WhiteSpace Season One (Episodes 1-6) Page 9

  “No, Vivian told me to call you first.”

  Jon shook his head at the stupidity of that advice. “Listen, Cassidy, call the police right now. I’ll call Warren and see if he knows anything. Then I’ll make some more calls. We will find her, Sarah.”

  A long pause, and then Cassidy said, “You called me Sarah.”

  “Sorry,” Jon said.

  “It’s okay,” Cassidy said. “I can’t stop thinking about her, either. I’m gonna call the police now.”

  “I’ll get back to you in 10 minutes one way or another,” Jon said. “And I swear, I’m not leaving this island until we find her.”

  After a long pause, Cassidy said, “Okay,” then with audible pain, as though having a tooth pulled, she added, “thank you” before hanging up.

  Jon scrolled through his contacts for his brother’s number, and for the first time in his life didn’t smile as he pressed the name marked, “Asshole”

  The phone rang twice, then Warren said, “Oh wow, a celebrity calling me before 8:00 in the morning. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I’m not in the mood, Warren,” Jon said. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Your daughter?” Warren said. He couldn’t even make his disbelief sound believable.

  Asshole.

  “Don’t you dare pretend not to know,” Jon growled. “You lie to me right now, I will spend a fucking lifetime making sure you regret it.”

  Jon could have mentioned any bits of the Conway’s dirty laundry, but went with the light touch, instead, allowing Warren’s fears do most of the intimidation.

  Warren pissed off Jon further by laughing again. “You get a script writer to write that for you? And this early? Great delivery, Jon. Should’ve put that kind of emotion in your last movie. Now, you want to tell me what the hell you’re accusing me of, Brother?”

  “Emma’s missing. Where is she?”

  Warren laughed. “I don’t know anything about the kid, but Lord knows that dumb white trash junkie whore can’t take care of her. Call the cops. I’m sure it’s so open and shut even Barney Fife and his Beachside Goons will be able to solve it in less than 10 seconds. Hell, Cassidy probably sold her for drug money. If you want, I’ll give you the number of the Captain of Paladin. I understand that you already made quite an impression on them.”

  “Fuck you,” Jon said, and hung up.

  He stared out the window at the sea, trying to slow his rising anger and breath, before calling the one contact in his phone he knew he could turn to at a time like this — Brock Houser.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 2 — Brock Houser Part 1

  Las Orillas, California

  Thursday

  September 7

  Morning…

  Brock Houser sat in his car with his eyes on Bill Benedict’s house.

  Benedict was a 46-year-old slip and fall case seeking a payday from the insurance company of the store where he fell. Given that Benedict was an Army vet, a loving father of a 6 year old child with autism, and had a wife who battled breast cancer the year before, he would likely clean up in front of a jury. So the adjuster was looking for anything they could get on the guy.

  Which was why Houser was now working his 19th day tailing the guy, despite never seeing the Benedict do anything remotely incriminating. The man never even left his house, and the most damning evidence Houser had gathered so far was video of Benedict stepping from the front porch to collect his mail one afternoon. Other than that, he was a recluse.

  Houser had exactly dick on the guy, and if he didn’t get something soon, the insurance company would have flushed $600 a day right down the drain, which was fine by Houser. He didn’t care for the adjuster assigned to the case at all. The guy, Victor Reynolds, had a hard-on for Benedict for no good reason, and Houser didn’t want to be part of screwing over a guy who hadn’t done anything wrong. So as Houser wound down his time watching Benedict, he almost found himself hoping not to catch the guy doing anything.

  Most insurance frauds were stupidly easy to catch. People either got busted in the act of doing things a disabled person couldn’t do, or posting pictures and video to their social media websites of themselves doing things they claimed they couldn’t, or got greedy and went out and found a second job.

  Benedict wasn’t doing any of these things. He used his Facebook wall to complain about the pain, depression, and not being able to work. The guy was either the real deal or the most committed faker Houser had ever seen. Houser had a good sense for these kinds of things, and he’d bet his last dollar that the guy was legit.

