The Spencer Files, A James Cartwright P.I. Mystery (Book 01)
Blurb:
In this thrilling new mystery paperback, by International Mystery Crime Author, Oliver Dean Spencer – a collection of 5 hard-boiled, short, mystery fictions appear in print for the first time.
The Spencer Files consists of five cases that follow the exploits of James Cartwright, a private investigator who plies his trade on the backstreets of Detroit.
Cartwright is cynical, resourceful, and tough. He lives by a moral code, one which he believes helps him distinguish right from wrong, fact from fiction, and truth from lies. But as Cartwright discovers during each of his cases, it’s one thing to believe in the code, and quite another to live by it.
Whether Cartwright is trying to stop an innocent man from execution in Tell Me That You Love Me. Or keeping his wits about him as he interviews a stripper in The Polka Dot Affair. Or searches for a missing girl that’s stolen a cursed artifact in The Spanish Curse.
Or working to prove a friend’s innocence after being framed for a cop’s murder in The Final Ring. Or uncovering a plot to construct a new world order in The Conversation — Cartwright uses his intellect, brute force, and unique powers of deduction in unwitting his unsuspecting adversaries.
Excerpt:
Tell Me That You Love Me
I
I felt like a lonely cat, an aging tom ridden by obscure rage, looking for torn-ear trouble. I clipped that pitch off short and threw it away. Night streets were my territory and would be till I rolled in the last gutter.
— Ross Macdonald. The Drowning Pool
THE POUNDING RAIN HAD STOPPED as suddenly as it had begun. Sheets of silver-green neon clung hungrily to the wet black asphalt like some reptilian skin. The smell of raw sewage and death lingered in the air like a long-lost friend. A pool of liquid red had begun working its way under her—having jumped moments earlier from the office window above. Now lying there like some still frame, out of a front-page tabloid. Stone cold dead. Next to my feet.
They say that water cleanses. They also say that it makes up some seventy percent of our body weight. So, you’d figure that nothing should stick—not the pain or sense of isolation, not the dirt and grime built up from being in my business. Not even the image of her short, fragile existence, now pinned to the cold pavement before me.
But perhaps the problem lies with the other thirty percent. All that fat content. That’s where it settles in nice and easy. Sure, you could go on some sort of diet, see a shrink, confess to the local parish priest, or even just hide out in some bungalow equipped with a satellite TV with some two hundred plus channels. But where’s that get you? A momentary lapse in memory—a blip on your timeline. In the end, it would all come flooding back—as it had done so many times before.
My name is James Cartwright. And I’m a private investigator.
II
IT ALL STARTED when she walked into my office that night, unannounced. She told me she was in trouble. So, I asked what kind. She said it was of the killing kind. Wanted to know if I could be trusted. I said up to a point, depending on who got killed. She then broke down. Tears began jamming up her face, and her body started shaking out like a rag doll, strung out on some wire.
I said, “have a smoke.”
She took one eagerly from the pack. I grabbed one as well. I cracked the matchstick on the edge of the table, and it burst into a pinpoint flame. She cupped her shaking hands around mine and lit her smoke. Then I lit mine. This seemed to calm her.
She told me she was seventeen going on twenty-two when she left home to find a new life in the city. She wanted to get into acting, to be a big star someday. I said that was swell, but a tough racket to break into. She said she knew that going in. She thought maybe, she’d get a lucky break and go from there. I told her lucky breaks always came with a price.
She thought about that for a moment, then said, “sometimes that break is worth the price of admission.” I nodded my head in agreement.
She then told me about the murder. About how she had pulled the trigger, but how someone else was going down for it. I asked who. She said it was someone she was sweet on. Max was his name. That he had a past with the law but wanted to protect her, on account of love. Told her he loved her, and that she had her whole life ahead of her.
“He had made it sound so simple,” she said. “He told me he’d do some time, but they’d be back together again, one day soon.”
The District Attorney thought different. He was a young and rising star who was trying to make a name for himself. He was pushing for the death penalty—even though the evidence was circumstantial and pointed to self-defense.
So, I asked her, “why come to me now?”
“Cause now I’ve got the evidence to free him.”
