First Light of Day: [Case #01 from the O’Mailey Files]

By D. Outhouse

Cait O’Mailey is a sensible woman in the loosest definition. An up and coming PI formerly of the Arbrick PAPD, she’s got her positive traits: dogged determination, Sherlock-like brilliance, passion, and quick-wittedness. But Cait also has a dark side; one with passive-aggressive tendencies, one that isn’t always capable of keeping one’s thoughts to one’s self, and she most definitely HATES mornings.

When Cait gets a pre-sunrise summon from her ex-partner Trace Falon she isn’t in the best of moods. Her outlook soon changes however as she picks up a case with a multimillion dollar payoff and Cait is quick to join the rat race in search of the stolen money.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665560672

D. Outhouse

Born Danielle Reneigh Outhouse. Eldest of six raised by Dr. Alan and Sarah Outhouse Mother to the beautiful artist Mercy, my pride, joy, and inspiration. Favorite hobby is - obviously- writing.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Arbrick is a bustling metropolis nestled between the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers in Pennsylvania. The population stands at just over 1.6 million giving the not-too-distant Philly a run for its numbers. There are many suburban areas with pretty names such as Chestnut Hill - which rests luxuriously in Arbrick’s western corner. These neighborhoods are held to ‘Stepford’ standards. To fit into this suburbia you need to bring home a six digit income, still owe on the Jaguar, and wear Armani rip-offs. The obvious house of interest stood one in a seemingly endless row of clones. Spotless siding, pristine shingles, treeless lawns mowed as recently as Thursday, and hedges trimmed to precision. It was picture perfect- complete with white picket fencing and the dream-fulfilling front-porch swing; as if consistently ready for a magazine photo-op.

The Mullen property had no distinguishing yard decorations with the exception of the half dozen police that carefully contained the scene. A trio of department vehicles sat curbside. Strobe lights cut through the pre-dawn dark like a faux blue and red aurora. Officers secured the premise with crime tape while CSIs flagged possible evidence. As of yet no bystanders stood on their porches gawking – it was much too early to be out of bed no matter what was going on next door.

The detective-on-call’s amazon-green Tahoe stood affront the house that sat diagonal from the Mullen’s. Trace Falon had arrived forty-five minutes ago. He’d had to chew out the first-response team for parking across the sidewalk like a bunch of yahoos as he entered the residence. He’d yet to come out. The pair of men watching furtively from the next block didn’t speculate what could be taking the detective so long to reemerge.

Decker sat expressionless behind the wheel of the dark Land Cruiser. He wore his usual: black tee pulled taught across broad shoulders; loose fitting Marine Corps jacket covering a pair of loaded shoulder holsters, deep brown cargo pants with black leather belt, and polished laced boots- army issue. He was ex-special forces and though he hadn’t been under anybody’s command for a long time now he held to the habit of shaving clean all the way around. Twenty years of carrying out missions in scorching deserts, on sunbaked oceans, and trekking through God-cursed jungles had permanently tanned Decker’s Caucasian physique into a rich near-bronze.

Decker’s right-hand man - Sullivan Ocale - slouched in the passenger seat; his burly arms crossed over a barrel chest. Sul was an African-skinned image of Decker with the exception of his expression: he was not so stoic. A frown was etched across his usually smiling features. Sul was eight feet of bulging muscle crammed into a six-and-a-half foot frame. He was raised in the streets of Los Angeles, became a man in the jungles of Korea, and had (to date) spent literally half his life surviving back-to-back with Lemur Decker. Sul was feeling cramped and crabby. He needed a shave. He needed a shower. He needed a cigar. He wanted breakfast. No… No what Sul really wanted was for the damned PCs to stop trudging across the grasses ruining the real scene with their every ignorant step. There wasn’t going to be any trail left for he and Decker to follow by the time these guys were done destroying the yard.

Cops. Sul muttered it like a four-letter curse. He slumped further, his frown deepening into a scowl. Despite the Cruiser’s roomy cab his large physique was hampered. He both looked and felt like the circus bear stuffed into a tiny Volkswagen.

The corner of Decker’s mouth softened in an undistinguishable grin. Easy. He directed calmly. His voice was baritone low and thick with Bronx accent. His gaze never wavered from the unfolding drama five houses up.

The detective appeared at last. He plodded down the porch steps. Falon wore rumpled jeans, a grey sweatshirt, and a thick russet leather jacket. Shoulder length locks were pulled back in a low ponytailed knot. Judging by his expression and body language the detective was at best 70% percent frustrated; 30% perplexed.

Finally. muttered Sul.

Falon was built like a quarterback. His face housed the dark eyes and thick brows of Italian heritage. His nose was characterized by the tell-tale hump of an untended breakage sometime before he’d finished growing. A week’s worth of shadowy stubble sprout along an angular jaw. He stood on the sidewalk with hands on hips staring up the street; away from the Cruiser.

