Smoke and Mirrors (Goosey Larsen Book 2) Read online

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  by James Vachowski

  We interrupt this broadcast for a Channel Five ACTION News exclusive report!

  “Good morning everyone, I’m Clyde Sanders, coming to you LIVE from Spring Street here in downtown Charleston, where up until just a few minutes ago city firefighters were struggling to contain an immense house fire. As you can see behind me, city police officers have closed off Sires Street and EMS workers are also on scene! A few neighbors have told me that at least two people were in the house at the time of the fire: one of them was able to escape, but firefighters were seen carrying another out of the house on a stretcher. We don’t know the extent of any injuries at this point, but it appears as if everyone is now out of the house.”

  “And here comes Charleston Fire Chief Willis Ford! Chief! Chief Ford! Over here, sir! Clyde Sanders, Channel Five Action News. Chief, do we have any information on how the fire got started?”

  “Ahem. No, ah, we have not had the chance to investigate, but it appears from the damage that the fire started towards the front of the building and quickly spread through the rest of the house.”

  “How many people were in the house, Chief? Was anyone injured?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t release that information just yet. Excuse me, please.”

  “Thank you, Chief Ford! Once again, if you’re just tuning in, Charleston firefighters, police and EMS responded to a fully engulfed house fire on Sires Street earlier this morning, and have only just got the blaze under control. We are still awaiting additional information on this developing story but rest assured, we will continue to provide updates throughout the morning! Back to you in the studio, John.”

  Contents

  SATURDAY

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  SUNDAY

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  MONDAY

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  TUESDAY

  16.

  SATURDAY

  1.

  If there’s one thing worse than being woken up early on a weekend, it’s being woken up by a ringing telephone. I swear, downloading “Play That Funky Music, White Boy” had seemed like such a good choice for a ringtone only a month before, but it’d gotten to the point where I never wanted to hear that song again. The chirping disco beat finally got the better of me, and I eventually stumbled my way out of bed. It took no less than five separate calls, each one spaced about three or four minutes apart, before I managed to fight past my splitting headache, upset stomach, and overall state of nausea. I wrestled with the bedding as I tried to make my exit, but had to stop and catch my breath after a few seconds. Let me tell you, those 200-thread count polyester sheets were no joke. The day felt like a Saturday, sometime in the late morning or maybe even the early afternoon.

  I slapped out at the phone and managed to hit it square on only the second try. The display read “4 missed calls” but there were no voicemail messages. Once the fog had lifted and I could finally see straight, I thumbed down through the directory. It was slow going since one of the buttons had popped loose from my old Nokia, but once I’d pulled them all up I couldn’t help cursing since all four missed calls had come from the Department’s main switchboard number.

  Damn, I thought to myself. Damn, Damn, Damn. Here it was on a Saturday morning, allegedly one of my two days off, and here some bozo apparently thought it was their duty to blow up my cell phone. Probably some wiseass desk sergeant stuck working the weekend, and now he just wants to make everyone else as miserable as he is, I grumbled to myself.

  Just then, the phone started chirping its high-pitched tune once again. The buzzing vibration reminded me of an impatient epileptic, and I smiled at the thought of a cripple trying to boogie the night away. Just as before, the lit-up display screen only read “CPD, Main Line.” I squeezed the SEND button to answer, trying to sound as pissed-off as I could manage. “Larsen here!”

  There was a long pause before the caller finally responded. “Well. Detective Larsen, finally. Good morning, son, or should I say good afternoon?”

  A chill rushed down my spine at that nasally country twang, and I had to slide my legs back underneath the sheets in order to stay warm. The alcohol in my stomach sloshed about as I rolled over on the limp pillows, trying to sound as sober as possible. “Captain Russell, what a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe this honor, sir?”

  He snorted. “Stow it, bubba. Dispatch has been paging you all morning. Why haven’t you called in yet?”

  Probably because I had the foresight to leave my pager in the cruiser last night, I thought. No way in hell was I dumb enough to say that, though, seeing as how Captain Russell was the commander of the Central investigations unit. For some reason that guy expected the detectives to stay on call at all times, almost as if being a cop was some sort of higher calling instead of just a low paying blue-collar job with crappy benefits.

  I squinted and peeked out through the mini-blinds, looking into the parking lot. Sure enough, my pager was sitting up there on the dashboard of my unmarked patrol car. A thick layer of dust had built up on the windshield, but I could still see the pager’s light-up display blinking away like a miswired traffic signal. Mrs. Ferguson, this old bird who lived in the next building over, was hobbling past and craning her neck around to see where the noise was coming from. Just be glad it’s not your pacemaker buzzing like that, lady.

  “Sorry, Captain” I choked out. “I usually keep it clipped to my belt, but you caught me in my housework clothes this morning. After another glance at wrinkly old Mrs. Ferguson, I was hit with a stroke of inspiration. “I’ve been across the street helping my elderly neighbor with her yard work. It’s kind of my regular Saturday morning routine. Just can’t get enough of that community service, you know?”

