Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery Read online

  Rafferty's Rules

  A Rafferty P.I. Mystery

  W. Glenn Duncan

  Contents

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  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Prologue - Last Seen Alive

  Chapter 1 - Last Seen Alive

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  Also by W. Glenn Duncan

  About the Author

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  As a P.I. and an ex-cop Rafferty’s spent enough time on the streets of Dallas to understand how things work. And when they don’t, Rafferty’s the guy you’ll want on your side.

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  Prologue

  Excerpt from a statement dated June 11, 1970, by Mrs Wilma Tunney, age 53, of 1123 Oakdale Lane, Richardson, Texas.

  … and he pointed a gun at me and said he wanted the money from the cash register. I should have given it to him, but for some reason—I don't know what I was thinking—I slammed the cash drawer shut, pulled out the key, and tossed it back into the kitchen. Through the food service port over there. And I screamed. Did I ever scream! Phil—he's the day manager—said that was dumb. I guess he was right. The guy might've shot me. Instead, he …

  Excerpt from a statement dated June 11, 1970, by Mrs Jeanne Philmott, age 31, of 5849 Gaston Avenue, Dallas, Texas.

  … my Gina’s tenth birthday, so I took her and four of her friends out for hamburgers. While we were waiting for the food, the Mollison girl— Vivian — excused herself to go to the bathroom. Vivian is such a polite little girl. I wish my Gina had nice manners like that.

  After Vivian left the table, I heard a scream. That short woman was over by the cash register. She had her hand over her mouth, like she had said something she shouldn't have.

  There was a very tall, very thin man by the cash register, too. He had on dirty jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. And he had an odd gun. It sounds silly, I guess, but it looked like a pirate gun. Not exactly, but sort of … look, I don't know anything about guns. You better ask somebody else.

  Anyway, the man's face was gray—he looked like he was sick—and he had long, greasy hair that whipped across his face when he jerked his head around. He seemed very excited. Or nervous.

  I was terrified. Especially because of the kids. It's such a big responsibility to take other people's children out in public these days. Who can tell what terrible thing will happen?

  After the cashier screamed, people all over the restaurant noticed the man with the gun. Well, my heart almost stopped when I saw little Vivian walk toward that lunatic on her way to the restroom. I tried to call out to her, but my voice wouldn't work.

  I don't think Vivian realized there was anything wrong. She just kept walking. Then, when she passed the skinny man, he grabbed her and pushed the funny gun up against the side of her head.

  All I could think of was—how will I ever explain this to Marge?

  Excerpt from a statement dated June 11, 1970, by Willis Washington, age 27, of no fixed address.

  … sittin’ at the counter, scoffin’ down a burger, when this junkie stumbled in and tried to hit the joint. The dude was wasted, man, totally wasted. Hey, who else but a spaced-out junkie would hit a place like this? At noon? With people coming and going all the time?

  And that old bag at the register—the one who sneered at me when I came in—why, she was as dumb as the junkie! ‘Stead of handin’ over the loot, that stupid old mama locked up the register and started screamin’.

  Hoo-ee, I figured we was in for a hot session! The dude had him an old shotgun he’d cut down to ‘bout so long and he looked crazy enough to use it. Damn gun was a single barrel. With a hammer stickin’ out, you know? Not a pump or automatic or nothin’. So the junkie only had one shot coming to him, but, hey, you cut loose with even one big boomer from a scatter-gun like that and there's gonna be teeth, hair, and eyeballs all over, right?

  The junkie’s eyes was poppin’ like they was fixin’ to come right out of his ugly face. I wasn't none too happy. No telling what the turkey might do. I figgered he'd shoot somebody. He already showed he wasn't too smart. Soon as he seen he wasn't gonna get no bread, he shoulda run, but he din’t.

  Dumb junkie. He din't move toward to door or nothin’. I don't think even knew what was happenin’. ‘Course, you can't never tell what a junkie’s thinkin’.

  Or not thinkin’, is more like it.

  Anyhow, ‘stead of runnin’ he grabbed hisself a little blonde kid, and he backed up behind the counter mebbe thirty feet from where I was. Then he started hollerin’ how he was gonna off the kid, lessen everyone stayed still and shut up.

  Me, I was sittin’ there, trying to look small, chokin’ on that damn hamburger. ‘Cos it got hard to swallow, see?

  Then a white guy two stools down stood up real slow and easy-like.

  Damned if he didn't have a piece, too!

  The white guy’s gun looked like a .38, which ain't much compared to a sawed-off shotgun. Being outgunned didn’t seem to bother him, though. He wrapped both hands round that .38—like they do on the TV—and he looked at the junkie. And he didn't say nothin’.

  Afterwards, somebody said his name was Rafferty. Man, that dude was cool! He jest stood there and pointed his piece at the junkie.

