The Fall of Grace

By Olin Thompson

Grace is just a name which comes from the lips of the dying woman. Private Investigator and former police officer Tim McMaster must find, not only the murderer, but also the dollars which have been stolen. Tim is relentless. He is a former Marine who trusts his former comrade, another Private Investigator in Los Angeles. The story turns and twists and makes Tim a victim as well as a perpetrator. But, with the determination he had as a former Marine and police officer, he comes to a conclusion which shakes you and brings you back to reality, and not because anyone does anything other than hide it in plain sight.

This is the epitome of “page turner” reading. Olin has done it again, as he has with the previous 13 books and now with the next and we hope the ones after that. He's a prolific writer and seems to have stories in his mind which must be told. Thanks, Olin, for giving us another reason for turning off the TV and reading again.
— Bill Allen, former medical assistant

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Warren
• Release date: Jun 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9780945949619

Book preview

The Fall of Grace

Written by Olin Thompson

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Copyright © 2008 by Olin Thompson

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ISBN: 978-0-945949-61-9

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Chapter 1

Shit, I mumbled. I rubbed at my shoulder where the smart sharp pain came on suddenly. My leg didn’t hurt today. Well, it didn’t hurt yet.

The phone on the desk rang. Actually it was an electronic sort of clunkle.

McMasters’ Investigations, I answered and sighed.Mr. McMasters, please, the pleasant voice said.

One moment, I told her. I breathed in deeply, said and asked, He’s real busy with a client. May I have him call you?

No, the voice was full of rejection and sorrow.

I didn’t want to lose this one like the other ones that didn’t call back or leave a number. Damn them.

Oh, sounds like he’s finished. Lemmee see, I told the voice. Can I give him your name?

There was no reply and I thought it could have been either acceptance or rejection. I didn’t know which.

Tim! I called to myself over my shoulder. Yeah? I replied to myself over my other shoulder. Line one, I told me.

I clicked the asterisk and the phone made a beepy noise.

I put the phone on remote and spoke harshly at the speaker. Hi, this is Tim McMasters, I said.

Are you an investigator? the voice asked.

I wanted to tell her that she was fuckin’ stupid. Where did she get the goddamn number? Are you shit for brains or something? But, I didn’t.

Why yes I am, I admitted pleasantly. I need help.

Okay, so why else would you call? To give me a winning lotto ticket?

That’s why I’m here, I told her with my happiest voice. Shall I come there? the soft sweet potato tone asked.

No, you idiot, stay there and network me at www dot doofus dot com, I thought.

If it’s convenient, I replied. How much do your charge?

Before I answered I put her image across the desk from me. Tall, brunette, redder’n red lips, not small bosoms, great eyes, and unblemished skin. I also realized that was a dream, smoky and incredibly stupid to try to realize.

Two hundred a day plus expenses, I said. The years of fifty buck a day dicks was long gone.

Oh, she said and I heard that rejection all over again. Maybe we can work out a convenient payment plan. How long do you think this will take? I asked as if she had any idea. This was the Private Investigations 101 approach.

I donno, she whimpered.

I noted the hopelessness, once again. This was one sad sack of potatoes. Well, shit, I mused. What do you know that you want me to know? I wondered.

I rubbed my shoulder and opened and closed my fist. None of those things had helped before, but I kept doing them. They didn’t work now either. Nothing ever seemed to take the pain away. There were new drugs out all the time, but short of morphine I got no relief. And I wasn’t about to start on that shit.

Tell me, I said happily, about your problem. I pulled note paper from under a stack of unpaid bills, both In-coming and Outgoing. Clients were almost as bad as I am, neither of us could afford me.

The fluorescent began to flicker on one end. I’d gotten four of them on sale at some crowded home center and the lights had lasted a year or more. So far. I’d have to find out where I stashed the two spares.

Where shall I start? she wondered.

Try the beginning, lady, I told her and as soon as she got started I was sorry I asked.

This case would tax my police pension and the bank account I didn’t have enough in to pay the monthly service charges.

My mother..., she began. Oh shit, those first two words crushed me. Ten minutes later I said goodbye and began to thumb through, what?, two pages of notes. Shee! This was not to be easy or quick and, from the sound of it, I had no hope of getting any money, expenses, and certainly no bonus. I’d promised to meet her. At her place.