Looks stumped. Sul uncrossed his arms and straightened. The Cruiser rocked slightly. Of course, it was all screwed up before he ever got a good- he scoffed. "Look at this guy…"

A young officer trekked around the corner of the house baring three clear-plastic bags. He hopped onto the paved walk; a proud Opie showing off his first-ever catch.

Easy. Decker mumbled as Sul’s antsy movements again caused the vehicle to sway.

The officer passed the evidence to the detective one at a time. Falon eyed the contents. Plasters; footprints. Falon tucked the bags into his armpit and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. He gave a money bill along with detailed instructions to the eager subordinate.

Breakfast? Sul tried to decipher the detective’s words with minimum success. The strobes’ inconsistent light rendered lip-reading a mute effort.

Falon watched the rookie climb into a squad. The detective massaged the base of his neck for a full sixty seconds after the car had disappeared on its errand. Decker and Sul watched as the detective made his was around the side of the house. He knelt here, studied there, stared, stood. The squad returned and the errand boy got out carrying a brown paper sack and a tall disposable cup.

Breakfast. Reiterated Sul.

The detective accepted the offering however he didn’t partake. He stuffed the bag under one arm and dug out his cell. Falon hit speed dial and put the phone to his ear.

Sul humphed. This is a call he doesn’t want to make… Suppose he’s summoning a big wig? he glanced to Decker for conformation.

Decker sat as motionless as ever with unwavering concentration. We’ll find out soon enough.

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A cell phone sang out in apartment 312 of a four story complex on Hanover Street. Hanover was in Mayfair- Arbrick’s moderate income, family friendly district. Cait O’Mailey muttered a short line of inaudible Gaelic curses. She opened one heavy eyelid to glare electric daggers at the device ringing incessantly on her nightstand. The room was dark and bedim – even the sun had better sense than to be up at this hour. Who would call before sunrise? This was a major breach in etiquette. Calling before 9 am any day – most especially Sunday - was deemed an act of war. Cait’s mother was Irish, her father a Scott, and war to Celtics just barely fell short of nuking the enemy on sight.

What?... Another ring reminded Cait that she hadn’t yet retrieved the phone. She rolled over and fumbled with the device. Finally she managed to snatch it up in a death grip. What? she repeated with not just a little venom.

Mailey; it’s Falon.

Silence. Trace Falon wouldn’t call unless it was important. Well, most of the time...

Mailey?

Ugh… Cait blinked back the haze of exhaustion. She rubbed her sleep-coated eyes in attempt to keep awake long enough to hear what the man had to say. Yeah… She groaned.

Sorry to wake you up but I got a brain teaser here and need some of your expertise.

Cait’s semi-focused gaze drifted toward the clock on her nightstand. 5 am. Oysh… no wonder she felt like she’d just closed her eyes… You’re a jerk.

And you owe me. He replied evenly.

Cait’s usually sharp wit was too numb just yet to form a decent retort.

I got you coffee. He said in a tone that one would use to bribe a particularly difficult child. Hazelnut creamer, extra espresso.

Starbucks?

Would I offer less?

He would if he thought he could get away with it. What size?

Venti.

Well then. Cait decided he must be serious about this. She forced herself to sit up. It better be hot. She started to ask for an address and then recalled with a renewing headache that she was temporarily without transportation. The fight that erupted at the bar this morning had resulted in catastrophe rendering her Impala immobile for the time being. Send a squad yeah? I’ll be ready in ten.

A squad? What happened to the-?

Cait disconnected. 5 am was not the time to get into another argument regarding her weekend job at Biker’s Stop. Nor did she want to hear Falon’s already strongly voiced opinion of her beloved Impala. Cait dropped her head tiredly into her hands. Poor baby. Some people had dogs. Some had cats. Some had hamsters. Cait had a 1967 faded Safire Chevy Impala that both looked and acted its age.

She stumbled out of bed and felt the first throbs of nausea that often accompanied exhaustion. And why was it so barkin’ cold? Too cold for June. She rubbed her arms and kicked at the clothes on the carpeted floor until she found a sweatshirt. She sniffed at it and then pulled it over her head. She shuffled bare legged into the apartment’s single bathroom. She flipped the light switch and stood in front of the mirror taking stock of her condition. Large circles shadowed normally bright green eyes- sleep deprivation had turned the jade iris’ dark and cloudy. Fire-orange curls stood angrily in all directions; even her hair was offended by this rude awakening. She grabbed a comb and began working the mop.