  Now, I wasn't too whipped up ‘bout that, ‘cos I figured if the junkie decided to shoot that Rafferty honky—why, there wasn't no way he could miss me, what with Rafferty and me being so close together.

  The junkie finally woke up to what was going down. Hoo, my, didn't he come on strong; jabbering away sixty to the dozen ‘bout how he was gonna do for the kid ‘less Rafferty put his gun down, and he’ll kill everybody in the joint, and like that.

  Rafferty—he don't say nothing. Not a peep. He stayed locked onto that junkie and you can tell he was waiting.

  I was waiting, too, wondering which one of them crazy sumbitches was gonna get me shot.

  The junkie tried to hide behind the little girl, see, but he too tall and she too small for that. He had one arm wrapped around the kid and he kept that sawed-off shotgun squoze up against her head. You could purely smell how scared he was.

  Well, the junkie was hollerin’ and the little girl was cryin’ and people was ducking under tables. Man, it was like being between Steve McQueen and the bad guys, you know?

  This Rafferty, he don't pay no attention to none of that. He jest locked onto that snowbird and waited for his chance.

  Finally, the junkie couldn't take no more and he made his move.

  Soon as that shotgun moved from the little girl’s head toward Rafferty, it all started happenin’. Man, they was some heavy shit going down!

  Rafferty, he got off two shots real quick—bam bam!—like that. The shotgun went off, too. That's why that big hole in the door over th
ere.

  I doesn't remember exactly what happened next. Dumb old bitch of a cashier been tellin’ folks I fainted, but that ain't so. I was only chokin’, see, trying to swallow that crummy burger …

  Excerpt from a statement dated June 11, 1970, by Vivian Mollison, age 10, of 64 Rosemount Avenue, Oak Cliff, Texas.

  I like Mr Rafferty a whole lot.

  When the smelly man wanted to hurt me, Mr Rafferty shot him. Daddy says it's awful bad to shoot people, except it was okay this time, because of “special circle-stances”.

  After Mr Rafferty shot the bad man dead, I threw up.

  Mrs Philmott cried a lot. Later on, Mommy cried, too, when the policeman told her about it. Daddy didn't cry. He almost did, though, especially when he shook Mr Rafferty’s hand for so long.

  Gina's birthday party lunch wasn't very much fun, but I didn't tell her that.

  I want to marry Mr Rafferty when I grow up.

  Chapter 1

  George Mollison had not changed much in fifteen years; he was still stocky, with a square face and faint freckles. His eyes were still pale and green. He still had a crewcut. Well, at least he had the eighties version of a crewcut.

  And he still looked a lot like John Glenn.

  There were some changes, though. I remembered George Mollison as a stammering, grateful engineer who had difficulty putting together a coherent sentence. Now, he was calmer and more self-assured. His greeting had been politely effusive. And he was heavier—weren’t we all?—and better dressed. George’s clothes were rich-casual; a yellow polo shirt over tan linen trousers, and he had a gold Piaget wristwatch worth more than my car.

  My wardrobe was hired-help-casual. I had a polo shirt, too—without the designer’s name above the pocket—and faded jeans, and my watch was a thirty-dollar Casio from Zales.

  We sat across from each other at a white wrought-iron table, facing away from the house and the early summer sun. A young Hispanic maid with deep, liquid eyes served me vodka on the rocks, and garnished it with a shy heartbreaker of a smile. I wished for a rose to give her. She left, I sighed, and George and I settled back in the patio chairs to survey his kingdom.

  Kingdom was the right word. You could have commissioned a fair-sized castle for the cost of property in that part of Highland Park. And had enough left to stock the moat with a goodly selection of prime dragons.

  The big house behind us was brick, painted white, and it whispered money with every invisible brushstroke. In front of us, a flawless lawn dropped away from the flagstone patio like a bright green bridal veil; the lawn oozed around the tennis court and lapped at the swimming pool, then stretched a long way toward the horizon. A long way; about a hundred thousand dollars worth.

  “Not bad,” I said. “Did the other guys on the armored car heist get away, too?”

  “What?” George said. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Never mind. Just admiring the real estate.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, in some ways, we have been fortunate.”

  “No kidding.”

  George ignored me. He stared without expression at the tennis court. Two women, crisp and sterile in white outfits, batted the ball back and forth. Even at that distance, I could see the younger one didn’t have her heart in the game.

  “Is that your daughter?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “All grown up now.”

  “Yes,” he said again. “Vivian is twenty-five now. Thanks to you.”

  While I made modest “it was nothing” noises, Vivian Mollison glanced toward us. George clamped his mouth into a broad, phony grin and waved to his daughter. She turned her head away without responding and George’s grin disappeared as fast as it had appeared.