I stopped everything, leaned back in the roll around chair, put my feet up on the middle left drawer, wished I still smoked. NOT! I put my laced fingers behind my head, and leaned back.

My shoulder didn’t hurt any more. Certainly not as much as that girl did inside her head. I felt sorry for myself often; but this was different. This girl hurt. Deep inside. Her brunette hair tumbled down to her shoulders. Her lips puckered and were filled with invitation. Her legs, from the floor to there -my eyes blinked and watered at the thought.

But not for long. I scrubbed the images away, snuffed at my shirt to be sure it wasn’t that bad, and finally let myself down from my perch.

Might as well get to it, I thought. I also had a momentary idea that I might stiff this babe. She was not going to pay. She didn’t have any greenery. She was another over your shoulder fireman’s carry away from the event. She was nothing to add to the resume. But, I didn’t really have anything else to do. The fluorescent continued to flicker.

I pulled the door behind me and fussed with the damn key lock until it caught the tumblers and locked. With my coat sleeve I polished the sign:

TIM MCMASTERS

Investigations discreet private

For the effect of big business I had printed under it:

San Diego Office Worldwide

I was broke, hungry, alone, but proud. Any ex-cop should be. Shouldn’t they?

My Dodge Ram 1500 truck, red, of course, bucked to life. The springs squeaked as I bumped onto the main drag.

I needed gas, but my Visa Gold was maxed. Oh, I remember, I had my ATM card. Maybe..., I didn’t finish the thought, it was too horrible to consider.

I stopped at the gas station, stuck the fill nozzle in the hole, ran the card down the slot, pushed the PIN numbers, and waited.

BEGIN FILLING the words said on the screen. I almost passed out. Guardian angels. There is a God: A-men; a’salaam’ alacheim; peace be with you; and, barh ata Adonai, praise God. I tried to cover all the bases.

I also promised to go to my ex-in-laws seder next, what? Of course, I forget when they do seder. Shit! Okay, the Shabbat on Saturday night, I promised myself and shrugged.

I ran over the woman’s notes in my feeble brain and decided this job was worth about four days, plus maybe that again in expenses. Maybe, if this poor lost soul had a bank account, I’d get a bonus.

No such luck, I reassured myself as I remembered the part of town she had directed me to. No one there has $10,000 cash. She sure as hell didn’t seem to be any under-cover rich folks, that was certain.

I bucked up my courage, swallowed hard at the $30 gas cost, plus the fee for ATM use, and prayed the brunette with the beautiful lips, great skin, and legs all the way up to there would have enough for a retainer. Perhaps enough to at least buy the gas.

I knocked on the door. I turned and looked around the too old neighborhood sprouting camellias and geraniums in buckets instead of red Mexican clay pots. Lawns of various mixtures of crab, Johnson, and fescue grasses littered the street. Elitist snob, I thought with my nose in the air. Hell, I didn’t even have a lawn. The closest I came to lawn was the astro-turf pad in front of my apartment door.

Down the street three houses a man looked up from mowing with his sputtering machine. He wiped with a kerchief and went back to work.

I knocked on the door again. No response. I don’t like these things. COP 102 says: check your pistol. I did.

The Glock 15 full of 11mm cartridges snugged itself against my backbone. I need that. Right now I needed a lot of it. Backbone, that is.

No one answered my banging.

I turned to leave and write off the gas and retainer. The mumble came to me as the lawn mower ceased worrying the grass.

I looked around the side of the house off the edge of the porch. The railing was rickety like it had too many termites over for lunch lately. Nothing.

The noise, the mumbling, was gone. Suddenly back again.

The mower roared to life. I wanted to take out the Glock and blow the damn’ mowing machine to hell. I shouted, uselessly, Shut the damn’ thing off!

The man was going away from me.

Thought number one: If I was a cop I could bust in and claim emergency. If nothing was there the city would cover repairs and all I had to do was write a report. Thought number two: I’m NOT a cop and it’s just plain ole B&E. No emergency exists for PI types.

Better be someone in there in trouble, I mumbled, put the Glock back in the nylon holster, fastened the velcro strap, and kicked the shit outta the damn door.

My foot went through the panel and I knew I looked idiotic doing the one-leg routine with the other half-in half-out of the door. I almost laughed, but I figured I’d better get at the job. I yanked and caught my pants on a snag. Shit, they’re my good trou’ too.

