Snatch: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #22

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson takes up investigating to find the vintage 1977 Music Man StingRay bass guitar stolen from the home of his client, Sybil Gleason. She tells him it's an irreplaceable family heirloom that belonged to her grandfather, a local rockabilly musician. His quest takes him to the town's seedy pawnbroker, Frank's favorite barista, and Sybil's wastrel landlord. A corrupt criminal attorney badgers Frank to dig up the dirt on a rape victim to bolster the accuser's defense.

 

Frank balks at accepting a rape case, but the attorney doesn't take no for an answer. As he always does, Frank leans on his long-time friend and business partner, Gerald Peyton; his medical examiner wife, Dreema; and his brilliant but outspoken attorney, Robert Gatlin. While juggling these and his other cases, Frank works long hours to reach a satisfactory resolution for each of his clients.

 

Critically acclaimed crime novelist James Crumley endorsed 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."

 

#1 New York Times bestselling author James Rollins states, "Ed Lynskey's P.I. Frank Johnson's books are as hard-bitten and hard-boiled as they come. The dialogue crackles with such sharpness that you'd swear sparks were jumping off the pages. And P.I. Frank Johnson is a character cut from the Tarantino mold: tough, wounded, conflicted, and badass."

 

New York Times bestselling author and Edgar Award-winning author Megan Abbott writes the P.I. Frank Johnson mystery series, which "bears the richest nicotine and bourbon stains of the hardboiled genre, yet also bristles with vitality. The plot sings, the characters are twisty and textured, and the violence is brutal but inevitable. These elements would be more than enough, yet Ed Lynskey offers so much more in the form of a perfectly pitched prose style that swings effortlessly from back-country grit to Appalachian poetry and back again."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Lynskey
• Release date: May 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223881964

Book preview

Snatch

A P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery

Ed Lynskey

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2023 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 eBook 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: Sandy Bikini by Marvin Meyer at Unsplash.com was published on May, 19, 2018. The Unsplash License permits the free use of this photograph for commercial purposes. Downloaded on March 25, 2023.

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Private Investigator Frank Johnson Mystery Series

Pelham Fell Here

Dirt-Brown Derby

Blue Cheer

Troglodytes

The Zinc Zoo

After the Big Noise

Death Car

Bent Halo

Clover

Fluke

Forge

Quarry

Lure

Pawn

Noel

Grits

Blaze

Madge

Nymph

Roz

Snatch

Chapter 1

Disgusted and irked, I said nothing. Which rock did you crawl out from under, you rat-fuck shyster?

You’ve done previous investigative work for me, Turpin said.

Not on behalf of a rapist, I haven’t, I said. You crossed one of my boundaries, Turpin.

"Be accurate. Alleged rapist," Turpin said.

So you say, I said.

Turpin flashed me his lounge-lizard smile. The pay is the same, he said. Why do you care so much?

I don’t touch a rape case with a 10-foot pole, I replied.

Get smart, Johnson, Turpin said. My client is innocent, and I’m under a time crunch. Be a good sport and lend me a hand with it, eh? I won’t forget that I owe you a favor.

Your client, Babcock, is the arrogant, spoiled son of a rich father, I said. I say he’s guilty as charged.

Babcock is presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, Turpin said. That’s how our jurisprudence is supposed to work.

I’m keenly aware of how it’s supposed to work, I said.

Turpin nodded. Then we can agree on something, he said.

Gerald, how do you see it? I asked, cutting my eyes to my business partner, also seated behind his desk.

The wealthy punk-ass figures he can game the system and get off scot-free when he’s caught, Gerald replied.

He’s most likely a serial rapist, I said.

Until they’re busted, most rapists are repeat offenders, Gerald said.

Exactly, I said.

You prima donna PIs are too picky about the cases you accept, Turpin said. How do you expect to remain profitable and stay in business, especially during slow weeks like now?

That’s our problem, I replied. You needn’t be concerned about it.

