Loe raamatut: «Uncle Sarge»

Chapter One

Looking at the grimy storefront window of the Checkmate Detective Agency in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, Rich Larsen shivered in spite of the humid, ninety-degree August heat. He wondered if he should have called first, but shook that idea away.

He was a technical sergeant in the United States Air Force and a member of the Special Tactics Wing, Silver Team, one of the air force’s most elite units. He could deal with a private detective on a side street in a military town. He drew in a deep breath and pushed open the glass door.

A rush of blessedly cold air hit him as he stepped inside and looked around. The office could have passed for something out of Mickey Spillane except for a profusion of houseplants cluttering every surface. The anteroom appeared to be empty, but the door to the rear was open.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” a decidedly feminine voice said from somewhere. The floor?

“Okay, fine,” Rich said, for lack of anything else, as a woman with long, dark brown hair peeked up from behind the reception desk.

This must be the secretary, he presumed, and as the woman rose, Rich decided that she definitely did not look like someone out of Mickey Spillane. Her face was perfectly ordinary, like the girl next door. Her shape was anything but, in spite of the fact that she hid it behind a demure, cotton dress.

“May I help you?” she asked as she smoothed out the dress that did nothing to disguise curves that would make a showgirl proud.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Rich said.

“This is a detective agency, not an escort service,” the receptionist replied primly, and Rich amended his original description. She looked like a Sunday school teacher.

Rich blew out an impatient breath. “My sister. I’m looking for my sister,” he clarified. “Look, if you’ll just let me speak to the detective, I’ll explain what I want, and be out of your way.” He wasn’t sure what she’d been doing on the floor, but she was obviously annoyed at being interrupted and was taking it out on him.

“Mr. King’s out. Go on in the office and wait.”

Shrugging, Rich complied. There had been other detective agencies listed in the phone book, but this one had the smallest ad. He figured it meant that they were either really good, or really cheap. Considering a tech sergeant’s pay scale, even with jump pay and his other hazard bonuses, he hoped they were both. And when he’d asked around, he’d learned it was run by a former member of his unit who was now retired. Any time he could give a former combat controller his business, he tried to do it.

JENNIFER BISHOP sank back to the floor and fanned her face with her hands. That hunk of man was hot enough to melt the iceberg that had sunk the Titanic. He had to be six-foot-six if he was an inch, and his broad chest stretched the knit fabric of his navy Polo shirt. His shoulders were so wide that he surely must have had to turn sideways to come through the door.

No, she told herself. She was here to work, not drool over a man. Even if he did look like someone off of…what? The cover of a romance novel? She’d just come out of a relationship that ought to have put her off men forever. So, why was she getting hot flashes over this stranger?

She brushed the rest of the potting soil she’d spilled into a pile, reached for her minivac and vacuumed it up. Maybe it didn’t fit the normal image of a private detective’s office to be cluttered with houseplants, but then she wasn’t a normal private detective. And she always whiled away slow periods by tending her plants.

Jennifer dusted her hands off and put the vacuum away. Then she drew a couple of deep breaths for good measure. Al King, her boss, was on vacation, and she was holding down the fort. Al had a military retirement to augment his income, but hers depended on whatever work they could get. With Al gone, she hoped to drum up a client or two of her own.

She took another deep breath, pasted an efficient look on her face and stepped into the office she shared with Al.

The guy hadn’t gotten any smaller in the ninety seconds since she’d last seen him. He seemed to fill the room, and she wondered if the spindly, ladder-back chair that looked almost comical under his huge body would continue to hold him up. A vision of the chair shattering and dumping him to the floor flitted through her mind and pushed away some of her nervousness.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said as she seated herself at Al’s desk across from the Adonis. No, Adonis did not fit this incredible hulk. He looked more like a man from the fjords of Scandinavia than the isles of Greece. There was a lean hardness to his face, but with ice blue eyes, a golden tan and sun-bleached hair, he needed only a name like Olaf Olsen to finish the picture.

“You? You’re the detective?” The man sat up straighter, inhaled and seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the room.

“I’m one of them,” she said, fudging the facts only a tiny bit. “Jennifer Bishop. As I said before, Al King is out.” She didn’t add that he’d be gone for the rest of the month on a fishing expedition to Alaska to escape the heat and humidity of August in Florida.

“Oh. I get it. Bishop and King. Checkmate.”

Score one for him. Not many people took the two names and made the chess connection. She didn’t tell him that Al had bought the business from a guy who did surveillance in divorce cases. Considering the way the name worked to his advantage, Al had kept it. “Yes,” she said. “And you are…?”

The man offered his hand. “Rich Larsen.”

So, she wasn’t so far off with the Olsen thing. Then he closed his huge hand over hers, and her brain ceased to function.

He held her hand in his firm grip long enough for Jennifer to feel light-headed and to be certain his fingerprints were branded permanently on her hand. She drew in a sharp breath and let go.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Larsen,” she said when her breath returned. “Now, how can we help you?” Jennifer could see that he had doubts about her, and she really couldn’t blame him.

After all, until a few months ago, she’d merely been the receptionist helping with the computer research. But, she’d studied, taken the exam, and she was now a licensed investigator. Funny, she didn’t feel any different.

“I’m trying to find my sister,” he said again.

“And how did you lose her?” Maybe she was being flippant, but she had to lighten it up. Jennifer couldn’t see how a brawny guy like him could lose track of anything. He looked too together, too…male. She shook that notion away.

His blue eyes clouded. “We were in foster care. When I turned eighteen, I left to join the air force. She still had to finish high school. We kept in touch for a year or two, but when I got stationed overseas she wanted to go with me. Nothing I could say would convince her that a two-stripe airman was not authorized to take dependents. She thought I didn’t want her. I wrote to her, tried to explain, but she didn’t write back, and finally my letters started coming back marked, ‘Moved—no forwarding address.’” He drew in a deep breath.

“I called and found out that the number for the foster family we’d lived with had been changed, and I knew I’d pretty much reached a dead end. By that time, Sherry was old enough to have graduated. I guess she got a job and started taking care of herself, but I haven’t heard from her since. That was seven years ago.”

He’d made other attempts to locate her through the years, but he’d never had the time or the resources to do it right. This time he was serious.

“Why look now?”

He had expected that question, and it was easy enough to answer. “This is the first time I’ve been close enough to do anything about it. And the first time in a long time that my life has slowed down enough to follow through.”

With special tactics training and assignments in both Bosnia and Kosovo, he’d just not had the time to do it. But after he’d attended the funeral for Dave Krukshank, who had been killed in that training accident, Rich had begun to see how empty his life had been. And he’d begun to think about his own mortality. If he died, who would mourn for him?

He didn’t think he’d ever have a family of his own, but maybe Sherry would. Rich looked too much like his abusive father, and he didn’t want to put any other children through what he’d been through as a child. He was big, he was strong, he was well trained. He could use what he had to save the world. But, he didn’t dare dream about a family of his own.

Rich had hopes that world events would not intrude for a while, or at least that he wouldn’t be required to participate in them. He’d been on the fast track far too long. He needed time to breathe.

“You’re from Fort Walton Beach, then?” She started to write on a yellow pad.

“No, Val-P,” he said, referring to Valparaiso, a town just to the east of sprawling Eglin Air Force Base—the huge military installation that dwarfed Hurlburt, where he was assigned.

Jennifer looked up from the pad. “I sure don’t want to send away a paying customer, but have you tried to find her yourself? Surely, you have friends in common. Other relatives?”

Rich shook his head. “Sherry’s my only family. I tried looking myself, but nothing panned out. Called the high school. Looked in the phone book. Directory assistance. Everything I could think of. Even found a listing for the Parkers, our foster family. They haven’t heard from her in years.” He blew out a long, tired breath. “I came up with zip. That’s why I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s still in the area.”

He slumped back into the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair, and it creaked with the added weight.

Jennifer smiled. “It sounds like you’ve made a good start, but there are still some avenues I can try.”

He sat up straighter. “Like what?”

“Mostly computer stuff. You’d be surprised what you can find online if you know where to look. If you can give me some basic information about your sister, I should be able to track her down.”

