Courage Matters
by R. Scott Mackey
We are delighted to welcome author R. Scott Mackey to Omnimystery News today.
Scott's new mystery Courage Matters (RSM Publishing; February 2014 hardcover and ebook formats) introduces private investigator Ray Courage, and we are pleased to provide you with an excerpt — the first three chapters — from this first in series mystery.
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JILL STROUD WALKED INTO THE SAY HEY at eight o'clock that night and all the curses I had silently heaved at her the past two years changed into a love song, an anthem of longing and hope. My soul soared, my heart raced, my head swelled with Love Me Tender passion. In the interest of full disclosure, Elvis was in fact belting out Love Me Tender on the jukebox. Yet, there could be no doubting the malevolence that had once infused me evaporated in an instant.
I was sitting alone at the bar. She came over and sat beside me. I mumbled something to her. She smiled at me and said something. I laughed. I think I laughed. A minute later, maybe two, she was sipping a glass of white wine and I ordered a second beer.
"I'm glad this isn't awkward for you," she said, the first words I can remember, the earlier part of the conversation lost forever to history.
"Why wouldn't it be? We're adults." It sounded pretty good, almost as if I meant it.
Rubia, the bartender eased closer to our conversation. Rubia was twenty-three years old, one of my former students. She inherited the bar, The Say Hey, from an uncle two years before and, in his honor, kept its unique decor. Though maybe five hundred square feet, The Say Hey featured more photographs of Willie (The Say Hey Kid) Mays than anyplace outside of AT&T Park. All told there were 453 photos on the wall, all of Willie running, catching, throwing, goofing and just enjoying being Willie Mays. Rubia's uncle shot all the photos back when he was a sports photographer for the Sacramento Bee. Rubia told me he'd once been offered $50,000 for the collection, but her uncle turned the offer down flat. She watched Jill and me, part gossip girl, part protective mother.
"I heard you retired from teaching. You must have been with the university, what, 25 years?" Jill hadn't changed at all, still athletically feminine, light brown hair to the shoulders, nice features, that wilting smile, the blue eyes.
"Twenty-three. Yeah, and technically I did retire."
She started to say something, stopped, deciding to let it go. She took another sip of the wine. "I heard you started your own investigation business."
"Have to make ends meet somehow. My pension only covers so much."
"I didn't know you had any interest in that kind of work."
I thought about that for a second, recollecting the logic that had led me down a new career path. "Except for teaching I don't have a lot of skills. With no marketable talents and a natural inclination to snoop into other people's business, there weren't a lot of options."
"Maybe you shouldn't have retired."
"It was the right time."
She looked at me and again I could tell she wanted to say something but held herself back. It was too soon to go down that path. She took a sip of wine before asking, "Do you have any clients?"
"Uh, no. Actually, I just hung my shingle a couple of weeks ago. I've only been gone from Sac State six months. I'm being selective about who I'll take on."
"So you've had offers?"
"Not exactly. Maybe selective isn't the right word. Maybe lazy is more like it." That received a polite laugh.
"That's kind of why I'm here," she said. "I was wondering if you might want to take on a new client."
"You need PI services?" I was about to tell her no, but she spoke before I could get it out of my mouth.
"Not me."
Rubia drew nearer so that she could better overhear our conversation. I doubted that she knew who Jill was but the fact we knew each other obviously intrigued her. She repeatedly tried to set me up on blind dates and I repeatedly turned her down.
"Excuse me," I said to Rubia. "A little privacy, please. We're talking business."
Rubia walked a few feet away and pretended to watch the baseball game on the television at the far end of the bar.
"If you're not looking for an investigator, then who is?"
"You remember that my dad is a big-shot investment broker, don't you?"
"Lionel Stroud, broker to the stars. Or as close to the stars as we have in Sacramento." I took a swig of beer.
"I think he needs some help, even though he is being very close to the vest about it."
"What kind of help?"
"As far as I can tell, Dad's best employee is planning to leave the firm." This didn't seem like something requiring an investigator. It crossed my mind that she might be giving me pity work.
"People change jobs all the time."
"It's not that. What has my dad freaked out is that he thinks this employee is plotting to steal some of the firm's biggest clients. We're talking investors worth several hundred million dollars. Even for a firm like my dad's that could be crippling, even ruinous. He's very concerned." She didn't look at me as she spoke, focusing her attention on the wine glass which she rotated with her thumb and forefinger on the table.
"When did he tell you this?"
"A couple of days ago. We were having dinner — we do that about twice a year to appear civil — and he seemed distracted. I asked him what was wrong but he was tight-lipped. After his third scotch he finally admitted he had work problems. Took me damned near two hours to even find out the little bit I told you."
