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    Dark Conspiracy: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery
    Dark Conspiracy: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery
    Dark Conspiracy: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery
    Ebook259 pages3 hours

    Dark Conspiracy: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery

    By David H Fears

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    About this ebook

    Mike is shot after chasing a naked blonde down a dark street one wet night in Portland, Oregon. His near death experience, surgery and a long recovery convince him that the time’s right to marry Molly Bennett. But first Mike vows to catch the killer, whose victim turns out to be the granddaughter of the L.A. mob boss, Nick Licata. The girl was involved with a Marxist group headed by a Reed College professor, who heads anti-war rallies at the school and holds perverted bondage sessions in his basement. The girl’s brother hires Mike to protect him and soon after the brother’s homosexual roommate is bludgeoned to death. Investigating the two murders, Mike uncovers a communist plot hatched by the professor, a conspiracy to bomb a Navy destroyer at the river wall during Portland’s Rose Festival in 1967. After deducing the scheme’s target hour, Mike, Molly and Rick scramble to identify all the conspirators and stop their plan to use an Vietnam War protest as cover. Dark Conspiracy is the 8th in the novel series, each stand alone. Complex plot, seduction, strong adult content.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid H Fears
    Release dateDec 2, 2012
    ISBN9781301929375
    Dark Conspiracy: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery
    Author

    David H Fears

    David was known by the handle “professor” as a boy (no doubt the thick black spectacles, Buddy Holly style), and has had a lifetime interest in Mark Twain. He has also written nearly one hundred short stories with about sixteen published, and is working on the 14th Mike Angel PI Mystery novel.Fears is a pretty handy name for horror stories, but he also has written mainstream nostalgic, literary, some fantasy/magical realism, as well as the PI novels. For the past decade he has devoted his full time to producing Mark Twain Day By Day, a four-volume annotated chronology in the life of Samuel L. Clemens. Two volumes are now available, and have been called, “The Ultimate Mark Twain Reference” by top Twain scholars. His aim for these books is “to provide a reference and starting-off place for the Twain scholar, as well as a readable book for the masses,” one that provides many “tastes” of Twain and perspective into his complex and fascinating life. He understands this is a work that will never be “finished” — in fact, he claims that no piece of writing is ever finished, only abandoned after a time. As a historian, David enjoys mixing historical aspects in his fiction.David recently taught literature and writing at DeVry University in Portland, his third college stint. His former lives enjoyed some success in real estate and computer business, sandwiched between undergraduate studies in the early 70s and his masters degree in education and composition, awarded in 2004.He was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and has lived in New England, Southern California and Nevada. David is youthful looking and is the father of three girls, the grandfather of four and the great-grandfather of two; he’s written, “It all shows what you can do if you fool around when you’re very young.” David’s a card. How many of us think humor has a place in mystery tales or history tomes? He claims his calico cat Sophie helps him edit his stories while lying across his arm when he is composing, and sinking her claws in with any poorly drawn sentence. As a writer, a humorist, a cat lover and father of girls, he relates well to Clemens. Writing hardboiled PI novels is his way of saying "NUTS!" to politically correct fiction.UPDATE: Beloved Calico Sophie died on Apr 24, 2016 at 13 & 1/2 years. She is sorely missed.

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      Book preview

      Dark Conspiracy - David H Fears

      Dark Conspiracy

      By David H Fears

      Horizon Micro Publishing, LLC

      Other titles in the series: Dark Quarry, Dark Lake,

      Dark Blonde, Dark Poison, Dark Idol, Dark Moon, Dark Fantasy

      Dark Conspiracy, Dark Red

      Copyright © 2012 David H Fears

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN 9781301929375

      Smashwords Edition

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Dark Conspiracy

      Chapter 1

      I was in a bourbon mood. Dry and restless—as empty as those bottles we drained the night before.

      Molly was babysitting her sister’s twins, wouldn’t be home before eleven. All three channels broadcasting crap. Spillane novel finished, each story in Manhunt read twice. 1967—a new year started off boring. By mid-March, over-the-top boring.