She asked several questions, jotted down the answers, took his address and phone number, then put down her pen. “I’ll start working on this right away, Mr. Larsen.”

“Tech Sergeant,” he corrected, then smiled. “Rich.” He started to offer his hand again, then remembered the jolt he’d gotten the last time. He stuck it in his pocket, instead. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

He got up and headed for the door. Turning and looking back over his shoulder, he smiled. She didn’t look like much of a detective, but maybe she could do the computer search thing. Besides, she did have an ex-combat controller for a partner. “Thanks. I hope you’ll have something for me soon.”

JENNIFER couldn’t believe her first case had been as easy as this. She’d spent an afternoon on the computer, searching through data bases, and had come up with the information Rich—Tech Sergeant Larsen, she reminded herself—wanted. She wavered between waiting a little longer to make it look as though she’d worked harder, or calling him right away.

She called.

She wouldn’t have charged him for the extra time anyway, but she knew how much he’d wanted to find his sister. He hadn’t said so, but she’d seen the wistful look in his blue eyes when he’d spoken about her.

Of course, she’d gotten his machine.

So, now she was whiling away her time working on her plants. If only another customer would walk in off the street. Just not one as potent as TSgt. Larsen. And, maybe with a slightly more challenging request.

She puttered in her indoor garden, losing herself in Zen-like meditation. Working with the plants soothed her. When life with her ex had been at its rockiest, her plants had been her salvation. She smiled as she loosened the soil around a split-leafed Philodendron she’d nursed back from near death.

The phone rang.

Jennifer jerked out of her trance-like state and dropped the cultivator on her foot. That brought her back to her senses, and she limped to the phone. “Yes? I mean, Checkmate Detective Agency,” she said sharply as she sat down and massaged the red mark.

It was Rich Larsen returning her call.

“I’ve found an address for your sister,” she said, ready to provide the details.

To her surprise, Rich uttered a too-familiar exclamation. “Hoo-ah!” Then he hung up.

Stunned by what that single two-syllable word, the all-purpose cry of exclamation that combat controllers used, meant, Jennifer stood, holding the receiver until the phone company off-the-hook signal chimed in.

Her ex-husband was a combat controller. Was Rich Larsen one of them?

RICH MADE the ten-minute drive from his apartment just outside Hurlburt AFB in five. Good thing the afternoon rush wasn’t yet in full swing. He hadn’t bothered to change from his camouflage battle dress uniform; he’d just rushed out. He wasn’t supposed to be wearing BDUs on the street, but he didn’t give a damn about the regulations. This was too important.

He was pulling into a parking spot across from the agency when he realized that Ms. Bishop could have told him over the phone. He shrugged. He was here now.

He grabbed his scarlet beret, jammed it on his head, then locked the truck. He had to know what Ms. Bishop had uncovered. God, he hadn’t even thought to ask whether it was good news or bad.

Preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best, he shouldered open the door.

Ms. Bishop was waiting at the desk. Today she had her hair pulled back from the sides and anchored at the nape of her neck with a large barrette. She had on another flowered dress, and until she stood, she again looked like a member of the church choir.

The dress did nothing to disguise the sinful curves below that angelic face, however, and when she rose to greet him, he drew in a short breath. He said nothing, just waited for the blood to rush back to his brain.

“I’ve typed everything up for you,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. “She’s married now….” Ms. Bishop glanced down at her notes. “To Michael Connolly. They live in Pensacola. Here’s the phone number,” she said, tapping the spot on the sheet.

Rich took the paper from her and held it gingerly as if it were a live grenade. He looked down at the information, neatly typed, and wondered at the ordinariness of it. A name, a social security number, an address and phone number. Name, rank and serial number. Everything you needed to prove you were real.

Was it real? Had Ms. Bishop really located his sister so quickly? He looked up from the paper, and he swallowed. “Did you call?” Why was his voice so thick and husky?

She smiled. “I thought you’d like to do that yourself.” She gestured toward the phone. “Be my guest.”

Rich wondered if he ought to do this here. Would he be better off calling from the privacy of his own phone? But Ms. Bishop had been a part of it this far, she might as well be there for the grand finale. He reached for the phone, his hands remarkably unsteady, and dialed.