I found myself unconsciously rotating my glass of beer in unison with Jill's wine glass. "What do you want me to do?" I said, taking my hand from the glass and setting it on my lap.
"I don't know exactly," she said. "Maybe you could start by talking to my dad. I told him I was going to help him."
"And you thought of me?"
"You're the only private investigator I know. I think he would talk to you if you told him you could help." She reached into her purse, pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "Please call him."
"I will," I said, slipping the card into my shirt pocket. Something about the situation seemed wrong and she must have seen it in my face.
"You're not inspiring me here."
"It just seems your dad has all the resources he needs to take care of this himself. Attorneys, employee contracts with non-compete clauses most likely, like that. Hell, this can't be the first time a broker has tried to walk away with the firm's clients."
"I know all that and you're right. This just seems different to me."
"How so?"
She drank her wine down until it was almost gone.
"Dad seems really paranoid about this. It sounded like he didn't want his lawyers or anyone else to know what was going on. That if anyone found out it would cause even worse problems. Whatever's going on, it's got him spooked."
"All right, I'll at least call him."
Jill thanked me and stood to leave. I walked her to the front door, opening it for her.
"Can you keep me posted?" she said. "He and I don't have the closest father-daughter relationship in the world, but I'm worried about him, Ray. Very worried."
I nodded. I wanted to talk more, and not about her father. It had been two years since we'd seen each other. I felt so different, that I had changed for the better. I wanted to fill her in on my life, but when I searched my mind for something I realized nothing about me except for my employment and romantic status had changed at all. I was still Ray Courage, the same schlub she had dumped two years before.
"I'll call him tomorrow," I said, not daring to look her in the eyes.
CHAPTER 2
Locals called 300 Capital Mall "The Emerald Tower," in part because its glass facade glimmered like a green jewel in the Sacramento sunlight. That it housed some of Sacramento's most prestigious law, lobbying and investment firms in its swanky offices contributed even more to its regal reputation.
Atop the Emerald Tower, on the eighteenth floor, reigned Lionel Stroud Investments. Now pushing seventy, Lionel Stroud had been the King Midas on the local investment scene for four decades, generating new wealth for his already wealthy clientele at a pace that humbled his distant rivals. Though he almost never spoke to the media, I did read a rare profile article he granted to promote a fundraiser for childhood cancer he was sponsoring. Stroud played the interview close to the vest, but one remarkable number jumped out at me and I remembered it years later: 25 percent. That, Stroud said, was the average return on investment his clients earned year in and year out, bull market, bear market, boom or bust.
I waited nearly an hour in the reception area, having long since finished the black coffee served me in a bone china cup, when a middle-aged woman with a helmet hairdo walked past the receptionist and approached me.
"Mr. Stroud will see you now," she said. She turned and walked away. Always the quick study, I stood and followed.
She led me into an office larger than the Say Hey. One corner window afforded a clear view of the state capitol, the other window framed the Tower Bridge, Sacramento River and Raley Field, home of the Sacramento River Cats baseball team. Photos of Stroud with the current governor, at least six past governors, state senators and assemblymen adorned the walls. One photo featured Stroud posing with a golf foursome that included Tiger Woods.
Stroud walked in a moment after I sat in a chair across from his desk. As I shook his hand I sized him up at about my six-foot two inches, but with maybe an additional twenty pounds at the waist, putting him somewhere north of 200 pounds.
"Do I know you?" he asked, settling in behind the desk in one of the biggest leather chairs I had ever seen.
"We met once. Your daughter Jill introduced us at a party a few years ago."
"If you say so."
I didn't know what to say to that. Clearly, I had made quite an impression at that previous meeting.
"Please remind me again why I agreed to see you on less than twenty-four hours notice," Stroud said. "I believe you said it had something to do with Jill."
"She is worried about you and thought maybe I could help," I said.
"What exactly is it that you do that would be ‘helpful' to me?" Stroud had thinning gray hair, crystal blue eyes and a golfer's tan. He wore a gray suit, blue striped shirt and a red tie with a matching pocket square.
"I'm a private investigator."
He raised both eyebrows at that. "And you would be investigating what as it relates to me?"
I told him what Jill had reported to me. When I finished he stared at me poker-faced.
"Jill is worried about me?" He let out a laugh. "God, can she be dramatic sometimes," he said, his eyes drifting from me to the capitol.
"Maybe so. Nevertheless, she said you were genuinely concerned about this particular employee and that maybe I can help you out."
"How would you do that?"
"I would probably start by seeing if there was any truth in it. Is the employee looking to leave and steal clients? If so, which clients have been approached? Does he plan to leave your firm soon? Or in a year? That kind of thing." My off the cuff game plan impressed me.
