Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

Blind Overlook

(Book
3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

By
JC Simmons

This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and places either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of
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PUBLISHED
BY
NIGHTTIME PRESS LLC

Copyright
© 2012 Kindle Edition by JC Simmons

All
rights reserved

Check out all 10
books in

The
Jay
Leicester Mysteries
Series
by
JC Simmons
:

Blood
on the Vine
Some
People Die Quick

Blind
Overlook
Icy
Blue Descent
The
Electra File
Popping
the Shine
Four
Nines Fine
The
Underground Lady
Akel
Dama
The
Candela of Cancri

Now available at
Amazon.com
and the other usual outlets

Blind
Overlook

(Book
3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

by
JC Simmons

PROLOGUE

The two people
stood at the edge of the water looking across the bay from Port Clyde, Maine,
toward the Atlantic Ocean and Africa. The cloudless sky was moonless, the wind
calm, the night quiet. It was near midnight and stars sparkled like tiny
diamonds. A fish rolled violently fifty feet from shore, its prey now
sustenance for life.

The man felt the
barrel of the gun against the back of his head a fraction of a second before
his world ceased to exist. His limp body fell into the cold, salty water at the
end of the pier. The shooter turned and calmly walked back up the hill to the
parking lot where the other man waited in the front seat of the rental car.

"Well, did
you two come to a decision, or are we going to spend the whole night in this
godforsaken place?" It was his last words. The .9 millimeter slug exploded
through his skull and scrambled his brain.

The shooter
exited the rental car, leaving the limp, lifeless body as it lay, slumped
across the front seat, and entered a dark-colored van parked nearby. The van,
loaded with a half-million dollars worth of oil paintings, and the lone driver,
pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the Rockland, Maine, airport, where
a chartered jet waited. Quickly loading the forty-eight bulky canvases aboard
the airplane, the shooter, breathing rapidly, sat down in a passenger seat and
stared intently at the paintings. They had just been stolen from one of the
most powerful Mafia figures in the Unites Sates.

A few minutes
later the sleek, German-made airplane climbed swiftly into the clear night sky
like some evil, dark angel. The lone passenger unscrewed the silencer from the
barrel of the small automatic pistol, examined it with a satisfied grin, put
both pieces into the black leather case, zipped it up, and settled back into
the plush seat of the jet. It would be a long flight back to Houston.

CHAPTER
ONE

I hate
Saturdays. They always bring something I don't want to deal with. It's usually
a hangover. Or someone walks into my office unannounced while I'm trying to
catch up on paperwork I've neglected all week. This Saturday proved to be no
exception. A friend to whom I couldn't say no asked me to try to talk some
sense into his teenage son, who was making the wrong decision to live a short
life of extremes rather than a long one of moderation.

The kid was
late, and I had a hangover. I made coffee. I can always tell the degree of the
hangover by the way that the coffee smells while it's brewing. This morning it
smelled like my old bird dog, wet and lathered from a hard workout with the
quail on a hot day.

Going into the
small bathroom, I washed my face in cold water. The weathered reflection in the
mirror stared back at me. Not too bad, Leicester, I said aloud, studying the
image. A few more wrinkles, a gray hair here and there, but passable. The
wrinkles help hide the scars. Scars acquired over the last ten years learning a
business where I'd made every mistake that could be made. But I'd survived, was
smarter, more careful, and much wiser. At six feet two and two hundred forty
pounds I always thought my size could carry the day. It didn't take long to
learn that in the private investigation business size doesn't matter. Sneaking
a last glance in the mirror, I said, No, not too bad. At least my old bird dog
still thinks I'm handsome.

Dabbling at some
paperwork, I didn't want to get too involved before the kid showed. Tires
squealed in the parking lot. It sounded like a teenager. Getting up, I walked
to the outer door. Jeff, Jr. was climbing out of a red '57 Chevy convertible
daddy gave him for getting through high school. If I were his daddy, I'd start
by taking away the car.

He was a big kid
with long blond hair, sharp, high cheekbones, and sculptured nose. He had deep
bottomless blue eyes, and perfect pearl-white teeth, which accented a mischievous
grin on a clean-shaven face. He was as tall as I am, with wide shoulders, and
powerful arms. He had slim wrists, big hands, and long delicate fingers. Hands
a surgeon or concert pianist would envy. He headed for my office with the
vulgar swagger of youth.