His breath caught as the number connected. Ms. Bishop smiled and gave him a thumbs-up sign. One ring. What if she wasn’t home? Two rings. He held his breath. Then the unmistakable sound of a phone company recording dashed his hopes of speaking to Sherry today. Out of service.

He closed his eyes and drew a long breath. “The phone’s disconnected. Now what?” he said as he returned the receiver to its cradle.

Jennifer’s smile faltered. Why hadn’t she thought to try the number first? “Are you sure it’s disconnected?” She reached for the phone Sergeant Larsen had just put down, pushed the Redial button and waited. She pasted a smile back on her face as she listened. “It said, ‘out of service,’ not disconnected. It could be out of order or they were late paying their bill for this month. They’re probably still there.” She met his eyes. “You could go. Knock on the door.” As soon as she said it, Jennifer knew it was a big mistake.

He grabbed her arm, and the touch of his large, strong hand set her heart fluttering like a butterfly in a glass jar. “Go with me. I’ve changed a lot since I last saw my sister. She might not recognize me.”

He paused and dragged in a ragged breath. “I’m a big guy. It might frighten her to have somebody like me show up on her doorstep. If Sherry sees someone like you with me, she might be more willing to let me in. Besides, I’m not familiar with Pensacola, I might never find the place.”

As Jennifer considered the foolhardiness of going off on this expedition, he threw in the final piece of bait. “I’ll spring for burgers on the way and you can navigate.”

Burgers from a fast-food place sounded a lot better than the tuna casserole she had planned. Jennifer glanced at the clock. Almost quitting time. “I—I guess so,” she heard herself saying. “Just let me lock up.”

“Hoo-ah. It’s a date,” he said, his face regaining the animation he’d lost when he’d heard that tone.

“No,” she corrected. “Not a date. This is business.” Then she glanced at the way the fabric of his drab olive T-shirt stretched across that broad chest. She knew all about the kind of man who wore those scarlet berets and shouted hoo-ah. She’d been married to one. Duke had been the best at everything except commitment. She figured they were all the same. At least, until they’d gotten old enough to settle down as Al had. It must have something to do with the training.

No, she had a feeling that this story was going to wind up with a happy ending, and maybe it was foolish of her, but she wanted to see it through. Typing bits of information into a computer and waiting for it to regurgitate the answers was a living, but she longed to see the human side of her job. She wanted to see the results of her efforts.

This is business, she reminded herself. So why was she thinking about anything else?

“I FIGURE once I’ve eaten with a person, they have the right to use my first name. That okay with you, Ms. Bishop?” Rich glanced sidewards and chuckled at the flustered look on her face. “You can call me Rich. Tech Sergeant Larsen’s a little long, wouldn’t you say?”

“I—ah—er—yes. Sure.” She paused. “And you may call me Jennifer.” Then she added, “Rich.”

“Jennifer. It’s a pretty name. It suits you.”

She smiled and blushed. “I hope not. I always felt it was such an ordinary name. After all, every other girl in my class all through school was a Jennifer. I’d rather be a Rosemund or a Victoria. At least there aren’t fifty of them lurking around every corner.” Her smile quirked to the right.

“At least everybody knows how to spell it,” Rich said. “What if you really did have one of those unusual names that nobody knew. That could be a problem,” Rich said as she looked everywhere but at him.

“Yeah,” Jennifer murmured.

The litter from the take-out meal scattered in her lap seemed to be more important to Jennifer than continuing the conversation. Rich shrugged. After tonight, it wasn’t likely they’d see each other again. He shouldn’t be getting his feelings hurt because a woman—an ordinary-looking one, at that—didn’t want to make conversation with him.

Once they found Sherry’s house, Rich reasoned, and he’d assured himself that his sister was alive and well and living in Pensacola, he’d take Jennifer home, and he’d never see her again.

They rode on in awkward silence until they reached the bridge that crossed Pensacola Bay and led into the city. “I guess we should pick up a map.” Rich pulled into a service station. “I need to gas up anyway.”

“Good idea,” Jennifer said. “I’ll see if they have one while you pump.”

