Nowhere Man: A Riley King Mystery

  Richard Neer

  A Riley King Mystery

  Copyright ©Richard Neer

  All Rights Reserved 2021

  Front cover photo: ©Wilm Ihlenfeld/123RF.com

  Back Cover photo: ©Ken Pomerance

  Other Books by Richard Neer

  FM: The Rise and Fall of Rock Radio

  Something of the Night

  The Master Builders

  Indian Summer

  The Last Resort

  The Punch List

  An American Storm

  Wrecking Ball

  Brilliant Disguise

  Three Chords and the Truth

  For Frances Neer

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  Across from me sat the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in the flesh. I had agreed to meet her for dinner under protest --- a final rendezvous to close the book on our relationship, before she gets me killed.

  Although Charlene Jones, country music goddess, swore that was the last thing she would ever want to happen, my association with her had put us both in danger enough times for me to finally get it through my head that the occasional night of ecstasy isn’t worth the risk.

  She smiled, all perfect teeth and bright blue eyes, but my eyes drifted down to her perfect and bright bosom, on magnificent display in a low cut blouse. Bad habit, I know. One that I’ve tried a lifetime to break with numerous women.

  Well, not really.

  She said, “Do you want to hear what I have in mind for you now or should we clear the air first? Your call, sugar.”

  “If we try to clear the air first, it could make for a short evening. You got me here on the premise you had an offer I couldn’t refuse. Since you didn’t bring Luca Brasi along, I’ll bite.”

  “You boys and your Godfather lines. Did you all want to grow up to be Eye-talian gangsters or what?”

  “Wrong generation. We wanted to be cowboys or Davy Crockett. But I suppose ladies love outlaws, so we got sucked into that. Was it Waylon Jennings who said it?”

  “You don’t need to humor me by pretending you like country music. You’re a rock and roller, admit it. In fact, that’s why you’re the perfect man for this job.”

  “Charlene, I’m not interested in working for you. I thought I made that clear. If you think you can talk me into it, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Wouldn’t be working under me, much as I’ve enjoyed that in the past. Don’t mind you being on top, either. But that ain’t what I’m talking about.”

  I wonder how she’d fare if sexual innuendo was taken out of her repertoire. Like asking Clapton what he’d do if he couldn’t play guitar. But try as I might, whenever she made even the most oblique reference to our nocturnal time together, it throws me off my game. I don’t know why I call it nocturnal, because with Charlene, any time is the right time.

  I said, “Are you going to string me along all night or tell me what you have in mind?”

  “I guess I’m postponing the air-clearing phase, sugar. I’m agreeing with ya, it may not go so well.”

  “Worst case, you’ll have fodder for another song.”

  “Maybe even a whole album, like the first time we broke up.”

  “Not to go all grammar police on you, but two people actually have to be together before they can break up.”

  “We have to be together before we break up. Might need some polishing, but there’s a song title there.”

  “Just make sure I get a credit. Wouldn’t mind a few royalty checks. Let’s stop beating around the bush. What do you need?”

  “You see sugar, this ain’t a favor for me. It’s for a friend. Doing a good deed for a widow.”

  We were sitting in a darkened corner of WiseGuys, my home base restaurant on Hilton Head Island. My last few cases have originated with interviews here, although it’s hard to call them cases, since I haven’t renewed my PI license. Most of what I do now consists of good deeds for friends or friends of friends, which seemed like where this was going.

  “A poor old widow. How can I refuse? Oh, wait a minute. Aren’t you a widow? Except you’re not all that old and you sure aren’t poor.”

  “Fortune smiled on me, Riles. A lot of it had to do with you. You rescued me from a bad marriage and you got me noticed in the music world. Don’t think I ain’t grateful, but this ain’t about me.”

  I signaled the waiter for another round of drinks. Charlene was sipping a soft chardonnay, while I was nursing my customary single malt. WiseGuys has an extensive tapas menu, and we’d ordered an eclectic assortment, which had yet to arrive.

  She said, “Let’s get down to it before the food gets here. Mommy told me not to talk with my mouth full.”

  “I’ll skip the obvious joke.”

  “Don’t censor yourself on my account, sugar. You ever hear of Jason Black?”

  “Sure. Singer/songwriter, Cat Stevens, James Taylor type. A few hits in the seventies and eighties. Disappeared from the scene for years until that mess in Hardeeville.”

  “That bloodbath, you mean. That’s him.”

  “There were some widows created that day. Five dead as I recall. How do you know him?”

  “He opened for a couple of my shows in the Carolinas. That Hardeeville thing made him a local hero. Not that I needed help to sell out the gigs, but he was great. Wrote some new material I might want to use on my next album.”

  “So he’s gone country?”

  “No, still more rock. But shit Riley, what we’re doing ain’t hardly country no more. Fiddles and pedal steel guitar and banjo? Maybe on a couple of tracks to maintain our cred, but we rock, babe.”

  “Can’t argue that. So --- you said there’s a widow. I haven’t seen Black’s name in the obits, so what’s he got to do with this widow?”