Sign up Bernstein, Gerald said. He’ll do anything—and I mean anything—for a quick, dirty buck.

He mucks up everything he touches, Turpin said. Any criminal attorney worth his salt knows it. He’s burned each of us at least once, and we’ve learned to avoid him.

Why did you take Babcock as your client? I asked.

His money was too good to refuse, Turpin replied. His daddy foots the legal bills. Name your price, and he’ll probably agree to meet it. When did you last work on such a sweetheart of a case?

Money isn’t everything in our racket, I replied.

It sure as hell is when the rent, insurance, and utility bills come due, Turpin said. Standing on your high moral ground isn’t a pragmatic or sustainable course to take.

Believe it or not, at this stage of my career, I adhere to my code of ethics, I said.

Help me to understand what your hang-up is, Turpin said. Why do you refuse to investigate my client’s case?

We’re married men who love our wives, I replied. I draw the line at any violence against women, children, and animals. You’ll have to cajole another private investigator into it, I’m afraid.

Recommendations? Turpin asked.

Other than Bernstein, I know of no PI agency that would sign up, I said.

Frank is right, Gerald said. The only private dick who agrees to discredit a rape victim is a real dick. We’re not real dicks, so you can beat it.

Don’t be so prickly and adversarial, Turpin said. We’re three pros holding a conference, to which I brought you a business proposal.

We heard you out, and we voted to reject your business proposal, Gerald said. Therefore, we have no more to discuss with you. Hit the bricks, Turpin.

My client is the actual victim here of a false rape allegation, Turpin said. She’s crying rape and looking to score a quick bonanza in a settlement. Can’t you see that?

Then pay her the money she wants, and she’ll drop the charges, I said. Babcock can well afford it. Who is the rape victim?

She’s a junior who majors in psychology at George Mason University in Fairfax City, Turpin said.

How did they hook up? I asked.

He attended an off-campus frat party where she sashayed in with her three girlfriends, Turpin replied.

Did he rape her at the frat party? I asked.

They had consensual sex in one of the bedrooms there, Turpin replied.

She didn’t think it was too consensual, I said.

He says she’s just a flirty blonde prick-tease, Turpin said.

I’ll bet he does make that claim, I said. What do her girlfriends say?

They’ve fallen in line behind her to corroborate her pack of lies, Turpin replied.

The more you detail your case, the worse it stinks, I said.

I concur, Gerald said.

She wore this catch-me-and-fuck-me little black dress with her catch-me-and-fuck-me stiletto black heels, Turpin said. He knew what she wanted, and so he gave it to her.

That caveman defense won’t fly anymore, I said.

They were college kids doing what college kids do, Turpin said. It’s all sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.

No matter how you slice it and dice it, he committed rape, I said. He’s a criminal, and he should go to prison

Is that your final answer? Turpin asked. Is there any wiggle room?

Would you be ever so kind as to go? Mr. Peyton will escort you out if you need encouragement, I replied.

It’d be my pleasure, Gerald said.

Don’t get bent out of shape, Turpin said. I’m leaving. You have my number if you change your mind.

I wouldn’t be counting on it if I were you, I said.

If it turns out my client is found innocent, you’ll look pretty stupid, Turpin said.

We’ll take our chances on where the chips fall, I said.

Bite my hairy Irish ass, Johnson, Turpin said. Hear me?

Beat it. I’m not engaging with you, Turpin, I said. Get up and walk away while you still can.

Aggravating us is detrimental to your health, Gerald said.

After Turpin slunk out the doorway, I prepared to perk a new carafe of chicory-mix coffee. Dreema bought it discounted in the plastic container at Costco, located one county over when she made her monthly run. I’d become a bigger caffeine addict since the winter, guzzling my cups of hot java as late as 3 p.m. while at the office. I never drank it cold—that was gross. I scowled as I sipped. On the one hand, I disliked turning away new business coming through the door, as Turpin had brought us.