      I wondered what sort of cases I’d be tackling if we hadn’t migrated west a couple years before to comatose, white, soggy Portland from loud, melting-pot, dangerous Chicago. Big bloody cases no doubt, like most crime in Chicago. Did I really miss it? Did danger feed my soul? Or death wishes? How the hell would I know? I’m piss-poor at self-analysis. Being an effective PI doesn’t mean being practiced at navel staring, it means reading silent cues a lush babe puts out, or how a mug’s eyes blink and shift when dishing baloney.

      Portland did hand me one headline case against mobsters the year before, but Portland was undersized, too quiet, even with its history of racketeering and wide-open crime of the 1940s and 50s. I would have liked it back then. Now a quaint wet burg on the Willamette River, a stunted sister to Seattle, no major league teams, vanilla homicides maybe once a quarter when a longshoreman catches his wife in bed with the milkman.

      At least in Chicago a few big shots were going down. Jimmy Hoffa was finally carted off to the slammer for an eight-year stretch. Jury tampering.

      I began to doubt our move out West, though Molly raved about Portland, nearby Cascades, Pacific Coast, either an hour drive. But private eyes aren’t thrilled by nature vistas. At least this eye isn’t. No mystery or danger in landscapes.

      Beyond boredom, resentment grew in my craw. I never felt worthy of Molly and I never felt settled in Portland. I worried maybe I never would. How could I tell her? She loved the city, had visions of a family and growing old together. Increasingly I felt like escaping. Shame mixed with regret. Under it all I didn’t realize I was looking for a way out.

      I locked up and shuffled to the corner, undecided about how to kill a few hours. Wet empty black streets. Nine months of the year streets were always wet. Dampness soaks every pore every waking hour. Trees and grass grow drunk with damp. Not downpours, but steady showers of discontent.

      Every Joe Bob in town was stretched out watching TV crap that made me want to puke. I leaned against a phone pole and fished out my last Lucky. Seven o’clock, air too warm, too still for March, as if bracing for violence. Little did I know what headed my way.

      Now and then a car rolled past observing speed limits, taillights sinking into night, tires shredding puddles with hissing sounds like tearing silk.

      Nighttime loitering’s poor entertainment. It makes me peevish.

      My choices? Fall asleep in front of the boob-tube or head four blocks to the Yukon Tavern. Down some suds. Buy smokes. Kill time. Snag a geezer or Ma Kettle barkeep to swap lies with.

      I puckered my last drag. Ratty. Most are. I vowed again to quit, for the millionth time. Then it happened.

      Out of the dark she flew past with Olympic strides, blonde braids flying. Tall and well built—from the rear at least. Stark naked. Double triple-take. Not a stitch. Not even shoes.

      Normally I don’t chase sprinting nudes. I prefer to let them run in circles and drop at my feet when they’re exhausted and ready. This one startled me. Chalk-white incandescent skin, like it covered some internal light source. Fishbelly white from lurking under clothes all winter, stark against inky black pavement. Hips wide, waist narrow, enough jiggle to wake up my dick. My small brain’s a light sleeper but didn’t have time to twitch in that second or two she flashed by.

      Instinct said someone was chasing her. Someone dangerous with evil intent. But no one was chasing, the street still empty, damp, quiet.

      On impulse I volunteered to give chase.

      I took off with ambition. She gained on me. Easy to see she was a practiced sprinter—synchronized limbs, no wasted motion. My lungs burned and I swore again to kick the tobacco habit. I’d made it three months the year before but somehow slipped back into sucking them for comfort. Comfort against the damp. Even in the Sahara I’d find an excuse.

      A million years ago I ran high school track. 440 mostly. Muscle memory awoke in my legs and screamed to go back to sleep. Fire in my lungs overwhelmed after two blocks and I swore I’d work on getting back in shape. Too much sitting on my ass in office work. Too much greasy food and too many brews and too much television. Body spent at 37.