She realized she’d fallen asleep standing at the sink when she woke to knocking at the hall door. She stared at her surprised reflection. The comb hung strangled in a thick, tangled lock. Her eyes were still dark and now bloodshot as well. She didn’t remember turning on the facet but the water was running. Thick clouds of steam rose from the hot cascade. The light sprinkle of freckles across her high cheeks vanished in a pink blush. She pulled the comb free and tossed it on the sink top. She splashed her face and shut the water off. She dabbed a pea-sized bit of toothpaste onto her tongue to kill her morning breath and darted from the bathroom.

Coming… I’m coming. She scurried about the small living room scooping up items she might need- flashlight, aspirin, taser- and shoved them into her purse. She had two good cameras and stole a moment to debate which to grab. She went with the Nikon, it did better in bad lighting. She did a final two-second inventory of the bag’s contents and snatched her coat on her way to the door. She checked the peep-hole before unbolting the long line of heavy-duty locks and emerged working to shove sweatshirt-thickened arms into the fluff-stuffed sleeves.

She was greeted by an unfamiliar face in uniform. He was young and trim and eager… Maybe pleased to have been handpicked for the task of retrieving her expertise for the big-Detective-on-campus; or maybe he was just glad not to be holding a frozen stop sign. Whatever the reason young Officer ‘Cobbs’ stood with a toothy smile and bright, shining eyes.

Well, a proper Irish greeting would nip that in the bud: If you say ‘good mornin’ I’ll knock your pearly whites out. Cait said fumbling to lock the various bolts. Officer Cobbs’ beam faltered. That should keep him quiet for the duration of the ride. The final lock tumbled into place. Cait brushed past Spanky and led the way toward the elevator. She’d punched the summon before she realized that the kid hadn’t moved from her door mat. He stared after her wearing a dumbfounded facade.

She clocked his hands with a disapproving click of her tongue and glared through narrowed eyes, I don’t see my coffee. Is it in the car?

This pulled the Cub Scout out of his trance. He cleared his throat, glanced around to ensure privacy, and then stepped cautiously toward her. Ma’am,

Cait held up a hushing palm. My mother was ‘Ma’am’. PD boys refer to me as ‘Mailey’. More importantly right now: if you don’t assure me that my coffee in in short reach you’ll have the misfortune of being introduced to what they call ‘the Medusa’.

Cobbs stuttered, uncertain of the protocol for this particular situation.

Cait huffed irritation and stared down at the carpet attempting to keep her grump in check. She was going to remain composed… Patience was a virtue. One she oftentimes lacked. This test of patience is a good-

Calm reasoning was cut short when she noticed the maroon polish on her left big toe was chipped. And then she realized she was looking at toes. No socks. No shoes. Just toes. And legs; bare legs that should probably get a shaving in the near future. Cait did a mental rewind and replayed her mad dash around the apartment. She then looked up at Officer Cobbs whose face had turned scarlet.

A soft ding sounded and elevator doors slid aside to reveal an aged lift. Cait’s shoulders sagged. I’m not wearing any pants am I? She wasn’t asking Cobbs, not really… but he nodded conformation.

Nerd. She thought with a mental eye roll. This was likely the closest Spanky had ever gotten to a half-naked woman. Cait trudged unhurried down the hall. She dug her keys out of her bag and began to unbolt the locks.

This she decided was going to be a very long day.

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So who do you think it is? Sul asked watching Falon pace the sidewalk.

Someone he’s looking forward to seeing. Decker returned.

Sul hated when Decker gave cryptic answers. He didn’t want to make that call.

Decker didn’t argue his point. Someone he trusts. He ventured further. He’s not buying the scene.

The detective’s talent had attracted Decker’s attention some while back. Decker liked the out-of-the-box reasoning that kept the detective on the right trail. Falon would prove a valuable asset to the company, eventually. Unfortunately right now Falon was too in love with the force to leave it. Decker was certain he’d have this detective someday though and in the meantime was content to run into the man on various chapters and watch him work.

Sul rubbed his big hands together and blew on them. Damned cold this morning.

Decker breathed an almost inaudible sigh but turned over the ignition.

Yeah man; I love you too. Sul stated and though his tone was mocking he meant it as he held icy fingers to the vent.

Potential prank set, Trace climbed out of the Tahoe and pocketed his keys. He stared across the still slumbering suburbia with an absent grin. Mailey was right: He could be a real jerk sometimes. Here she was willing to throw him a bone and what was he doing? Setting a trap. He chortled to himself as he crossed the road.

Trace was a good detective; hell he was a great detective but his former partner Cait O’Mailey had something he lacked: head smarts. Her childhood fascination with Alfred Hitchcock had given her a sixth sense for details and forensic analysis. Everything about this morning’s murder read spur-of-the-moment robbery gone bad: some punks pull a theft and in the process Richard Mullen became collateral damage in his own living room… Trace had nothing to support his doubt save gut instinct. Thing was, his gut was rarely off the mark.