On the other hand, I’d no interest in working on a damn rape case, especially for the defense. I’d never dredge up the garbage designed to impugn the rape victim’s character. If anything, I’d throw in with the prosecution.

I knew the unsubstantiated rape accusations accounted for between 2-10% of the sexual assaults brought to trial. I would follow the developments on Turpin’s rape case as reported in the news media, both the in-print and digital editions. If you said I was too inquisitive for my own good, I’d agree with you. I booted up my Dell laptop. Producing our lucid, comprehensive client reports fell within my bailiwick.

My journeyman writing skills enabled me to compose an articulate narrative for our clients, although they’d never mistake me for the late Robert B. Parker, Elmore Leonard, or Arthur Lyons. Very few of us mortals could match those professional crime authors’ polished prose. I didn’t get lazy when I prepared my paperwork, and I included vulgar words like dildo and motherfucker if I needed them for the sake of accuracy.

My choice of online dictionaries remained Merriam-Webster, and I preferred the Opera web browser over Chrome and Bing. I still used Word 2003, run on Windows 11, tailored with a few macros, for my word processing software needs. Learning the latest and greatest version of Word daunted me. I’d stick with my tried-and-true word-processing software until I could no longer rely on it. I included every phone call we made and every hour of surveillance we performed in each report to show the client how much prodigious effort we’d devoted to their case.

My recalcitrance often confounded and frustrated others. I did not give a fuzzy fuck as I went about my daily business. I had worked as a licensed private investigator in Virginia since 2000. More than two decades later, I still rocked on as strongly as ever. I had no plans to switch careers, and I wasn’t anywhere close to retirement age. Dreema and I had our still-lean IRA nest eggs and our smaller rainy-day fund in a savings account. Both had been her idea, and I was okay with it as long as I got to play with my guns, which she tolerated as Frank’s boy toys.

Gerald reminded me of our 10 a.m. appointment. Since Turpin had gotten our Monday off to a lousy start, I felt prepared for whatever came next. The unscrupulous lawyer represented any client who could meet his overpriced legal fees, regardless of how unsavory their case might be. If he ever called me again about our PI services, I’d be sure to get more background on his client. He didn’t screen them because he dreamed more of his lush retirement than he did of guarding his integrity. Our client, Sybil Gleason, was an ashen blonde.

Sybil’s height was 5-foot-4, or maybe 5-foot-5, in mid-low black heels. Her build was on the slender-to-slim side, with chiseled hips, svelte legs, and angular shoulders. Her strapless sundress was thigh-length and ivy-green. In mid-August, she worked on her bronze tan religiously enough to make it last through the winter. She had furry armpits, which were a turnoff. I could never guess how old a person, male or female, was based on sight alone. If I put her age between 25 and 30, I’d draw a contemptuous glare.

Sybil smiled. You’re a salt-and-pepper tandem, she said. How quaint!

I arched an eyebrow. Is it a problem? I asked.

Not at all, Sybil replied. It caught me off guard and surprised me. I expected to greet two men of color this morning.

Sometimes we let Frank be a brother, Gerald said.

I smiled.

Are you also friends? Sybil asked.

Unfortunately, yes, we’ve been pals since before we could walk, I replied.

Is Gerald the boss? Sybil asked.

He is when it suits him, I replied. My name is at the top of the company masthead. I’ve been a licensed private eye for nearly 23 years.

Then you must be doing something right, and I’m at the right place, Sybil said.

Have a seat, and we’ll get started, I said, nodding at the three empty client chairs. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or a Snapple?

I’ll have to pee like a racehorse in 20 minutes if you give me one, Sybil replied.

We also have a private restroom with plenty of TP, I said.

That’s okay, thanks, Sybil said as she took a seat. Men never clean their piss dribble off the toilet rim, and they don’t leave the toilet seat down, which is so rude.

Gerald laughed. You sound like my wife, he said.

"Now that we’ve gotten the