      That gliding sliding ass—did I say ample? motivated my stride to think speed. Vanity lied that I was only a step or two behind my best 440 time. Yeah. Delusion’s a wonderful thing for an investigator.

      Hard to tell her age since I hadn’t seen her face. Many a man’s been fooled judging age by ass. Especially in the dark. Had to be younger than thirty the way she covered ground.

      My jaw scar tingled. Could be my late Dad warning me not to chase a nude dame. Could be my scar simply itched.

      I’d sprinted in Vegas that time I had to put real estate between my hide and the Desert Inn where I’d split after burning a porno film in the penthouse of Howard Hughes, world’s richest pervert. That was last year and I hadn’t exactly been in training since.

      I struggled to keep up with that round white ass heading down the dirt alley on eighteenth. The ruts in that alley would give a Sherman tank problems.

      I ran out of pavement and a scream from the other end of the alley stopped me cold. The sort of scream that curdles milk, devastates champagne glasses and gives Dobermans the willies. It came from the next street over. I sped up, staying in shadows on a footpath. I couldn’t see shit in that black alley, but I took it fast, hoping not to trip. I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was following.

      I reached instinctively for my Colt. Not there. I cursed. I’d left it in the apartment. Cursing didn’t help. It wouldn’t impress even milquetoast thugs—one of Rick’s pet phrases. Rick, my older wiser over-educated partner.

      Through the alley I spotted twitching legs jutting between parked cars onto a grassy parking strip. I rushed up and kneeled. Shadows covered the runner, waist up. Wheezing and gargles came from her lips. I touched her cheek and mumbled something stupid, don’t remember what. Warm liquid spread over my hand. Blood.

      A dark sedan roared away from the opposite curb. Screeching tires then slammed to a stop a few feet away. It idled, headlights blinding me. Killer or good Samaritan?

      High profile hood with pontoon fenders, like an early forties or thirties rig. Enough light filtered down to the horror of her slashed throat. The reflection also gave me a stark silhouette of driver, nose the size of Rhode Island under a wide brimmed hat.

      Instinctively I hollered—something stupid, angry—too angry to make sense. Anger from months of rain. Anger from blood spurting obscenely from the girl. The mug was likely the killer. I was in danger but I didn’t think of that—boredom and anger and damp had dulled my instincts.

      So I’d chased her. Why? Brave stupid Mike the rescuer, disgusted with the place, with the climate, with dull cases of insurance fraud, sprinting into a murderous trap, needed no why.

      Then Dad’s voice—as clear as close as ever:

      Duck behind a car, Mike!!

      I hesitated one beat too long. Stumbling I got my feet under me.

      A hand came out the car window. It held something shiny. I lurched away just as the sharp cough of his gun broke the silence. Two shots, then a third.

      The last pill spun me like someone had shoved a baseball bat in my gut. I staggered and fell. Stunned. I clambered around a parked car, hoping that last shot had only grazed me.

      Worse than grazed.

      Suddenly, air wasn’t mild any longer. It froze. Couldn’t feel my feet. Everything from my waist down, ice and fire wrapped together.

      The body can do incredible things in times of injury. I managed to stay crouched, clutching my gut, reality of being plugged becoming all too real. Was this how it would end? Shot down chasing a naked blonde? I imagined Saint Peter blaming me for chasing way too many blondes when I had a perfectly good brunette at home. An argument I sometimes had with myself. A thought of relief shot through me—at least I hadn’t confessed uneasiness about Portland to Molly. She could bury me here on a soggy hillside under drunk trees and cry enough tears to flush me out of her future. I wouldn’t mind the rain then.

      Ironically the grazing shot hurt the most. The main wound simply numbed, which I knew meant serious.

      Too much blood soaked my shirt. Mine, the girl’s.

      I rolled over and wondered how bad I was hit. Would help come in time? I’d wondered the same things that time in Korea when my buddy carried me over the hill to a medic. Death all around, expected, even wished for at times.