  The other thing about insurance fraud cases, however, was that you could spin evidence any way you wanted. The adjuster didn’t need airtight evidence on Benedict, just enough to sway a jury to side with the poor embattled insurance company against the evil scammer looking for a payday on the backs of rates that the hardworking people like the ladies and gentlemen of the jury had to pay.

  Houser was bored shitless. He had one eye on his iPad, flinging angry birds at green pigs and passing time, while the other stayed on the house.

  Suddenly, he spotted movement in his rearview mirror.

  Houser had his hand at his shoulder holster and fingers on the butt of his gun in seconds; prepared as always for someone seeking vengeance.

  He watched as the figure slipped between the cars parked along the street behind him. The shadow was wearing black shirt, black jeans, and a black ski mask pulled over his face. He also had black gloves and was carrying a crowbar, headed to the front door of the house next door to Benedict’s.

  Is this fucker actually wearing a ski mask in broad daylight? Doesn’t he even see me sitting here?

  Houser let go of his gun, grabbed his cell with one hand and dialed 9-1-1, then waited for dispatch to answer. With his right hand, he grabbed his video camera, popped out the video he’d been using to surveil Benedict (the client insisted on video tape, not digital) then fumbled through his center console and grabbed another tape. He slid it in, pressed play to make sure he wasn’t taping over anything important, then hit record and raised the camera to catch video of the burglar.

  A dispatch operator picked up and Houser filled her in on what was going down. His time as a cop led him straight to the point.

  The dispatch operator, a friendly sounding woman, asked, “What’s he doing now?”

  “Just broke into the house,” Houser said, staying on the line, his camera trained on the front door. “You got someone coming?”

  “Officers are on the way, sir.”

  The burglar popped out of the house a few minutes later, a black duffel bag bulging at the seams and slung over his shoulder.

  “He’s out,” Houser said.

  Houser turned the camera, following the guy as he sprinted across the yard to a car parked three behind Houser. The guy got inside, and pulled away. Houser said: “He’s in a Red Camry, heading east on 17th just north of Gardenia Drive.”

  Houser looked at Benedict’s house and figured the guy wasn’t going to come outside doing gymnastics in his yard anytime soon, so he pulled from the curb and followed the burglar. Moments later, he updated the dispatcher, “He just turned south onto Greenview.”

  “Are you following him?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Houser said. “Uh-oh, I think he spotted me, he’s speeding up. But don’t worry, he’s not gonna lose me.”

  “Sir, do not chase him,” the dispatcher said.

  “You don’t want to catch him?” Houser asked. “I’ll back off when I see some cops. Until then, I’m following.”

  The dispatcher was silent. She must be new, he figured, as he sped up, pulling closer to the Camry. Houser hit 60 in a 45 to keep pace. The community was on the quiet side, without much traffic, but that could change in a heartbeat if the Camry pulled onto an artery road, headed toward the city.

  “He’s going about 65, just passed Franklin,” Houser updated the dispatcher.

  “Sir, I must advise you not to speed.”<
br />
  Houser laughed, “Yeah, okay.”

  The dispatcher repeated her warning, but Houser ignored her, lowering his right foot. The Camry turned sharply, trying to turn onto a crossroad, but instead, slid out of control, and hit a parked Audi.

  “He just crashed into a parked Audi,” Houser said as he pulled up behind the guy, whose car was stalled. “He’s stalled. Should I sit here with my thumb up my ass or you got someone coming?”

  “Officers are on the way,” she said.

  Houser looked around, “Unless you’ve got some new invisible cops I don’t know about, I don’t see, or hear, anything close by. Uh-oh. He’s out and on foot. I’m gonna go get ‘em.”

  “Sir, please let the officers handle this,” the dispatcher said.

  “Sure thing . . . when they get here,” Houser said, putting the camera down, then hopping from his car.

  Ski Mask turned around, eyes wide as he saw Houser giving chase. Houser was six foot five, 260 pounds of muscle, an intimidating fucker standing still, but Hell personified when charging. A white mom and black dad made Houser the perfect shade of mocha, just dark enough to intimidate most white guys when he wanted, but not so dark he had trouble getting into places where the only non-whites welcome were on the payroll.

  Ski Mask dropped his duffel and reached behind his back.

  Oh shit!

  Ski Mask didn’t have a gun, but he did have a blade. Houser smiled. From 10 feet the blade was a kernel of corn in a pile of shit, unless Ski Mask was a ninja. Houser pulled his gun and said, “Drop the knife.”

  The dispatcher spoke, “Sir, do you still have a visual on the suspect?”

  “You could say that,” Houser said, “he's waving a knife around, but I’m pretty sure I can squeeze off six shots before he reaches me. What do you think?”

  Houser said this for Ski mask’s benefit, not the dispatcher’s, who only answered with an uncertain sigh. Houser was pretty sure she was starting to take a shine to him. Ski Mask’s eyes were wide and terrified. He dropped the knife, then the bag.

  “Good boy,” Houser said, advancing, gun still drawn, ready to drop the phone in a moment’s notice, to either chase or fight. He didn’t have to do either. A siren blurted behind him, followed by a woman’s voice over the speaker. “Put the gun down, sir.”

  “I’ve gotta go now,” Houser said to the dispatcher, and set the phone on the ground beside his gun, nice and slow. As two uniformed officers approached, guns drawn on he and Ski Mask, Houser turned to explain the situation, then smiled at the familiar face of Detective Stephen Chan.

  “Oh Jesus,” Chan said with a grin. “I heard some crazy asshole was chasing a suspect around the city. I should’ve known it was you. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” Houser said, pointing toward his gun and phone. “May I?”

  “Yeah,” Chan nodded.

  Chan and Houser came up through the academy together, working for the Ocean County Sheriff’s Office. Chan was one of the few guys Houser didn’t piss off during his tenure. Last he and Chan talked was about a year back, when Chan contacted Houser about a cheating spouse case Houser had been working that turned ugly.

  The other cop, a short woman with auburn hair in a short ponytail and thick horn-rimmed glasses, cuffed Ski Mask as Chan grinned and shook Houser’s hand. “So, what, you were bored and figured you’d swing by and help us out?”

  “Something like that,” Houser said as he holstered his gun and clicked “end” on the phone, now that he didn’t need a recording in case shit went south and he got shot. “I was working a slip and fall case and saw this dumbass sneaking around in broad fucking daylight with a ski mask and crowbar, breaking into a house.”

  Chan’s partner pulled the ski mask off, revealing a pale teenage kid with a lip ring and a bad case of acne. His hair was bleached white, making his fuzzy dark eyebrows look like angry caterpillars.

  “Wow, he is one ugly motherfucker,” Houser said.

  “That asshole chased me down! I didn’t do shit,” Ski Mask said, his face twisted and red.

  Chan’s partner said, “Yeah, yeah, tell the judge,” yanking Ski Mask off his knees and leading him past them and to the back of the squad car.

  “That’s Sgt. Vickers,” Chan said. “You two would get along great; she’s a charmer.”

  “Yeah, I can tell,” Houser said, grinning. “I wish I had a partner that cool back in the day. Anyway, I’ve got video if you wanna see.”

  “Wow, you must be really bored. I’m surprised you didn’t apprehend him, too.” Chan said following Houser back to his car.

  “Well, I was trying. But then you all roll up like the heroes, after I did all the work.”

  “You ever think about coming back? It’s a lot different here than OC.”

  “Yeah?” Houser asked, “You guys making money now?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Then I think you know my answer,” Houser said. “Besides, you know I don’t play well with others. Can’t stand the politics. You call me when you make Chief, maybe we’ll talk.”

  “I didn’t say I wanna be your boss. I don’t need the headache,” Chan joked.

  Houser opened his car and pulled out the video camera, then hit rewind. He let the tape go back a bit farther than he meant, and the video screen showed a cop in a dark alley with a prostitute blowing him.

  “Woah!” Chan said, “What the hell is that? Your home movies?”

