that she realized she knew the person who was about to kill her. And that was the most confusing part about it.

Chapter 1

As a general rule my mornings are a ritual. I go for a ride on my bike. I get a shower. Then I head into the office where I drink coffee while I read the morning paper. I know what you’re thinking, what could be in the newspaper that wasn’t on the Internet three days ago, right? Of course you’re right, for the most part. But the Whittier Daily News is a local paper. It covers events happening in and around Whittier that you’ll never see on the Internet or the TV news.

Besides, like I said, it’s a ritual. It’s a habit. And habits, for better or worse, are hard to break. And let’s face it; a guy could have worse habits, right? Just ask my ex-wife. She’ll tell you all about some of mine. On second thought no, don’t ask her.

I’ve never been much of a big breakfast eater so a cup of coffee and maybe a doughnut or a bagel will usually suffice. Roz, my secretary, is always on my case about that but what can I say? She says that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I don’t know about that. I think the most important meal is the one you eat when you’re the most hungry.

Roz was at her desk looking fresh as a daisy when I walked in. Although, now that I think about it, I don’t know what’s particularly fresh about a daisy as opposed to say a rose or a carnation. She looked good is what I’m trying to say.

Roz and I have known each other for over a decade and have been working together almost that long. She’s a real stand up kind of lady and I mean that with the sincerest respect. If she would just consent to marrying me I could die a happy man.

Roz Vasquez is tall for a Mexican woman – about five-seven. She has hazel eyes and the most beautiful long brown hair that you’ve ever seen. As far as I know she has been engaged to be married no less than three times. She broke it off each time. Somewhere in the world there are three very heart-broken guys.

To say that she is my secretary is something of a misnomer. She works for me, sure. But does that make her mine? Not hardly. Not on my best day.

You see, Roz is owned by no man. I’m pretty sure that’s a big reason why she never married. She likes her independence and, so far, hasn’t been willing to part with it.

It’s not that she’s selfish. Don’t get me wrong. She’s actually one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. She’d literally give me the shirt off her back. Ok, well maybe not literally because it wouldn’t fit. And besides it wouldn’t look nearly as good on me as it does on her. But you get my point.

“You have a client waiting in your office,” she told me.

Fantastic. The morning was starting off on the right foot. Before going into my office I grabbed a cup of coffee. I knew the pot would be fresh and I knew that it would taste great. In many areas Roz can be unpredictable. But her morning ritual is almost as set-in-stone as mine. She shows up on time, she checks the voice mail and she makes coffee, every morning. She’s as dependable as the sunrise.

My office isn’t large and from the outside of the building it doesn’t look all that impressive. It’s in an old non-descript brick building right on Whittier Boulevard near the Quad. But the inside is a different story.

If I worked alone the décor in my office would probably pass for something like early bachelor or mid-period IKEA. It’s not that I’m a slob; it’s just that things like that don’t mean so much to me. For instance, I can get dressed up for a special occasion if I have to but if it’s not necessary why bother?

But that would never do for Roz. When she first came to work for me she decided that if she was going to be spending all day inside the office she was going to have some say in how it looked. I’ll tell you what; she really missed her calling. She could make a fortune in interior design. But don’t tell her I said that or she’ll leave me and strike out on her own.

The first thing she did was to make a quick trip down the road to the A to Z furniture mart. She found some high quality antique-looking office furniture for a song. Then she had a brother or uncle or somebody come in and paint the walls a sort of burnt reddish color – not bright red like a fire engine, much less offensive than that. Then the guy installed and painted white paneled wainscoting and crown molding around all the walls. With some decorative lamps and some burgundy leather chairs the place looks pretty sharp. When people come in they’re usually impressed. Usually.

“Hi, I’m Jacob Franks,” I said by way of introduction as I walked into my office and closed the door for privacy. It wasn’t that I kept any secrets from Roz, quite the contrary – she knew all about my worst sins and had long since forgiven them. It was something I always did for the sake of the client. It made them feel like they were being taken seriously and that their confidence would be kept.

The woman sitting in front of my desk was a looker, and I mean no disrespect. She may have been as old as forty but she could have passed for much younger. She was sitting but I guessed her height to be about five-nine. She had a curly mane of red hair that may have been dyed but who cared. She smiled at me when I offered her my hand but I thought I caught a trace of sadness in that smile.

Her clothes looked expensive, like from Nordstrom or something. It’s not the type of place I usually shop but I happen to know that their restrooms are generally pretty clean. Hey, whenever I’m out and about, when you gotta go you gotta go.

“Hi, I’m Randy,” she said as she shook my hand. “Randy Thomas.”

“Is it Mrs.? Or Ms.?” I spotted the one-carat rock on her ring finger but I generally let women decide on their own monikers.

“It’s Mrs.,” she said, “for now.”

Oh boy. A divorce case. I hate divorce cases. I try to avoid them whenever possible. But business had been slow lately. I decided to hear her out. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Thomas?” I asked as I sat down behind my desk. “By the way, would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she declined.

She was an elegant lady with perfect posture. She held her composure well. Usually a divorce case comes locked and loaded with all types of emotional baggage. I sensed none of that from Mrs. Thomas.

“And call me Randy, please,” she told me. I nodded in response and waited for her to tell her story. “I’m sure my husband is cheating on me.”

“Ok,” I said. What else could I say? There’s usually a limited number of reasons for a divorce and infidelity is right there at the top – or bottom depending on how you look at it.

“I want you to find out for sure. And if he is I want proof,” she said. “You do do that sort of thing, don’t you?” Even the way she asked the question was elegant. More often than not the client, the very person hiring me to do the snooping around, will look down her nose at me for snooping around. As if it’s somehow beneath them to get involved. I didn’t get that vibe from this lady at all.

“From time to time I do what has to be done,” I told her. “And if he’s not cheating, or if I can’t find any evidence one way or another, then what?” It’s a very rare occasion for someone to be unfaithful without leaving a trail. I’m sure it’s been done and it wouldn’t be difficult. But people just don’t think about those things. Then again, people who cheat on their spouses, in my opinion, aren’t thinking clearly to begin with. What isn’t so rare is a suspicious spouse who won’t accept the truth in the case that there is no infidelity. That was essentially what I was asking her about.

“I would like nothing more than for you to prove me wrong, Mr. Franks.”

“Please, call me Jake.”

“Jake.”

“Ok, let’s start at the beginning. What makes you think he’s cheating?” I reached into my desk drawer and took out a new yellow legal tablet. I’ve always wondered why they call it a ‘legal’ tablet. I think it has something to do with its size. But if it’s a different size, say smaller maybe, is it an illegal tablet? I don’t know.

As Mrs. Randy Thomas laid out for me her suspicions I took notes. But I wasn’t listening as intently as I should have been.

Through the glass in my office door I could see that another potential client had walked in and was talking to Roz. I couldn’t hear what was being said but the woman was obviously distraught. Roz, as usual, was doing her best bit of consoling. I just hoped it wasn’t another divorce case.

I got the necessary contact information from Randy and asked her to call me the next time her husband Jeff told her he would be out late. We agreed that I would tail him from work and see what, if anything, he was up to. I was hoping that maybe Jeff had been putting in volunteer hours at the local Boys & Girls club. But I’d been around the block enough times not to bet on that. Either way I didn’t think the case would consume much of my time.

Randy thanked me for seeing her and we walked into the outer office so she could go over the necessary paperwork with Roz.

“Jake, this is Caitlyn Morrison,” Roz told me as the woman I had seen her talking to stood to meet me. I could see a look of genuine concern in Roz’s eyes. The lady was incredible. How many distraught clients had she seen over the years and she still had empathy to spare whenever it was required.

Apparently this was a morning for tall women. Caitlyn was as tall as Randy Thomas only with blonde hair. As she turned to face me I saw that she had green eyes. It reminded me of something my mother used to say about green-eyed monsters. But those monsters, if memory serves me correctly, were jealous. Whatever I saw in Miss Morrison’s eyes it sure wasn’t jealousy.

“Please, come in to my office,” I told her. I held the door open for her a she walked passed me. A look from Roz assured me that this would definitely not be another divorce case.