Three days prior Burt Walters was assigned a similar home invasion. Some poor sop with riches coming out of his ears got himself killed in his up-scale Suburb home. The homicides were too similar to be a coincidence and at the same time there were enough differences to create skepticism. Both Dunham and Mullen had been capped in the back of the head. Both married. Neither had children or pets. Both held prominent positions in their respective fields. Both lived the same lots-of-toys lifestyle. However nothing had been stolen from the Dunhams. The execution hadn’t been so sloppy. The houses were a good twenty minutes apart- hell of a drive when so many others in Dunham’s neck of the woods would have been just as profitable. And those tracks from Mullen’s window… Trace didn’t know what to make of those.

Mailey had a way of picking up what Trace didn’t and often enough vice versa. He had the instinct to smell out the villain and she always found the smoking gun – so to speak – that proved his theories. Guts and brains had made them a damned good team; best track record in the city in fact. Then Myers ruined their streak by pulling that chauvinistic bullshit on Mailey. The last straw was passing her up for a promotion she’d worked her ass off to get; a promotion that the captain had given to Trace with a sneer. Trace wanted the advancement to be sure and he’d been neck and neck with Mailey in the race to procure it- But in the end it all came down to the fact that Chief Myers was a bigot. He’d made certain Mailey knew why her partner was making detective and why she never would; not as long as that pompous ass was in charge. Mailey had never held Myers’ dogmatism against Trace. She knew Trace was worthy of the post. That didn’t stop Trace from hating Myers however for the way he’d stolen the sweet taste of victory from both of them.

Trace nearly quit over the incident but Mailey beat him to it. She opened her own agency with money earned tending a two-bit trucker bar and between the two incomes she was holding her own. She was able to do what she loved without the bogus restrictions that Myers had used on her as chains. And Trace? Trace was content with his job and his title… All and all: life’s great for both of us. At least that’s what Trace told himself when he started to miss her.

He checked his watch. Mailey was slow when the weather dipped under fifty but still she should’ve been here by now. He considered calling again but knew that would only agitate her. He wondered for the dozenth time why she needed a ride in the first place. That p.o.s. Impala probably died on her again. Trace had been warning her for months about the transmission. Mailey was no doubt not only not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, but she’d probably also be wanting his wheels for a while. If he knew Mailey, she would have his keys in her pocket within the hour. She’d mention his V-max and remind him autumn was his favorite riding season and before he knew what happened he’d be staring at his own tail lights wondering how she’d done it.

Borrowing was one of Mailey’s specialties. She borrowed his cuffs and returned them in two pieces. She borrowed a sweat suit and he’d had to throw it away- something about chasing an FTA through the landfill during a summer rainstorm. She once borrowed his wrench to pry open a sewer cover, borrowed his flashlight to go down into said sewer and find the damned wrench, and then borrowed another back-up outfit after sloshing around in the cesspool. When Cait O’Mailey used the word ‘borrow’ the hairs on the back of Trace’s neck stood on end.

He scanned the road for his too-long-gone rookie absently considering that she might actually have killed this one. Mailey’d never shot a messenger before but there was a first time for everything. Could be she was late because she was using that genius of hers to discard the body somewhere even Trace wouldn’t find it. Cobbs had knocked at 5am; big no-no in the department’s unofficial survival handbook.

Just when Trace was really starting to worry, a squad careened around the distant street corner and raced toward him. Trace chortled; she still drove as crazy as ever. The thought of her behind the wheel of his own vehicle inspired a grimace. The car parked curbside seemingly without braking. Mailey shoved the door open and climbed out of the driver’s seat.

Cait spotted Falon standing at the end of a cemented path just beyond the crime tape. He held a Starbuck’s thermos in one hand, a brown sack in the other, and some clear plastic forensic bags tucked into his armpit. She made a b-line toward him- well, the coffee rather.

Mornin’. Trace handed over the cup. He looked behind her to Cobbs. He didn’t even try to hide his amusement as the rookie did his best for dignity’s sake not to drop onto all fours and kiss the sidewalk. Served the little bugger right. Cobbs was fresh out of the academy and had a suggestion to make about everything. Sending the kid after Mailey in her current condition might have been an extreme punishment but Cobbs had brought it on himself by being willing, eager to please, and the only man in PD ignorant enough to accept the assignment of fetching her before sunrise.

Trace watched Mailey gingerly taste the coffee. She ‘Mmm’ed and tipped the cup practically inhaling the liquid. Mailey’s hair was knotted in a wild bun atop her head with multiple orange strands swaying loosely about her crown like a feathery halo- or a fiery glow depending on her mood. Her nose was cherry-red from the dawn chill, her cheeks flushed from the coffee’s steam. She lowered the cup with eyes closed and stood motionless. After a full minute she smiled pleasantly and opened her eyes. It was like watching her wake from a long night’s