  “Friend of his. Look, I promised to let him explain ‘cause I might not get all the details right. He knows I know you and asked if I could hook you two up. Something to do with a guy he toured with years ago. His widow.”

  “Why didn’t he just contact me himself? I’m not that hard to find.”

  “Like I said, he knows you and me is friends. I get the feeling there’s not a lot of money in what he’s asking, and he thought maybe I could soften you up.” She giggled like a teenager. “As opposed to harden you up like I like to do.”

  Again. Trotting out the old sexual allusion when all else fails. But she hadn’t failed. I hadn’t said ‘no’ yet because I didn’t know what I’d be saying ‘no’ to.

  “Charl, you got me going in circles here. The last time we were together, you were worried about me doing dangerous work at my advancing age.”

  “I never said advancing age.”

  “It was implied, all right? Now you’re trying to hook me up with detective work. Which is it?”

  �
�I guess we’ve reached the air-clearing phase. Oh wow, here’s our food. Just in the nick of time.”

  We had ordered Baked Brie in Pastry, Flash fried shrimp and calamari, Short Rib stuffed mushrooms, and Pan-fried crab cakes from the small plates menu. There was barely enough room on the table for our drinks. No elbows.

  When the server left, I said, “You’re not off the hook. What’s going on? No brie until you’ve answered.”

  “But it’s my favorite, with pecans and them candied apricots. I can’t let it get cold. Okay. I just wanted you to be safe and I figured doing security for my tour would be the perfect solution. That way we could be together and you’d have a job that was interesting but not real dangerous.”

  “And I might’ve considered it if you hadn’t hired a roadie to take a few shots at me to seal the deal.”

  “He missed you on purpose by quite a bit, you know that. I just wanted to show you what a dangerous line of work you’re in and how much better off you’d be working under me. Or on top if you prefer.”

  “Cut out the sex talk. I’d prefer the bullets.”

  “We both know that ain’t true.”

  “Charl, I’ll play attorney here and stipulate so you don’t keep bringing it up. You are great in bed. The best. But you and I both know our problem is trust. You’ve lied to me about really important stuff, including your late husband’s murder, which you set up. You used me and my FBI contacts.”

  “My turn to stipulate, counselor. Guilty as charged.”

  “When you had that health scare a while back, you got religion and swore you’d changed. I was willing to keep an open mind but then you hired that goon to take a few pot shots at me. You couldn’t let me decide on my own whether to work security for you, without some persuadin’, as you put it. So how can I trust you?”

  “I only did it because I care about you. Maybe the means were a little off, but the ends was good, no? Look, this thing with Jason Black isn’t dangerous in the least. Otherwise I’d a never approached you with it. Just a good deed for a nice guy.”

  “A nice guy you slept with?”

  “Sounds like you’re jealous. Good. That means you still care.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I just want to get the lay of the land and please leave that line alone. When does he want to meet?”

  “He’s living in Bluffton now and he runs his own business. He said he’d like to do this thing ASAP. And no, I never slept with him. That’s the old me.”

  The smart thing to do would be to finish dinner, and respectfully decline her offer. But I wanted to meet Jason Black. In addition to liking his music, the incident in Hardeeville was something I was curious about. The news reports smelled like a whitewash, stories I could poke a dozen holes in.

  I said, “Give me his number and I’ll call him. For now, let’s call a truce. Keep it to small talk and enjoy our dinner.”

  “Deal. I’ve got a really great dessert waiting at my place. Save room for it.”

  2

  I called Jason Black when I got home and a sultry sounding woman answered. She said he was out at the moment, but he’d been expecting my call and had left word that he’d like to meet with me in person. If noon tomorrow at his home in Bluffton was acceptable, a delicious lunch would be served.

  Food is a great incentive. It works with Bosco, my Golden Retriever, and humans are no different. Even though I was full from dinner, I agreed without asking about the menu.

  I Googled Jason Black and came up with all sorts of stuff about his music career, very little about the shooting in Hardeeville. Fortunately, I have Alexandra Tomey, a Hilton Head cop, living in my house. She and my friend Moses Ginn were in their room upstairs, lights out. It was too late to disturb her, but she’d give me the scoop in the morning.

  I took Bosco out, his last chance to do business for the night. I read a little Lawrence Block on my tablet, cracked a window and went to bed. The cool December air had me asleep in no time.

  I was up at dawn the next morning and my dog had already drifted out to the kitchen, where Moses was preparing breakfast.

  I said, “Morning. Is Alex up yet?”

  He growled, “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Yeah, she’s in the shower, getting set to spend the day fighting crime on the island. Huh.”

  “I know things have been a little slow lately man, but don’t go wishing for a crime spree. Anyway, I may have an interesting case that’ll fill our time.”

  Ginn is a few years my senior, I guess. Despite the fact we’ve known each other for years and have been in many scrapes together, his biography is sketchy. While in our respective cups, he’s spun some tall tales which turned out to be apocryphal at best, downright fabrications at worst. All I know is that there’s no one better in a tight spot.