      The last thing I remember—a dull squeezing sensation taking charge, eating my insides and knowing that very soon the pain would become a terrible animal that would devour me.

      ***

      A gauzy face hovered over my head against a white sky. Man’s face? I wasn’t sure. At first I thought I’d bought the farm and was about to meet up with my late father. I hadn’t reacted fast enough to his warning, one of those eerie echoes in my head that only I hear in times of danger. I might be crazy but his voice had saved me more than once. I believed in his voice but I didn’t believe enough to tell anyone about it.

      Bright lights hurt my eyes. The face spoke with an unfamiliar voice. Not Dad’s.

      Don’t talk, the face said. You’ve been shot. You’re at Emmanuel Hospital.

      The face had a talent for the obvious—torso felt like it’d been through a shredder. An awful dull pain knocked deep inside my abdomen.

      Take my finger. If you can understand me, squeeze it twice.

      I squeezed twice.

      Good. Now, once for no, twice for yes. Understand?

      Two weak squeezes. Hope they weren’t testing my grip. The room still hazy.

      You’ve been in surgery. I’ve patched up your kidney and a tear in your lower intestine. A small fragment’s lodged next to your spine. We can’t remove it without risking paralysis. You wasted a lot of blood. Understand? But you’re going to make it.

      One squeeze. Why did I think he was lying? Had I written off my chances to survive?

      You were shot two nights ago. On the street near a murdered girl. Remember?

      Sure. The slug hadn’t touched my memory. I hoped all that had been a nightmare. My thoughts thrashed. Flashed through my mind, the image of that ass running, my shock. Pain choked off other thoughts and seemed to clamp my lower body. I tried to wiggle my toes. I couldn’t see them so wasn’t sure they were there.

      Did they move? Yes.

      Okay. Time for more questions later. You need to rest. We’ve given you something for pain. It will put you back to sleep and keep you there. Try not to move or talk for now. I’ll stop by later. Nurses will keep a good watch.

      The blurry face faded into a silent black pool. My last thoughts—sprinting with burning lungs, struggling to snag the girl. Then nothing.

      Chapter 2

      I woke up with a rising sun tiptoeing into the room. Before I felt her hand, her familiar cologne said hello. I could see, smell, feel, so maybe I wasn’t dead. She patted my hand. Her face still a face I wanted to grow old looking at even if I had to fight off an army stunned by her curves. Even if I had to rot in Portland until age 90.

      Welcome back to the world of the living, my love.

      I grunted, still disoriented. I looked around. Everything white. My guts black.

      Doc will be by in a minute. Hate to ask standard questions, but how do you feel?

      I took a long breath and wondered just how I did feel. I didn’t know. Couldn’t gauge it. Then the reality of my chopped up insides, the stiff lower torso and the itchy tube in my left arm checked in. Not sure, kitten. What hit me?

      Choad says large caliber, .762. Foreign. One grazed your waist, one your hipbone and skidded into your kidney. You’ve been out two days since Doc Todd told you. Remember?

      No. Choad? That strange sawed off dick who worked the Avery murder?

      The same. Elias Choad. Don’t be concerned now but I’m sure he’ll want to question you about being at the scene. Cop stuff.

      I went again through that pitch-black alley. Almost stumbling on her dying body. Dad’s warning—all I could remember. I’d been shot? No recollection of that. Just blinding headlights. I must have bought it then.

      I shifted more upright but my entire right side was on strike. Burning anger welled up inside me— I owed the shooter a huge debt. I also owed him for one sliced naked girl.

      Am I paralyzed?

      No, darling. Not paralyzed. Just laid up. Doc will explain. Lie still. Couple days you can go home and Molly will nurse you back to health.

      Off in the distance an intercom blathered on in muffled tones. Birds chatted outside about how stupid I’d been. The rush of ventilation overhead became noticeable.

      I don’t remember getting shot. Twice?

      One serious.