I kicked again, Karate style, but this time just at the knob.

The door busted open. I get out the Glock once again. I cocked the double action, since I kept a round under the hammer, and peered into the dim front room.

I’d describe it, but it’s just an ordinary place with TV in the corner, couch, and two overstuffed worn out chairs surrounded by ticky tacky crap.

Anyone? I asked. No reply. Goddamn that mower! I fumed silently.

Anyone!? I damn near screamed.

No voice, but a thump from the back of the cottage caused me to churn inside. I really did need to get shot again, I concluded.

I didn’t put the gun away. I stiff armed my pistol out front and shuffled toward the sound. I felt sweat, cold sweat, pop on my forehead. I knew my armpits would run wet soon. I shook like bumped Jello. I hate this part.

I was as quiet as I could be. B&E was the least of my worries just now.

The bedroom? The first one, in the front of the house, I quick-looked and saw nothing. Well, it was empty. The bed was not made; pillows thrown against the art-deco headboard and sheets tossed, stained, and thin from over-washing. The closet was nearly empty with only a couple of dresses on hangers, other hangers on the floor and the bar. The dresser, another art-deco piece, had a bottle of something on it; looked like cologne. The drawers were slightly open and there appeared, at first glance, to be nothing there either. No one here.

I quick-looked the bathroom; all seemed normal. Not messy, not perfect. Just normal. The bedroom was messy and the closet door had been open. The bathroom was okay with towel on the floor, but tooth brush and glass sat in the sink.

Three tooth brushes hung from a well pitted chrome plated glass and brush holder. Two towels hung from once chrome bars and one bar stood nude before me. Nothing looked out of place. I prayed my joint would ever become that well kept.

I found her. I wish I hadn’t. B&E would have been better to face. Damn!

She lay on the floor not two feet from the doorway to the second bedroom. Her hands were tied behind her. Her feet were bound at the ankles. I was about to vomit.

Cops are thought to be above all that. I can see dead people on the street after drive-by shootings. I can even manage an accident with death. But, two things get me. Bad. Little kids are the worst. Torture is the other. This woman had been tortured. And badly.

She lay there like a beached whale. As kids we would have described her as rhino haunched. Tits the size of watermelons. Face all puffed out like she had three tennis balls; both cheeks and jaw had a rag stuffed in her mouth had kept the screams down. She had a bad case of acne. And, to top it off, she was tatted from shoulder to elbow. On both arms. Dragon on the left side and ascending into heaven on the right was an angel looking down at her elbow.

I noted, after the cursory glance around to be sure I was alone, she had cigarette or cigar burns on tits, hips, and even fingers. The toes too. Jeez! Some sort of sadistic sonofabitch had been at this. And recently, I discovered as I touched one of the burns on her hip.

She jerked and moaned. Must have been the sound I heard.

I touched her neck to feel for a pulse and found a faint thumping. Not strong, certainly, and her breathing was raspy and equally weak. I was afraid to lift her eye lids to check.

I found the phone. But it had been ripped from the socket.

I searched for another. It was in the kitchen. On the wall. I wrapped the head set with a handkerchief, held on with two fingers, and pushed 911 with a knuckle.

Nine one one, this is an emergency line only. How may I help?

4621 Fourth Avenue. Eleven forty one and hurry, I said. What is your name? the dispatcher asked and I heard her fingers clatter on the computer in front of her. I wanted to visit with her and chat, but I figured to get out of this place. I’d been there before and knew there was nothing I could add to the information the police, and eventually detectives, could gather. The major problem was the lawn mowin’ man. He probably saw me and others in this neighborhood woulda or coulda been looking out their windows. Running off would only make it worse. Than what? Shit, I was her employee. Yeah? Not without a retainer and I certainly had no business kickin’ the door in.

I holstered my friend. Once I was threatened and a fellow said he’d come get me and I told him to be sure to meet my friend and roommate Mr. Glock if the guy felt like coming back. I walked as non-challant as possible down the three front steps and out to the old Mustang where I fired it up and drove off with no haste. I saw the flickering strobe lights on the 11-41 and the red blinkers and finally the siren as the beast roared past me. A black and white trailed along with red and blue flashers whipping left and right the headlights flashed high and low.

I smiled and recalled that I was smart enough not to touch anything except the wound on her hip and that would leave no finger prints.