  “Woops, didn’t realize I still had that in there.”

  “Who is that?” Chan asked.

  “Some asshole traffic cop in New Mexico who made it his mission to pull me over every goddamned day I was there during the summer.”

  “New Mexico? What you doing over there?”

  “I go all over, man. One of the perks of working for myself. Anyway, dude kept pulling me over, saying I was going way faster than I was, giving me tickets and shit. I had enough tickets to line a litter box. Not sure why he had such a hard-on for me, so after I wrapped up business, I decided to dig into his life.”

  “Ah,” Chan said, smiling wide. “Obviously he hadn’t heard about your infamous exploits with OCSO.”

  “Yeah, right? Anyway, fucker was up to all kinds of fun stuff. First, I was just looking to prove he wasn’t even using the radar correctly, which he wasn’t. Then ding-ding bonus, I caught him doing a whole heap of unsavory shit. I decided to fight the tickets, and sent a copy of this video to the local news anchor the day before. Needless to say, he didn’t show in court.”

  Houser fast forwarded the tape to show the burglar.

  “Remind me not to piss you off,” Chan said, shaking his head, still smiling.

  “Like I said, I don’t play well with others,” Houser said as he returned to his car.

  * *

  Houser returned to Benedict’s house to find, big fat surprise, the guy was still home.

  After another two hours of sitting in front of the house, Houser found himself reliving the rush of the earlier chase, then surprising himself by pondering Chan’s offer. He wasn’t sure if Chan was being polite or if they really needed cops, but Las Orillas seemed like a decent enough place, idiot burglars aside. A quiet seaside town, artsy community, people with money, but without all the bullshit you’d find in Ocean County. Most of all, though, Houser missed having someone to hang out with on duty while killing the tedious boredom. Chan was one of his closest friends back in the day. Now, he spent much of his time waiting for people to do stupid shit while he stared at his iPad.

  Houser had been working for himself for seven years, building his agency with three other investigators, and was now taking only the jobs he wanted to take. He was in the best position of his life, was making good money, ridiculous sometimes, and providing two other investigators with regular work. But there were times when he missed his work having any real meaning beyond catching a cheating spouse or someone for insurance fraud. He rarely had the chance to help real people
in need.

  Sure, he helped people protect their assets, and insurance companies reclaim their money, but he wasn’t nailing violent criminals, solving murders, or any of the other things Chan did on a daily basis.

  Of course, if you asked Chan how he felt about his job most days, he’d probably say he was frustrated that they couldn’t do more to help people. Annoyed that more often than not, the bad guys walked, or the cops got there too late, or there wasn’t anything they could do to protect abused kids or spouses.

  Then there was the Cecilia Ramirez case. The one that crushed him. That one that still plagued his nightmares.

  No, can’t go back to that.

  He put his pointer on his iPad, flicked another bird at the pigs, and decided he was just fine doing this for the next decade, if need be.

  After 10 more minutes of bird flinging, Houser’s phone rang. It was Jon Conway.

  “Whatup, Jonny Hollywood,” Houser said.

  “I’m never in the mood for that. And never less than now.”

  Jon sounded pissed.

  Houser laughed. There probably wasn’t a rich fucker in the world he liked more than Jon. Jon was richer than all of them. He had manners, over-paid, and was always happy to take Houser exactly as he came. “Okay, Jon, how may I help you today?”

  “You busy?”

  Houser looked over at the house, then shook his head to himself. “Well, I guess it depends on your definition of busy. I’ve got cases coming out of my ass, but every one of them’s boring as shit. You call to bring some excitement into my life?”

  “Can you come to Hamilton Island?”

  “Hamilton Island? I said I want excitement, not retirement. What the hell you doing back home? The old man die or something? I didn’t see shit on the news about it.”

  “No, but there’s a missing girl.” After a pause, Jon added. “My daughter. How soon can you get here?”

  Houser kept his questions to himself since he could tell by Jon’s voice he didn’t want to talk about it, at least not over the phone. “Gonna fly me first class?”