  I crossed my fingers, hoping he’d buy it. The captain was quiet for a moment, and I heard the unmistakable sound of papers being shuffled. “With her yard work, you say?” He asked the question in a suspicious manner, as if he wasn’t buying the excuse.

  I clenched my teeth but hung in there. The best thing to do in these situations is to just stick with the story and hold on tight, no matter how rough the ride gets. “Yes sir.”

  He clucked his tongue. “The personnel directory lists your address as an apartment, son. Now are you trying to tell me that you moved into a house, but failed to update your contact information? Because that might indicate a lack of attention to duty, which would probably warrant yet another suspension.”

  I cursed under my breath, wondering how those jerks in Personnel even got my home address in the first place, but with the prospect of an eighth suspension on the line I had to think quickly. “Yes sir. I mean, no sir, my address hasn’t changed. I still live in an apartment, but it’s just that the maintenance crew here really sucks.”

  He sucked in a deep breath. I could tell he was about to comment on my language since Captain Russell’s one of those Southern Baptists. And what’s more, he’s one of those hardcore Praise The Lord types who’s not going to be satisfied with just going to church once a week. If a person isn’t getting themselves dunked in a river annually at least, or if they’re not holding down a street corner every Sunday all knotted up in a black tie with a matching suit handing out pamphlets that ask “Where will YOU spend Eternity?”, then they’re pretty much a heathen in his book.

  I pressed ahead and gave it my all, hoping to appeal to his sense of charity. “Mrs. Ferguson is an o
lder lady, Captain. Real sweet though, so I try to help her out whenever I can. Pull a couple weeds, lay down a little mulch, anything I can do to help keep her patio looking nice. She’s got the grandkids who come over every weekend, y’see.” I shuddered at the thought of those little anklebiters, with their screeches and howls that echoed through the parking lot. “The tots deserve a nice place to play, sir.”

  A long pause. “Well, Larsen. That’s mighty nice of you.” As his voice softened, I knew that he had bought into the whole Boy Scout routine. Hell, the Captain had probably been a Scout himself back in the day. If I’d had any extra money lying around I’d have bet he made it all the way up to Eagle Scout before running out of room to sew merit badges on his tiny uniform.

  He went on. “And to think, all this time I thought you were nothing but a fat, lazy, slob who only became a detective in order to get out of working nights and weekends.”

  I felt my face flush. Even though the Captain stood only five feet two inches tall, he somehow measured up as the biggest asshole in the Department. “Wow, you’ve got me all wrong, Cap.” I heard him laugh on the other end of the line, and figured that it’d be in my best interests to change the subject. “But I don’t want to take up your valuable time on a day when both of us are off-duty, sir. What can I do for you?”

  He snorted again. “Funny you should mention days off, bubba, because we can officially kiss ours goodbye. I need you in the Squad Room at 1900 hours, sharp. Special assignment. Wear your full duty uniform.”

  That was all it took to snap me awake. After five years as a plainclothes detective, I couldn’t be certain that I actually still had a duty uniform. “But Cap…it’s Saturday!”

  He grunted. “I know what day it is, young man, trust me. But this detail is of the utmost importance, so it looks like we’re both going to be pretty tired and red-eyed in church tomorrow morning.”

  I was hurting bad enough already without worrying about the next day, although of course I couldn’t say that. Now if it had been anyone else calling, I’d just do my best to sound like a team player long enough to get them off the phone, then wait a few hours and call in sick with the flu. My usual excuses weren’t going to fly, though, since I’d just given the impression that I was healthy enough to be out working in Mrs. Ferguson’s garden. I struggled to come up with other ailments, but I couldn’t very well fake a second case of anthrax in a single year.

  I clenched my teeth but surprisingly, a zen-like calm swept over me as I accepted my fate. Whenever the Captain comes up with one of his hare-brained special assignments, the most painless option is to just go along for the ride. Around the Charleston PD, anyway, it’s the cops who never learn to ride the waves who always end up drowning their careers. I only had twelve more years and four months left until retirement, and I’d gotten pretty skilled at surfing my way through the bullshit assignments.

  “Your wish is my command, Captain. After all, there’s no place I’d rather be than at work. All these weekends off are nice and everything, but spending too much time away from the Department really makes me miss my work family, you know?”

  I was walking a fine line, in serious danger of laying it on too thick, but I think the Captain actually bought it. “That’s the spirit, son” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.” The Captain hung up with that, clicking off before I could even ask him about the assignment.

  I set the phone back on the dresser, wondering about the particulars of the detail. The last-minute rush to throw everything together might have seemed a little unprofessional, but it was just par for the course at CPD. Probably stopping traffic for some bigwig passing through town, I thought. Most VIPs usually hit Charleston on the fly since it wasn’t a big enough city to justify actually spending the night.

  Occasionally though, some mid-list celebrity would get stuck staying at a local hotel if his flight was delayed, which is a real possibility since our airport operates more like an Elks lodge with airplanes than as an actual transit hub. Whenever that happened, at least half of the cops in the city would get tasked with standing around the hotel lobby for an eight hour shift. The work sucked, to be sure, but at least there was always a chance of scoring some free desserts from the kitchen staff. A few of the uppity hotels served some pretty good grub, and all you had to do to get the hookup was promise not to write the cook a ticket if you ever pulled him over. Since I’d given up writing tickets years before, way back when they moved the traffic court hearings from first thing after lunch to eight o’clock in the morning, that promise wasn’t too much of a stretch for me.