"Hell, I can do that! And I can do it without violating client confidentiality by releasing their names to some … some …" He flipped a back hand in my general direction.
"Private investigator," I said, ever helpful.
"I don't need a private investigator."
"Like I said, your daughter is worried. If you're not concerned then there's no reason for me to be. But with all due respect, if you say you can find out what this employee is up to, then why haven't you done so?"
Some of the tension in Stroud's face eased as he settled back into his chair. He appeared to ponder my question.
"Very well, I admit that I've tried and so far come up empty. Whatever he's doing, he's done a remarkable job of covering his tracks."
"Maybe he's not doing anything."
"Mr. Courage, I have risen to my station in life not because I am a shrewd investor — which I am — but because I am the best interpreter of human behavior there is. Period. I don't mean to sound arrogant but it is true. Given this undeniable premise, I can tell you that Andrew Morris is absolutely up to something."
"Andrew Morris. That's his name?"
He nodded.
"Here is what I would suggest," I began. I leaned forward, affecting my best college professor earnestness. "I follow Mr. Morris around for a few days. See who he meets with, poke into his personal and business affairs. Then I report back to you as soon as I learn anything of substance."
Stroud looked again at the capitol, then over at Raley Field. When he finally looked back at me there was no trace of the earlier anger.
"You are not a young man, Mr. Courage."
"I'm fifty-two."
"And I take it you've been doing this private investigating for some time."
"No, you would be my first client."
"Oh."
"I mean I have taken all the coursework and interned with an insurance company investigating fraud cases. That experience wasn't unlike this."
"I'll trust your interpretation." He steepled his fingers at his mouth, thinking. "I suppose Jill wouldn't have sent you to me if she didn't think you capable, though my daughter's own judgment is sometimes questionable."
"I'm not only capable, I'm loyal and trustworthy," I said, giving him a Boy Scout salute.
He blinked once. I cracked up this guy.
"What did you do before becoming an investigator?"
"I was a college professor at Sacramento State. Now retired."
"So you know Jill from the college? What subject did you teach?"
"Communication studies."
"Which means exactly what?"
"I taught public speaking and small group communication." I decided to keep it simple and backed off from the academic mumbo jumbo that I used to embellish my curricula vitae back when I still needed a curricula vitae.
"That hardly inspires confidence, Mr. Courage."
"You would be surprised at how twenty years of listening to 19-year olds deliver five-minute persuasive speeches can sharpen the senses."
"I'll take your word for it. Here is my proposal to you, Mr. Courage. I will give you one week to determine what Andrew Morris is doing and if he is compromising this firm's best interests. I will pay you five hundred dollars a day, plus any reasonable expenses. I will have my secretary e-mail you a contract later today."
"That sounds fair to me." Fair? Hell, I was going to charge him less than half that.
"That's not all," Stroud said. "I will tell you now and it will be explicitly included in the contract. Under no circumstances are you to contact Andrew, his acquaintances, and especially my clients. If I hear one word that anybody knows you are snooping around the affairs of this firm you will be fired, forfeit any earnings, and very likely be subject to a lawsuit. Is that clear?"
"Mr. Stroud, I can promise you that I will be as discrete as possible. However, in any investigation there are risks that —"
"You are not listening to me. So let me repeat. You are not to contact anyone at this firm or any of our clients. You must be invisible in this whole thing. In the investment business, even the faintest suggestion of controversy is distasteful and can cause panic. Clear?"
I nodded.
"I'm doing this against my better judgment," he said, almost under his breath.
"I elicit that response a lot."
Stroud ignored the comment. He had already lost interest in me. He swiveled in his chair so that his back was to me. I sat there for at least a minute, waiting for Stroud to turn around or at least say something to me as he gazed out the window. As the silence became too awkward to endure, I stood, assuming our meeting was over. As I reached the door I took one look back at Stroud and saw his face buried in his hands, his shoulders racking, and I could hear him crying faintly in that big leather chair.
CHAPTER 3
Rubia walked into the Say Hey about noon, thirty minutes later than promised, though I didn't mind opening the bar for her and working the first hour. I did it as a favor to her and for the free beer it earned me as payment.
Rubia, to my knowledge was the only one of my students who belonged to a street gang, let alone, ran a street gang. By the time she enrolled in my organizational communication class, two busts and a dozen or so tattoos later, she had gone straight. Then, as now, it was difficult for me to imagine that this beautiful, petite Latina with the sad brown eyes and long black hair possessed the street smarts, guile and ruthlessness to have managed the Los Modernos gang, which until its demise with her departure ran a notorious meth operation in West Sacramento.