“What evidence?”
“The gun. That did the killing.”
III
I GOT A HOLD OF A CONTACT of mine in the state department to get a fix on the situation. He said Max was scheduled to hit the chair in seventy-two hours, so I’d better work fast. I turned back to her and asked, “how long have you had the gun?”
“A few months. I’ve been talking to the cops, the papers, the governors’ office, anyone who would listen. But they all ignored me. Said there was nothing they could do. Said the gun meant nothing now. For all they knew, Max had told her where to find it.” I had to agree with that logic.
“So, you just happened to have this gun with you, during the killing?”
“Well, I was told by the other girls to be careful. They had heard things. I must admit, I was a bit scared, so I asked around where I could get a gun just in case. That’s when I met Max.”
“He supplied you the gun?”
“Yes.”
“And you let the gun do the talking, instead of getting yourself out of harms’ way.”
“I had no choice. I needed the money. And this creep was the break I was looking for. He was a big producer and had all the connections. I held him off at first, but then he became aggressive. He started calling me at all hours, following me around. I had planned to get out of the scene after meeting Max. But on that final night of the film shoot, he attacked me.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“There was someone. An actor. She saw him follow me up to my room. But until now, I had no idea where to find her. She just disappeared.”
“And now you do?”
“Well, yes. I ran into her several days ago. She’d been turning tricks down on the South Side. She’s agreed to come forward.”
I called my contact back and gave him the details of what I just learned. He promised to look into it. I then told her that all we could do now was wait. So, we waited. The call came a couple of minutes before midnight — the slated time of Max’s execution. The DA’s office said the execution was a go. She saw the answer in my eyes. Before I could stop her—she made for the open window. And jumped.
THE POLKA DOT AFFAIR
I
I once knew a man who stole a Ferris-wheel
— Dashiell Hammett
I’D BEEN WORKING LATE killing off a bottle of my favorite eighty proof, sour mash bourbon—the night she came through the door. She stood some five foot six—five eight if one counted the heels. Her fishnet stockings had been torn in several places along the knees. A tight-fitting, red leather dress clung hungrily to her body, cloaked under a white mink coat—worth a working stiff’s yearly salary.
Tears had been pushing down hard across her face, smearing her coal black mascara into some coded message. Her emerald eyes—speckled brown, had me pegged—like some wild deer caught by oncoming headlights on a cold winter’s night.
Out of breath and scared, she still hadn’t given up any clues of why she was standing there. But I figured she was in shock from whatever it was, she was running from. Or what she had run into—me.
At six feet two, two hundred and twenty-two pounds and a bottle of bourbon in hand, I didn’t fit the poster child for a hard-working, get-the-job-done, private dick. My favorite black felt fedora was slipping sideways off my head. My matching black cotton double breasted suit looked slept in—which in fact it had been. Perhaps it was my snub nose, and the chiseled face that gave her cause for alarm. But I was betting on my chestnut, hazel blue eyes that I’d inherited on my mother’s side—would work its magic.
I was about to ask why she was here when I saw her lips part. “Are you—” but cut herself off, suddenly turning a pale shade of yellow.
I realized then that she had a date with the floor, so I made a move towards her. I caught her, guiding her onto the wooden chair that fronted my desk. I then grabbed the bourbon I’d been nursing, poured two fingers’ worth into a shot glass and passed it to her. She downed it willingly, so I poured her a second. Then I drew some for myself—straight from the bottle. Her pale and milky white face was once again showing signs of life—patches of red returning to her cheeks and lips. She decided to give me another try. “Are you Cartwright, the private investigator?”
“Last time I checked,” I answered, hoping some humor would lighten things up. But it seemed to have missed the mark. She was more confused than ever. But she pushed on.
“Well, if you are who you say you are, I need your help. Someone is trying to kill me.”
Available on Amazon and other fine book stores
Publisher: Original Press (November 2, 2018) / Language: English / Paperback: 238 pages / ISBN-10: 0993649564 / ISBN-13: 978-0993649561 / Item Weight: 9.9 ounces / Dimensions: 5.25 x 0.6 x 8 inches