  After hanging up, I rolled over in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. There was just no way I’d be able to drift off after hearing such terrible news, so I laid there under the sheets and stared up at the ceiling fan. It normally wobbled some, what with its loose mount and all, but I’d turned up the speed the night before so it was really going crazy. I considered dropping in at the apartment office to have them stop in and tighten up the fixture, but quickly thought better of it. Honestly, our maintenance crews really did suck.

  Instead, I did my best to simply ignore it. I mean, the worst that could happen was that the fan would break free and come crashing down on top of me. That might hurt a little at first but at least I’d have a solid excuse to get out of work, and probably for an entire week. I rolled over again, but face-down this time so the falling blades wouldn’t scar me up too badly. I gave the sheets a couple fierce tugs, but had to stop as exhaustion set in once again. The covers were stuck fast on the foot of the bed, and as I lay there covered in sweat I made a mental note to stop into the weight room and knock out a couple sets with the dumbbells. I’ll be honest, I’ve never been much of an ox, but being unable to free a stuck bedsheet was a new personal low.

  Just as it started to seem as if I might actually have a shot at dozing back off again, I heard another perky chirping sound start in. It sounded a lot like an alarm clock, so I tried my best to ignore it on pure reflex. I’d almost succeeded, and was drifting back off to sleep when I suddenly remembered that I’d pitched my clock out the window one Monday morning a few weeks before, and as far as I knew it was still lying there in the gutter. But before I could comprehend it all, the mattress started shaking in a series of violent waves. It felt almost like a small earthquake, so I grabbed the headboard and braced for the tremors. It’s common knowledge that the city of Charleston is built up right on a fault line, and my first thought was that we were just about due for the big one.

  I risked a glance up and spotted my high school diploma still hanging there on the wall. The stylized letters that read, “James Island High School, Class of 1988” were just as straight as before, which was definitely odd. In the movies, anyway, picture frames are usually the first things to go during an earthquake, falling to the floor with glass shattering everywhere. Suddenly, a flash of yellow moved through my peripheral vision. A thick head of frizzy blond hair whizzed past as a wide body snapped upright in bed.

  “Oh shit!” she said.

  Oh, shit, I thought. I did my best to pretend I was still asleep, risking only the smallest of peeks out from under the sheet.

  Both the ratty blond hair and the pasty white body beneath it jumped out of bed and sprinted across the room. It was a terrible sight to watch, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. Bulges of skin pressed out from beneath a too-small black bra and panties. It looked almost like two gallons of cottage cheese had been jammed into a lacy, black one-gallon container. I winced and ground my teeth together, doing my level best to keep down the previous night’s dinner. It was tough going, but I stayed in the fight.

  Those flabby triceps wobbled with fury as she rummaged her way through a pile of clothes on the floor, finally plucking a pink Motorola cell phone up from the mess. Her blunted, chubby fingers flipped it open, just before the voicemail would’ve picked up. After a couple more seconds to catch her breath, the whale finally answered it with, “Katie Maslow.”

 
I made a wish to disappear. It didn’t work. I settled for the next best thing and curled up into the fetal position, jamming the pillow down over my head. It was a no-win situation but I was out of options, and the ostrich technique was my only hope. Try as I might, though, I couldn’t seem to escape that particularly annoying scratch of her nasally voice. Even when winded, that Katie was one loud chick. She shouted “Uh-huh” a couple times before she got moving again, stomping around the room in a rush to get dressed. For once, I found myself grateful for the fact that I lived on the ground floor. If anyone had been living beneath me, they might’ve thought there was a herd of wild elephants running around over their heads.

  My stomach settled down a little once Katie’s momentum waned. “I’ll be right there” she promised to whoever was on the other end, then slammed the phone shut. It seemed like the moment of reckoning as her plus-sized feet beat a path straight towards me, but I threw out one last Hail Mary by sucking in a deep breath and letting out my best fake snores.

  Katie pulled up short. Her heavy, raspy breaths hung in the air over the foot of the bed. The effort of getting dressed quickly must have worn her out, and I clung to the pillow while saying a silent prayer. After what seemed like an eternity, the awkward silence was replaced by the beautiful sound of her thick feet stomping away. Her ridiculous, pointed heels stabbed down at the worn-out carpet with each step.

  I held my breath until I heard the front door slam shut, then risked sitting up to peek out through the blinds. Katie was jogging across the parking lot and I noticed that even when fully clothed, watching her move just wasn’t a pretty sight. She bent down low, somehow managing to shoehorn herself into a tiny Mitsubishi sports car. A blurry image worked its way into my pounding head, and I had a vague recollection of catching a ride home in the passenger seat of that Eclipse the night before. The vision had popped into my mind like a flashback, and I briefly wondered if what I’d just been through would be enough to qualify for medical retirement. After this harrowing experience, my doctor would have no choice but to sign off on a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder.