Forge: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #12

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson accepts his first birth-parents search for his gorgeous, 23-year-old client, Nikki Colvin, whose adoptive parents are deceased. She has reason to believe her natural mom and dad live in Frank's hometown of Pelham, Virginia. As he delves into his twisty investigation, more questions arise. All the while, he also deals with personal problems and handles his other cases. He depends on his long-time business partner Gerald Peyton, his medical examiner wife Dreema, and his brilliant but outspoken attorney Robert Gatlin. Critically acclaimed crime novelist James Crumley wrote of the P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, "With a plot as complex as your grandmother's crocheted doilies, Mr. Lynskey creates a portrait of the rural hill country that rings as true as the clank of a Copenhagen can on a PBR can, as does his handle on guns, love, and betrayal. This novel is well worth the read and makes me want more."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Lynskey
• Release date: Jun 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215657621

Book preview

Forge

A P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery

Ed Lynskey

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2021 by Ed Lynskey and ECL Press. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Front cover credit: Firewood in fireplace by Zane Lee (@zane4004) on Unsplash per CC 2.0. URL: https://unsplash.com/photos/YXnNkwd285w.

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Isabel and Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series

Quiet Anchorage

The Cashmere Shroud

The Ladybug Song

The Amber Top Hat

Sweet Betsy

Murder in a One-Hearse Town

Vi’s Ring

Heirloom

A Big Dill

Eve’s Win

To Dye For

Fowl Play

Private Investigator Frank Johnson Mystery Series

Pelham Fell Here

The Dirt-Brown Derby

The Blue Cheer

Troglodytes

The Zinc Zoo

After the Big Noise

Death Car

Bent Halo

Clover

Fluke

Quarry

Forge

Hope Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Nozy Cat 3

Nozy Cat 4

Nozy Cat 5

Other Novels

Lake Charles

The Quetzal Motel

Ask the Dice

Blood Diamonds

Topaz Moon

Cops Like Us

Chapter 1

I finished the report for my client who suspected her husband was catting around with his old high school flame. He was guilty as charged. I’d snapped the photos of them sharing kisses and gropes as they sidled into their motel room and closed the blinds. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know what came next. My report, along with my photographic evidence and my invoice for the last part of our payment, went out in the day’s mail. I despised billing the clients and doing the paperwork. My snoops on the unfaithful spouses wasn’t the reason I got into the private investigator trade.

However, I didn’t run a boutique PI agency where I got to pick which clients’ cases I accepted. The bills came due, and I had to pay them. My rule of thumb was if their cases didn’t break the law, and they could afford our hourly rate, then I signed on the dotted line. I didn’t farm out any of our surveillance work as our competitors did. At 11 o’clock, I stood up to stretch my legs and perk my next pot of coffee. In strolled this young woman, flashing her 1,000-watt smile and lighting up the office. My caffeine fix could wait. I sat back down.

Her gentian blue eyes, trim curves, and glossy black hair made a man’s heart run haywire. She wore no hose with her dressy flats. My sight traveled up her legs, sculpted and tanned. I was also a breast man, and she didn’t disappoint me. She carried a clutch purse on a shoulder chain. After she lowered her compact ass into the chair, she flicked her dark tresses. Her tug pulled down her tight skirt’s hemline that rode up her thighs. She smelled of strawberries, sunshine, and trouble.

Before you jump to conclusions, I only lost my head there for a nanosecond. My friends would tell you I didn’t fit the private-eye stereotype and had blazed my own path. I’d seen too many hearts broken and marriages wrecked over infidelity. I was in a happy monogamous relationship, so I didn’t sleep around or use a booty-call app. The young woman looked me square in the eye, and I startled at her incandescent gaze.

Frank Johnson? she asked.

Her voice used a twang richer than mine did. Bingo, I replied. And you are?

Nikki Colvin. A mutual acquaintance said you could help me.

Is your husband or boyfriend having an affair?

I have no husband or boyfriend. Why did you ask me that?

We mostly get those cases here as the summer winds down. Some men catch the proverbial seven-year itch.

I thought you offered your clients more refined services. Have I been misinformed?

My agency has conducted different investigations. We specialize in homicide cases and have a track record to prove it. We routinely handle insurance fraud and background checks. I serve the most difficult subpoenas and charge extra for them. We also locate and interview witnesses for our clients. I’ve investigated several wrongful death cases.

Nikki smiled, displaying her teeth white as salt and even as piano keys. You must be a busy man, she said.

I make a living wage, and I don’t lack for anything. That’s enough about me. What brings you in this morning?

I’m endeavoring to track down my birth parents. My adoptive parents took me in when I was three months old, and I received precious little information about my past. I want to learn where I came from and connect with my birth family. My quest has led me to your office, and here we sit discussing it.

Intrigued, I ranged back in the chair. Right off, I’ll tell you we’ve never conducted a birth-parent search, I said. The internet and social media are probably your most effective research tools.

So you would think, but my birth parents must not use social media and have established no web presence. I’ve spent a lot of my time going down the online rabbit holes until I exhausted them all.

Have you used the DNA analysis the testing companies offer? I asked.

My DNA matches were very distant relations, Nikki replied. Many of them ignored me after I reached out. Those who responded weren’t able to give me any help. I gave up after I went through my list.

You believe your options have narrowed down to hire a gumshoe, like me, to scratch up a fresh clue if one exists.

Nikki frowned. You don’t sound optimistic or confident, she said.

I refuse to overpromise on what I can deliver to the client.

Is it the money? I can meet your hourly fee if you don’t go overboard.

