Middle Sister (eBook)

Jesse Miles (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
290 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-1996-7 (ISBN)

Infos

Jack Salvo teaches philosophy one night a week at a community college, but he pays his bills by working as an L.A. private detective. A wealthy woman hires him to find her wayward daughter Lillie, who has been missing for a week. Salvo figures the girl is probably hiding out with her friends. All he has to do is interview the friends, bust their stories, and deduce the missing brat's location. Salvo soon learns that her 'friends' are somewhat parasitical. When he finds Lillie, she is hosting different kinds of parasites - the little ones that help rid the world of rotting corpses. Salvo is then pulled into a maze of murder, arson, and blackmail. During his high-speed-run down L.A.'s fast lane, he spars with grifters and gangsters, dodges the cops, and digs up a dark, deadly family secret.

---

Jack Salvo teaches philosophy one night a week at a community college, but he pays his bills by working as an L.A. private detective. A wealthy woman hires him to find her wayward daughter Lillie, who has been missing for a week. Salvo figures the girl is probably hiding out with her friends. All he has to do is interview the friends, bust their stories, and deduce the missing brat's location. Salvo soon learns that her "e;friends"e; are somewhat parasitical. When he finds Lillie, she is hosting different kinds of parasites - the little ones that help rid the world of rotting corpses. Salvo is then pulled into a maze of murder, arson, and blackmail. During his high-speed-run down L.A.'s fast lane, he spars with grifters and gangsters, dodges the cops, and digs up a dark, deadly family secret. [If I have to write a long version, it will take some time. I think the short version is just right.]

Textauszug

1

A hot summer day at the beach is the usual L.A. song and dance. I’ll take a warm winter day in the canyons. On this particular January morning, I was driving up a ridge in a Bel Air neighborhood where the houses looked like hotels and the trees were swinging to the rhythm of a gentle Santa Ana wind.

I turned onto a smooth, narrow road that ran alongside a tall stone wall. The road stopped at a driveway flanked by a pair of limestone columns. A uniformed, white-haired security guard stepped out of the guard shack. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a big black Colt 1911 in a cross-draw holster.

I showed him my business card. “I have a ten o’clock meeting with Greta Manning.”

He spoke in a flat monotone. “Mrs. Manning is expecting you.”

A dark-gray Mercedes station wagon came up behind me and eased around. The guard nodded to the woman behind the wheel. I followed the Mercedes up the driveway between a tall hedge and another stone wall.

The hedge ended, the wall flared away, and the driveway opened into a motor court. Dead center was a flower-encircled, white-marble fountain, a simple design without the usual troupe of angels and goddesses. The wrinkled white stucco on the two-story Spanish Colonial Revival glowed softly in the sunlight. It was about six or seven thousand square feet, pint-size for the neighborhood. My favorite features were the four arched, dark-wood garage doors built into the front.

It was a handsome house bought with ugly money. Nine years earlier, the lord of the manor was sixty-six-year-old Bobby Manning. He had built a multibillion-dollar business through his shrewd understanding of human weakness: payday loans, high-risk credit cards, second and third mortgages, and other forms of fishy credit. On a foggy winter evening, behind an expensive Italian restaurant, an unremarkable middle-aged man walked up to Manning and put a tight 9mm group into his midsection. The shooter bent over the dying victim and said, “That’s for your peace of mind,” before setting the empty pistol on the asphalt and walking away. Peace of Mind was the tagline in the Manning financial empire’s advertising campaign. The murder was never solved.

Bobby’s fifty-four-year-old widow Greta Manning was now the head of the family. She had three daughters: Zara, a thirty-one-year-old reformed hellion; Lillie, a twenty-four-year-old hellion; and Arden, an apparently well-behaved nineteen-year-old. Greta was named after Greta Garbo and had named her daughters after Garbo film characters.

My job was to find the middle sister. In a telephone conversation the day before, Greta explained that Lillie hadn’t been seen at her Sunset Strip condo since a heated argument between mother and daughter the previous week. Lillie had gone missing before, but never more than two or three days. Greta said she was concerned about her daughter but did not want to contact the police and deal with the publicity.

The wagon stopped behind a white Mercedes Roadster. The driver, a tall gray-haired woman, got out and strode toward the house. She carried a Louis Vuitton purse and a Saks shopping bag. Her maid uniform fit perfectly.

I parked behind the wagon and walked across the stone pavers. I was decked out better than usual: tan linen sport coat, black shirt with white pinstripes, black slacks, and my best wristwatch.

The maid stopped on the porch and watched me, waiting for me to justify my existence.

I said, “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Greta Manning.”