  “Rafferty,” he said, “I need your help.”

  “Oh?”

  I had wondered why he called me. George Mollison playing face-from-the-past time hadn’t rung true.

  Now it sounded like he was one of those rare and treasured blessings—a rich client. In which case, he would ramble for a while, avoiding the unpleasant task of saying the words. People often do, when they hire a man like me.

  “I should have kept in touch with you,” he said.

  “No need.”

  “You left the police force.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer.

  “Why?” he asked.

  That seemed to qualify as a question. “I don’t look good in blue.”

  “Seriously,” George said, “why did you quit?”

  “I didn’t quit,” I said. “I got fired. They said I didn’t take direction well.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then it didn’t have anything to do with the, uh, incident with Vivian?”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  The restaurant shooting had been a small part of it, in fact. Internal Affairs had claimed I should have identified myself as an off-duty police officer and fired a warning shot. Or recognized a “hostage situation” and called for reinforcements. They called that Modern Police Procedure. It’s hard on innocent bystanders, but, my, how neat the paperwork looks.

  George groaned like a creaky cellar door. I followed his eyes to the tennis court.

  Vivian had dropped her racquet and hoisted her tennis skirt above her waist. She stood flatfooted, with her legs spread. She shoved one hand down those white panties lady tennis players wear, and she scratched her crotch savagely. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said in a small, shrill voice that carried well.

  On the other side of the court, Mrs. Mollison stood with her hand over her face. Then she squared her shoulders, walked around the net and put her arm on Vivian’s shoulders. They left the tennis court and walked slowly toward the house. Vivian let herself be led through a door at the far end of the patio.

  When I looked at George, his eyes were closed, but not tightly enough to stop the tears.

  Until then, I had no idea what rich, fulfilling lives the nouveau riche enjoyed.

  George shook his head like a dog awakening and he blinked repeatedly.

  “George,” I said, “I don’t know what you want from me. Am I supposed to ignore that? Or do you want to tell me about it?”

  He croaked something unintelligible, coughed into a loose fist, and started again. “It’s about Vivian,” he said. “She was kidnapped last year.”

  “Awful quiet kidnapping.”

  “Yes. The press never found out.”

  “That’s hard to figure,” I said. “Are we talking about a we-got-your-kid, send-lots-of-money kidnapping or a leave-me-alone, I’m-an-adult squabble?”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping in the classic sense.”

  “Okay, so what was it?”

  “In a minute,” he said. “I have the details inside.” George smiled jerkily, briefly, and stood up. He pushed his chair back under the table. The legs screeched on the flagstones and he winced. “Be right back.”

  After George went into the house, the maid came out and offered me another drink. Her eyes were as beautiful as before; her smile made living and breathing seem worthwhile.

  George was gone for several minutes. When he returned, he had a tooled leather attache case and a stiff-upper-lip, all-business approach. “Vivian,” he said briskly, “was working on her Master’s at SMU. In sociology. Her thesis was to be a study of hierarchy in modern tribes, specifically in motorcycle gangs.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “My favorite people.”

  George looked puzzled. “Motorcycle gangs? Or sociologists?”

  “Neither, actually. Go on, don’t mind me.”

  “Uh, yes, well, Vivian had somehow gained the confidence of one of the smaller gangs, according to her notes.”

  “According to her notes?”

  “Yes,” said George. “You see, once our living standard changed to, um, this—” He waved his hand vaguely at a million dollars of, um, this. “Vivian felt uncomfortable. At least, tha
t’s what she told us. She was away at school by then, and we seemed to hear less and less from her.”

  I thought about that “away at school” remark. Without standing up, I could have tossed a rock onto the SMU campus. Well, almost.

  “Okay,” I said. “She didn’t keep you up-to-date on her school and social life. It happens. What does she say now?”

  “Uh, this is difficult, Rafferty. Please let me tell it at my own pace.”

  “Go.”

  “As I said, she was studying a motorcycle gang. They planned an outing of some sort; a club ride and camping trip. Vivian phoned us three days before. She had been invited, she said, and she was quite excited about it. She thought it would give her new insights for her research.“

  “I’ll bet.”

  “So she went away with the motorcycle gang,” George said. “She didn’t come back.”

  “Why not?”

  “During the trip, they sold her.”

  Chapter 2

  “They sold her,” George said again, before he blinked twice and popped the catches on his fancy attache case. He hid behind the raised lid and shuffled through papers.

  I dug my pipe out of my hip pocket, packed it, and turned the top half-inch of tobacco into blue smoke. A stone ashtray the size of a wading pool materialized on the table and the shy brown maid ducked back into the house.

  A big jet whistle-screamed overhead. The town planners thought they had stopped all that a dozen years ago, when they kicked the airlines out of Love Field. The dummies.