It’s more about my professional integrity, and I refuse to string you along while I drain your bank account. But I also expect to be paid for my billable hours regardless of whether I can find a trace of your natural mom and dad.

Nikki flicked her dark tresses again. I know about you, Mr. Johnson. She beamed her bold blues on me. You lost your parents when you were seven years old. A drunk motorist T-boned them up the street from here. They perished at the crash scene, and you were left an orphan whom your aunt then raised.

My life story isn’t a big secret. Anybody of a certain age from here can tell you how they died and about my growing-up experience.

What became of the drunk motorist?

I caught myself before my smirk betrayed me. I read somewhere he shot himself in the head while cleaning his firearm, I replied. He should have double-checked it to empty all the rounds, including the one in the pipe. He made a cardinal mistake, and he paid the price for it.

Could he have committed suicide?

My shrug reflected my indifference. Alcohol is a known depressant, I replied. He was a lifelong boozer. Your theory has merit.

Then was it an intentional or unintentional shooting?

The local authorities ruled it was a deadly accidental shooting. Their findings satisfy me. Are you making a point?

My point is you know what happened to him. You secured the emotional closure you needed and deserved.

I suppose I can follow your line of reasoning.

By the same token, I want to know what happened to my birth parents. I seek the same emotional closure as you did.

What information have you tracked down on them?

That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I hardly know anything.

How old are you, if I may ask?

I’m 23 so the legal records were created and signed that long ago.

Are your adoptive parents still with us?

Nikki wagged her head. They died in a fatal wrong-way auto crash three years ago, she said.

If you tell me a soused driver smashed into them as the one did in my parents’ crash, I’m liable to freak out.

Nikki switched on her captivating smile. We have something in common, she said.

How did you end up in Pelham, of all places?

I remember my adoptive mother—Zinnia Colvin—once mentioned Pelham while she gossiped on the patio with the neighbor lady. They were discussing my adoption process, and I was four or five. Zinnia thought I didn’t pay any attention while I played with my dolls, but kids listen when their parents talk. The name Pelham stuck with me because of its Civil War association.

You refer to our gallant Rebel major who got his head blown off. I like my heroes who keep their heads intact while they’re under fire.

Why are you so snarky about your hometown’s namesake?

Snarky goes with the PI’s portfolio. Have you recalled any further details besides Zinnia’s reference to Pelham?

I’ve struggled to reconstruct the scene, but my brain is a blank slate.

Something here could point us to your birth parents. How did you find my office?

Robert Gatlin is a criminal attorney who practices at his Middleburg office. We spoke while attending a social function at the community center. He said you were the right man for me, and I should come to see you.

My hand flew up like a stop sign. Say no more. Mr. Gatlin and I have a history.

He told me you’re related by blood, which the Irish consider sacred.

The Irish are also renowned for their blarney, which Mr. Gatlin has in spades.

Nikki’s laugh sparkled like a disco mirror ball. Where is your partner? she asked, pointing to Gerald’s empty desk.

Gerald is at the gym pumping iron. Where are you staying?

I haven’t registered at a motel. Which one do you recommend?

Any chain motel should be clean and convenient for the budget-minded traveler. The room comes with a free continental breakfast, daily newspaper, and all the hot, black, and awful coffee you can drink. When I’m out of town for a few days, I stay at one chain motel or the other.

How soon will you know something? I only have a couple of days.

I’ll spend the rest of the day looking into it. Gerald will lend me a hand. As far as I know, no Colvins call Pelham home. However, people constantly move into and out of the area, and I can’t keep up with all their names. What is your adoptive father’s name?

Everybody called him Ringo, short for Richard. They were Ringo and Zinnia Colvin, spelled C-O-L-V-I-N.

I need to get a $1,500 retainer from you. Whatever I don’t use, I’ll refund on the back end of your case.

Nikki didn’t flinch or protest before she wrote me a personal check. Would it bounce?

Okay, I’ll see what information I can ferret out, but I can make no guarantees.

Nikki smiled. I thought you PIs are chivalric knights who never stop until you find what you seek, she said.

We have our limits. One thing I should warn you. Do not lie to me under any circumstances. I don’t like to be crossed up by clients. It boils down to the trust factor I have to maintain with you.

Tugging down the hemline to her tight skirt again, Nikki no longer smiled. Nothing I told you this morning is untruthful, she said. To be candid, I should mention an ugly piece of gossip I picked up about you.

Go on then. What did they tell you?

A gabby gentleman whom I won’t identify by name swears you’ve left dead men in your wake like the grim reaper who stalks the countryside.

I chuckled. Nobody has ever compared me to the grim reaper before, I said. Seriously though, yes, I’ve returned defensive gunfire on my different cases. Bullets kill men. My aim was truer. I’ve never been convicted of or sued for a shooting crime. What else can I say?

Can you say you won’t do any shooting on my case?

If it doesn’t turn dangerous, and it shouldn’t, I see no reason why any gunfire will be necessary. Can you guarantee me your case won’t involve anybody who is trigger-happy?

I left my Ouija board out in the rain, and it warped like a potato chip, rendering it useless.

You didn’t answer my question.

I fervently hope everything remains peaceful.

We live in a violent society where more firearms exist than citizens. The exchange of gunfire was unavoidable on a few of our cases.

I know what I’m getting with you, so I can only blame myself if it runs off the rails.

Nothing will run off the rails. I arose, scraping back the chair over the floor. I’ll walk you out to the parking lot, I said. Do you see any chance of rain today?

Frank, please do your best to track down my folks. She stood up, reached over, and grasped my forearm while making eye contact. She had the bluest eyes I’d ever peered into