      Doctor Todd came in—white coat gleaming, bedside manner all accounted for. He glanced at my chart and greeted Molly like we were all going to have a fun time. Maybe he was thinking of his fee. Peachy. How soon could I get out of this white prison and pay back my debt to the killer?

      When can get out of here, Doc?

      Not for a couple of days. Even then you’ll have to resist chasing this young beauty around. You’ve been seriously injured. Your body will take weeks to fully heal—that’s if you take a complete rest.

      He pulled back the bedding and gingerly lifted dressings on my abdomen. Molly leaned in to see. I didn’t like the look on her face. Like the time her pineapple upside down cake fell right side up on the kitchen floor.

      You’re beginning to heal. Once you’re home Miss Bennett here will need to change this dressing twice a day for a week. If any infection sets in, any swelling or reddening around the wound, I’ll want to see you right away.

      Molly winked at me. I’ll make sure he avoids all sexual activity, doctor.

      Doc pasted on a crooked smile. And he stared at Molly’s curves longer than a second and a half. I wanted to poke him.

      Molly’s eyes twinkled and once again I knew how blessed I was to have her shoes under my bed. I’d been a sap to be dissatisfied. Why did I miss Chicago? Did I miss a big city or big violence? Stupid. I’d just eaten all the violence I could stomach and live.

      Not that it didn’t take some adjustments to switch from Chicago to Portland, but I’d been a sap not to spill my guts to Molly. Like most mugs I didn’t want to ask for help and I acted brave carting around annoyance, even rage. Maybe if I hadn’t been full of that peevish crap I wouldn’t have run after the victim. Maybe I would have anyway. That’s the problem with bottled up anger—it clouds motives and makes a man half stupid.

      Doc showed Moll how to change dressings and apply ointment and he removed the tube from my arm and announced I could now have small amounts of real food. He emphasized small using his woman-like fingers.

      A mud-fence nurse looking proud of herself brought in a tray with tea and a half piece of toast, no butter.

      I stared at the tray, the nurse and back at Molly who was appropriately sympathetic.

      I don’t suppose there are any donuts in this dump, I said.

      In time, Mike. This is a first big step. Eat slow.

      Hot tea wasn’t hot, but it tasted wonderful. Tasting anything was wonderful.

      Rick—what about Rick? Has he been here?

      Last night. We both sat by your bed hoping you’d come to. Cops wanted you to wake up too. Doc told them to wait at least another day. Rick spoke to Lieutenant Choad but didn’t share much with me. Rick’s golfing just now, I’d think, said he’d come by again this afternoon. When he does, just take it easy. You’re not on a case, you know. He can handle that insurance fraud we have. Nothing else’s on the docket besides recovery. That’s the urgent thing.

      Molly wore a bright blue checked blouse and a pair of jeans that looked painted on. Her hair shorter than I remembered, with cutely styled bangs. Thoughts zipped by that if I’d been killed, Molly would be on the open market. She wouldn’t last long. Tailgating that idea came regrets that I’d put off tying the knot with her. She deserved better.

      Regret and anger tossed me around like a sagging medicine ball.

      We’d had our long engagement. She hadn’t pushed the M-word at me except playfully a couple times. At 37 I wasn’t a kid any more. I knew how fleeting breathing can be, how it can be clipped by some thug with a .38. Or even a .22.

      Doll, don’t you think our long engagement’s been long enough? If I could get out of here today I’d walk you down the aisle.

      Oh sure! she chimed, just like she always did when making fun of my urges. Easy for you to say when you can’t get out of bed. You aren’t walking anywhere, Bub. You finally found out you aren’t superman. So, why don’t we put that aisle dealie on our list for when you fully recover? Motivation, huh?

      Anything you say. Sorry I got myself plugged. But I’m serious.

      That scene of finding the girl sprawled between cars came back. I wondered why Dad hadn’t warned me? Then it came to me that he had. I was simply too slow. Washed up at 37.

      That night was all too vague. It hurt trying to yank more details out of my foggy head. Molly saw my expression and ordered me to get some sleep. She’d be back around dinnertime. I was tired

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