  I’d first encountered him a few years back when he casually informed me over coffee that he’d been dispatched to kill me. That got my attention. As things turned out, rather than complete the mission, he became an ally. We’ve been compadres ever since, leading to Tomey and him shacking up in one of the guest rooms in my way too-large oceanfront home.

  In addition to his lethal skills, he is a killer chef, who can whip up a gourmet meal from leftovers. Since he moved in, my pantry is always fully stocked and he never lacks even the most exotic ingredient. I had to up my workout regime to keep my weight at bay.

  He said, “Bosco’s been out and fed. Doing Eggs Benedict for breakfast. Tell me about this case.”

  “Well, so far, I have no idea. Charlene told me about it at dinner, but said the client wanted to fill me in himself.”

  “You know 5-0, I can’t believe you still seeing that chick after what she did. She’s a fox all right, but she one lying bitch, you ask me.”

  “You kiss Tomey with that mouth? I wouldn’t use those exact words but you’re right on both counts.”

  “Alex don’t like her, either. And don’t go fretting about my choice of words. You about as sensitive as a porcupine in heat so I can swear ‘round you. So, Charlene sets you off on a gig you don’t know nothing about? At least, she reward you for listening?”

  “Sorry, no dirty details about what went on last night because nothing did. She offered me dessert at her place and I passed.”

  “Good you learned your lesson there.”

  I looked around and counted my blessings. The fabulous house we live in was my payment for keeping a rich man out of prison for a murder he didn’t commit. I consider selling it at least three times a day. Five thousand square feet on the Atlantic is a crazy for a bachelor and his dog, but it’s hard to tear myself away from the sybaritic comfort it provides. I rationalize that Ginn and Tomey help fill it up, but in reality, two more families could move in and not tax its capacity.

  Alex came down and grunted something that approximated a morning greeting. She needs coffee before becoming human, and Ginn was at the ready with a fresh mug, prepared to her liking. Easy. Black, no sugar.

  I said, “I was just telling Moses I might have a case.”

  She said, “That’s nice. Should I bust you now or later for working without a license?”

  That passes for humor in Tomey’s world. Cops are a different breed.

  “Just helping out a fellow in need, is all. Hey, you might’ve heard of the guy. Jason Black.”

  “The music man?”

  “The very one and he’s got trouble in River City. All I know is it’s got something to do with a widow friend of his. I’m meeting him for lunch today.”

  She took a deep pull on the coffee and smiled at Ginn. He kissed her cheek and went back to working on the eggs.

  I said, “He was involved in that shooting in Hardeeville a while back. Know anything about it?”

  “The FBI bigfooted the whole thing away from the locals. Your buddy Dan Logan would know more about that. Maybe he was even involved. Just saying.”

  Alex is sensitive about my friendship with my former colleague. Logan has interceded in a couple of her cases on the isl
and, and although she got credit for the solve, it rankles her that I called DC for assistance. Over the years she’s mellowed, but the mention of his name still sets her off.

  I said, “I’d rather not bother Dan and burn a favor. But it might help if you told me what you know. Even if it’s just hearsay.”

  “You probably know the basics. The man who owned the compound in Hardeeville called himself Brand X. Real name was Brandon Xavier Murphy. He was a rock star for a minute forty years ago.”

  “I remember. Hated his music. Head banging heavy metal. Made Ozzy Ozbourne sound like Leonard Bernstein.”

  “Thank you, Dave Marsh. He was an anarchist, a naïve idiot. But he gave some seed money to some geeks who were big fans of his and it turns out they started Apple. Made him a billionaire or close to it.”

  “A blind squirrel finding acorns.”

  “Sort of the way you solve your cases.” More cop humor.

  Ginn had the Eggs Benedict ready and arranged plates and utensils on the sprawling granite island, which is surrounded by six leather upholstered stools. We take most of our casual meals there, saving the dining area for larger gatherings or more formal occasions.

  I said, “So exactly what happened at that compound, Alex?”

  “Apparently this Brand X kept kind of a harem. Russian supermodel types. Hell, he could afford it. The story is that he had a visitor from the old days, a former groupie or lover. It seems that she’d also been involved with Black and he dumped her. Anyway, the old groupie went ballistic when Black showed up with a new girlfriend. He got stabbed and she killed Brand X and two security guards before Black’s new girlfriend shot her.”

  We paused to concentrate on breakfast and it was worth it. I’ve given up dishing out superlatives for Ginn’s culinary skills. It’s almost as if every meal exceeds the last --- he is that good.

  Between bites I said, “Moses, are you buying that story? That’s what the papers said. Jealous ex-lover. Doesn’t ring true to me.”

  Ginn said, “Hell hath no fury. But think ‘bout it. She’d have to be a pretty old woman, if she was a groupie in the seventies. We’re s’posed to believe that someone like that could blow away three men? Two of ‘em armed security guards?”