Jennifer reappeared before he had filled the tank. She unfolded the map and pored over it while he settled the bill.

“Ah, here it is. Smith Street,” she said as Rich started the engine. “It’s on the other side of town.” She directed him to the main artery and settled back against the seat.

Rich drew in a breath and steered the truck toward the northwest side of town.

Jennifer knew she should be breaking his tension by talking, but darn it, sitting this close to him, she could barely think. She’d thought he’d made her office feel small, but in the confines of his small pickup truck, separated only by the space between bucket seats, it was all she could do to breathe.

She would be so glad when they were done with this.

Jennifer glanced at his strong profile and his lean jaw starting to bristle with golden five o’clock shadow and wondered if she might just explore…No, she told herself, it was too soon. Besides, she knew about his kind of man. Those special tactics combat control operators were love ’em and leave ’em all the way. She’d already been left once. And once was more than enough.

She busied herself reading the map and watching the landmarks fly by. Finally, they pulled off the main road and into a neighborhood.

Only a few more blocks and Rich would reach his sister’s address. Only a few more blocks and he’d be reunited with the only relative he had. She smiled at that.

Most of Checkmate’s work was doing background checks for Okaloosa County businesses. She seldom saw the people she researched. She seldom reached out and touched the people whose lives she explored. It would be wonderful to experience something good and positive.

“Shouldn’t we be turning now?”

Jennifer snapped out of her thoughts and ran a finger along the course she’d marked. “About two blocks. Then turn left.”

The neighborhood was a relatively new one comprised of small houses, with small mortgages, for couples just starting out. Most of the yards were well tended, and most had one car in the carport and one in the drive. She and Duke had once lived in a neighborhood like this together. She sighed. Now, she lived there alone.

Finally, they came to the street. “Right turn,” Jennifer said with less than full confidence.

Rich turned, and Jennifer began scanning for house numbers. “I think we’re headed in the right direction,” she said. “It should be right around this curve.”

It was.

Rich pulled up to the curb and parked. He exhaled slowly as he assessed the appearance of the small, yellow bungalow. Sherry had always loved the color yellow, but she never would have let the lawn go so long without mowing.

He knew that from the way she’d loved to do the yard work when they were in foster care together. She’d always said she wanted to have a little yellow house with a white picket fence and lots of yard to putter in. There was no fence, but two out of three was pretty good.

The lawn looked as if it hadn’t been mowed in several weeks, and children’s toys were scattered throughout the tall grass. There was a very old minivan in the carport, but the second car, if there was one, was gone. A pile of newspapers filled the seat of a lawn chair on the tiny front porch. Though it was too early in the evening for lights to be on, the house looked dark and forlorn.

“Do you suppose they’ve gone on vacation?” Jennifer echoed exactly what Rich had been thinking.

He nodded. “You’d think they’d’ve canceled the paper, though.”

“Let me check the mailbox,” Jennifer said, pushing open the door. She came back in a minute. “Nothing there. Maybe, one of the neighbors is picking up their mail. But, if they were going on a trip, wouldn’t they put away their kids’ toys first?” she mused.

“Beats me,” Rich said. “Now what?”

“We talk to the neighbors. We’ve come this far, we might as well see what they know.”

The house to the right was as dark as Sherry’s with no cars filling the carport or the drive. But the one on the other side seemed cheery and open, and cooking smells wafted from that direction. “Guess we start with that one.”

Rich drew a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Here goes nothing.” He rang the doorbell.

A plump, middle-aged lady appeared, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “May I help you?” Her expression was pleasant, but cautious, as she pushed open the storm door a crack.

Rich cleared his throat, struggling to dislodge the industrial-size lump, as Jennifer stepped forward and smiled reassuringly.

“My name is Rich Larsen. I’m looking for my sister, Sherry. I haven’t seen her in several years, but I think she lives next door.”

“Oh, Mr. Larsen. It’s so good that you’ve come,” the lady dithered. “I’m just so sorry you couldn’t have come sooner.” She pushed her screen door open and beckoned them in. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have come before…” Her voice trailed off, then she sighed. “It’s so sad.”