After asking me to wait, she ducked into the house. A few seconds later, the door opened, and a nice-looking girl popped out. Late teens, shoulder-length sandy brown hair, blue-gray eyes. She wore dusty rose jogger pants, a matching sweater, and gray New Balance shoes.

“Mr. Salvo?” Her voice was soft and clear.

“That’s me. I’m here for a ten o’clock with Greta Manning.”

“We honestly did not intend to make you wait outside.” She offered her hand. “I’m Arden Manning. Mother is expecting you. Please come in.”

The living room was furnished in a less-is-more fashion. Not too much furniture, not too much of anything. The colors were not highly saturated, but the designer was not afraid of color. I liked the place.

The back wall, mostly glass, showcased a rectangular swimming pool trimmed with cobalt-blue tile and travertine pavers. Across the pool was a sculpture depicting three life-size nude mermaids. Hillside terraces and stone steps rose up to a gazebo sheltered by a solid line of eucalyptus trees.

A new voice sounded behind me. “Hello Mr. Salvo. I’m Greta Manning.

She wore a simple, beige jumpsuit. She was smaller than she looked in photographs, bordering on petite. “Arden has to run off to her classes at USC pretty soon, and my other daughter Zara just called. She’ll be a few minutes late. I’m asking Zara to take the lead and provide any help you might need in finding Lillie. In the meantime, can we get you anything?”

“I’m fine.”

Arden said, “While we’re waiting for Zara, how can we entertain you?”

“I’d like to see more of the back yard.”

Greta walked toward the central hallway. “Arden can give you the full tour, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a quick phone call.”

Arden led me out to the pool, which was nestled into the house’s L-shape. She pointed up toward the property’s high point. “The gazebo is my favorite place. It’s enclosed in back, with canvas shades on the sides, and it has a heater and air conditioner. It’s a wonderful place to hang out, in all kinds of weather.”

We circled the pool and stood next to the mermaids. I said, “I’ve seen a few poolside sculptures, but this one really stands out.”

“It’s bronze, on a marble base.” She positioned herself next to one of the mermaids and held her head at the same angle. “Do you see any resemblance?”

She caught me by surprise on that one. “You and your sisters were the models?”

“It was Mother’s idea. She commissioned the project three years ago. The sculptor mostly worked from photos Mother took.”

The maid called from inside. “Miss Zara is arriving.”

I was looking forward to meeting Zara Manning. By all reports, she had been a spitfire of the first order. As a Sunset Strip club-hopper, she was known for her intelligence, heavy drinking, and the month she spent in jail for kicking a female police officer who had cited her for jaywalking. When Zara was released from the women’s detention facility in Lynwood, she calmly walked through the horde of reporters, ignoring their questions and making just one comment: “I can do thirty days standing on my head.” Then she smiled graciously, climbed into the back seat of her mother’s chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce Phantom, and disappeared into the darkness.

Not too long after that, she dropped out of her fast-lane social scene and entered graduate school at USC. She amazed everyone by earning a PhD in English Literature and becoming prominent in local charities. Zara’s first novel Pink Tea Party was due for publication later in the year.

Arden and I went back inside, and Zara glided into the room. Politely prominent cheekbones framed her cool blue eyes. She was about five-seven, curvy and thin, but not too thin. Except for the nicotine-stained fingers on her right hand, she had a fresh natural look. Her sunglasses rested on top of her head, tucked into her thick, free-flowing, dishwater blonde hair. She wore a simple short-sleeve top, inexpensive blue jeans, and woven leather flats. She carried a black alligator purse and wore no jewelry except for a diamond-paved Patek Philippe wristwatch that was worth more than my new BMW.

Greta walked into the room. “Zara, can’t you wear anything besides jeans? And your hair—can’t you do something with it?”

“I wasn’t aware we were going to be in a formal situation. I presume this is Mr. Salvo, the private dick you’re hiring to find Lillie.”

“I would not characterize his profession in such ill-mannered terms. Mr. Salvo, I’d like you to meet my ill-mannered daughter Zara.”

I said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Zara.”

She said, “I suppose you carry a gun.”

“Not today. I usually carry a gold-plated .44 Magnum with a 10-inch barrel.”

“How many times have you used your phallic symbol in the line of duty?”

“How many times have you been in jail?”

She gave me a look that could have shrunk my sperm count. “Have you been investigating me?”

“I didn’t need to. All I had to do was read The National Enquirer.”

“Is that the extent of your education?”

“I have a master’s in philosophy plus more graduate work.”

“You couldn’t find a faculty sponsor for your...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 2.10.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-1996-7 / 9798350919967