I turned the corner, turned once again, and finally followed the blinking lights to 4621 Fourth.

Hey, I said to a two striper, an Agent, as the San Diego PD calls them, how’s it goin’, Jim?

What you doin’ here, Tim? his face was non-friendly.

Got a call an hour or so ago. The woman needed a PI. Donno why she wouldn’t have called you guys, I said as innocently as possible.

Sure, he said disdainfully and walked off.

I felt rejected. Bothered. Bewildered. I often thought of myself as if I were that Boston TV PI who has all these friends in high places. The Captain likes him. My old Captain thinks I took two bullets just to piss him off. Sergeant is diffident, but fair; he thinks He ought to have been the one who shot me. The others, like the love of this life that Susan woman? well, if I had half of that I’d not have to read what I read in those magazines. Need I say more?

It was more than that, however, if I admit to everything. I’d been shot and during my recovery I worked at The Desk. As you enter the Big Building Downtown there is a reception area. All the doors to the interior are under high security. I worked on the desk for a week, two, and I complained.

The Sarge gave me to the Police Officer’s Association. I worked for them for a week. I did nothing. I filed a few folders, typed a letter or two, but basically I sat around answering the phone. I’m a cop. How the hell am I supposed to sit around with all that crime being committed in the city?

The Sarge was getting tired of my complaints, so he sent me to Evidence Room to work with an old timer named Goose.

I didn’t like that job much better. But, at least I talked to some cops when they brought bad guys in; I thought of myself as doing something for the troops.

I also fell in between the time of last audit and next audit. It was a miserable and busy time. The Evidence Room is a conglomeration of all the stuff captured from one bad guy after another and stored and stored and stored. For years. I saw the collection at the old jail, all but abandoned in the early fifties. The PD had cell after cell full of stuff left over from what looked like Al Capone’s day. They said they needed this stuff in case some dirt bag appealed and they had to hold a new trial.

I found a new Citori shotgun worth, probably, a thousand dollars just sitting there collecting dust and rust. Radios and TVs by the hundreds. Bags of stuff and boxes of CB radios without end. And computers, new, old, aged, none working or workable, it seemed. It was some messy joint. I’d hate to inventory that place. And particularly since they had relied on policemen being honest. Sure. If you got a pit bull on duty they’re likely a little more honest; but still a pit bull. But who else do you call when you’re in trouble? Some doped out homeless asshole? The drunk on Market Street? The hooker by the Convention Center? I thought I was honest. I knew I was honest.

I can live with that too.

The audit came and went and so did I. I’d thought it was nothing special to waltz these cops: A POA lawyer, a Deputy DA, two Sergeants, a Lieutenant, and the Agent in charge of the Evidence Room. The Agent was to have all the answers.

It turns out that on one of my watches, I stood the swing shift from one to eleven on most days; I was on the ten hours four days with three days off. On one of my watches several envelopes of money were booked in. I took the word of the arresting officer, hell he’d been my partner for three of my four years, and logged in one with, supposedly, $12,500 in it.

Turns out that when the DA made a random, sure random, check of the bindles, bags, envelopes, and bundles and reported that there was nothing in that particular envelope. I could have sworn the money was there.

Shit, how can $12,500 Not be in there. It’s a huge amount. It’s like more than a fist full. That particular envelope was empty, however. Empty as my wallet.

They didn’t believe me. They must have thought I stole the money and stashed the moolah in a Swiss bank. What a crock of shit.

My partner, ex-partner and ex-friend now, claimed he was righteous in the delivery to the Evidence Room. And, Lou claimed further, I was kinda hinky that night.

Hinky? Me? Shit.

They tried, but they never could Prove Hinky. It isn’t on the books. Hinky is as Hinky does is not part of the penal code.

They asked me to retire. I thought it was a railroad job and they were kicking me out. It was, after all, a lame assed charge. The Sarge never forgave me for that. I Guess he never forgave me for that because he never talked to me again.

My partner apologized for having to say what he said. It’s my ass on the line, too, Lou whined.

I had it on the line as well. But, would I do that for a couple of thousand bucks? Not in this lifetime. A million? No way. Two million? I’d think about it.

But I don’t believe I’d do it. Nah. I couldn’t. It’s just not me. I don’t think I could stand myself for a few minutes much less the rest of my life