"It's about time," I said, giving her a fist bump over the top of the bar. "I thought you'd never come in."
"You're working your butt off I see," she said, looking about the empty space.
"I have low tolerance for stress."
"Thanks for covering for me." She came around to the working side of the bar and I moved to the more familiar confines of the barstool across from her. "Beer?"
"Thought you'd never ask. How about a Full Sail?"
She drew the beer into a pint glass and set it in front of me on a coaster. She dressed simply as always, wearing worn designer jeans that fit her slender figure nicely and a short-sleeved blue top that could not conceal the tats that ran down to her biceps on both arms. She watched me take a sip of the beer. She sighed.
"Something wrong at the office?" I said. After graduating from Sacramento State with a degree in communication studies, Rubia started her own non-profit foundation, It's My Life, dedicated to getting kids out of gangs and into schools and the job market.
"I shouldn't complain. Donations are up. I have a part-time assistant now. Four volunteers. Got over thirty kids in the program and working on a few others. I do what I can a day at a time. One kid at a time. It can be wearying." With what little free time she had between running her foundation and managing the Say Hey, Rubia used it to earn two black belts — one in Jujitsu, another in Tai Kwon Do — and learn to shoot a handgun well enough to become club champion at Cordova Shooting Gallery. Though I was almost literally twice her size, if the going ever got tough I knew the chances were that she would protect me more than the other way around.
"Must make you feel good, though. Making a difference and all that."
"Could be doing worse things I guess. It's just that instead of getting easier it's getting harder. The Mexican cartels. They're everywhere now. They've got the dads and even the grandpas cultivating weed up in the mountains. And the kids — some as young as ten — are packaging, muleing, and selling the stuff on the street. It's bad, real bad."
"The Mexican cartels are here in Sacramento?"
"Not just here. They're all over California, probably most other states, too. Where have you been?"
"I had no idea."
"Makes my job harder. These kids can make so much money. They see their parents for god sakes growing weed."
I shook my head. Thank goodness for people like her who at least tried when it would be easier to give up. I admired her. I raised my glass to her and told her so. Rubia flushed, embarrassed by my uncharacteristic compliment.
"Let's change the subject. Are you going to tell me about your girlfriend?"
"Get out of here."
"Tell me about the gringa. She your new lover? I could see the way you looked at her."
"Hardly." I snorted. "She's a client of sorts is all." I told her about the job for Jill's dad. "I might have some work for you on this, as a matter of fact.
Though she expressed some interest in the work she didn't press for details. She was more interested in Jill.
"So this chick comes to you out of the blue?"
"We used to date."
"Ahh. How long ago?"
"We went out for about three years. Broke up two years ago."
"Did you dump her or did she dump you?" "Well, Dr. Phil, there wasn't any dumping of anyone. We came to a mutual, mature understanding that we were better off not seeing each other. Very adult. Very civil."
"She dumped you."
"Yes." I drank some beer.
"And now you're working for her?"
"Technically, no. I'm working for her father. She was just a referral."
"Referral. Nice. You banging her?"
"Jesus, I thought that college degree put some couth into that gangbanging head of yours."
"Are you?"
"No."
"Do you want to?"
"No," I said. "We are done. I will probably never see her again after today."
"What's today?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. She wants an update on my meeting with her dad. She's worried."
"And she wants to screw your lights out."
"Stop!"
"Just saying."
"Well, you're wrong." I stood and started to leave. "Thanks for the beer."
Rubia blew me a kiss and thanked me again for opening and tending the bar. "Oh, and keep me posted on how this case thing with the, uh, dad, works out. Don't want you getting your ass into trouble."
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Photo provided courtesy of
R. Scott Mackey
R. Scott Mackey is the author of four books, including Barbary Baseball: The Pacific Coast League of the 1920s and the young adult novels Blood Runs Deep and The Bugfish Experiment. Courage Matters, the first in a planned series featuring private investigator Ray Courage, is set in Northern California, where Mackey makes his home.
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Courage Matters
R. Scott Mackey
A Ray Courage Mystery
Rookie Private Investigator Ray Courage is asked by "Stockbroker to the Stars" Lionel Stroud to investigate an employee who's been acting suspiciously. Ray soon learns that not everything is as it appears at Stroud's firm.
When his investigation uncovers a possible Ponzi Scheme orchestrated by Stroud himself, two people are murdered and Ray becomes Suspect Number One. Ray needs to find answers fast to avoid prison … or death at the hands of the killer.
Complicating his efforts are threats from the son of a Mexican drug lord, hostility from an octogenarian with a penchant for lap dances, harassment from a cop bent on putting Ray away for life, and a rekindled love affair with Stroud's daughter.
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