Sitting back
down at the desk, I waited for him to enter. He did, without knocking.

"Mr. Jay.
How you doing?" He said, with a grin that had melted many a young girl's
heart. "Boy, the coffee smells good. Can I have some? Late night."
Another telling grin. "I didn't get up in time to have any at home."

Pointing to the
coffeepot, I watched his lithe, athletic movements with jealousy.

"What's
cooking?" He asked, pouring the coffee. "Dad said you wanted to see
me. Need some help solving a case? Boy, I'd like that."

Pouring myself a
cup, I slopped in a big dollop of Tupelo honey. Jeff, Jr. made a face at the
honey.

"Yeah,
Jeff,” I said, stirring the coffee. "I've got a case needs some help. You
see, I've received this report of a red Chevy convertible riding around passing
out marijuana and cocaine to young girls, one who ended up at the emergency
room when her parents couldn't wake her from a drug induced sleep. The parents
asked me to look into it. If I can get enough on this guy in the Chevy I'll
turn the information over to the Mississippi State Narcotics agents. They can
push for ten to twenty-five on Parchman farm. If he's selling, they may get a
longer sentence. Want to help me with this case, Jeff?"

Carefully
watching his expressions and body movements, I saw the ears turn red first,
then the neck and cheeks. He shifted position three times in ten seconds,
played a drumbeat on the coffee cup with enough force to cause whitecaps on the
steaming liquid. One didn't need a polygraph machine to tell this kid was
guilty. Jeff, Jr. wasn't selling dope, but I knew he was messing around with
it. Someone needed to get his attention.

"Ah, Mr.
Jay. I never sold any dope. Listen I..."

"No! You
listen, Jeff. Being a football hero with a red convertible doesn't mean
shirking responsibility. You can pick just as much cotton from a hot, scorched
Parchman penitentiary field as any other dope dealer, robber, or
murderer."

"You're
getting on me pretty strong, Mr. Jay,” he said, with a bit of youthful defiance.

"By God,
I'm entitled. I was at the hospital the day you were born. I've seen you almost
every day of your life; attended the first football game you ever played,
haven't missed many others."

More shifting
position, more whitecaps on the coffee.

Continuing, I
said, "Your dad and I played pro ball together, took our first flying
lessons together. Your mom and I lived next door to each other from the time we
were born until the day she married your dad. So I've got a right. You'd better
believe I do. I'll not sit by and let you throw away a good life because you're
thinking like some big city pimp and passing out grams of Snowpowder. I won't
do it."

His face was
getting redder, his feet were shuffling.

"Think
about your football scholarship. If you get caught with drugs just once, it's
over. And the young girls, I know they flock around you, I've seen it. But
you've got to take the responsibility for your actions." I threw the spoon
I'd used to stir the coffee onto the desk, staining a client's bill.
"You've been very lucky, Jeff. Now is the time to straighten up and fly
right."

Jeff sat still,
staring into the coffee cup. "Why can't my dad say this to me?" He
asked, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "Why does he have to get you to
do it for him?"

His intuitive
question surprised me. "If it came from him, it would only alienate you.
You're too headstrong, and he knows it. You know I won't bullshit you. You know
private investigators have inside connections the police don't." Splaying
both hands on top of the scattered paperwork, I said, "Jeff, I even know
where you're getting your stuff, how much you're using, and what you pay for
it."

There was no way
I could know any of this. It was a bluff, but it worked. He started the guilt
thing again.

"Mr. Jay, I
don't..."

"Well, you
are getting on him pretty strong." A voice suddenly said from the front
door.

"Who are
you?" I asked, irritated, raising both hands in a questioning gesture. I
had not heard her come in. She was standing there leaning against the
doorframe, relaxed, a smile on her beautiful face. There was no way to know how
long she'd been in the office.

"You
Leicester, the P.I.?"

"Yes, I'm
Jay Leicester, private investigator. This is a personal conversation. If you
have business, call the office Monday, make an appointment."

This didn't faze
her, she kept leaning on the door smiling at Jeff, Jr., who was becoming very
uneasy. He used the intrusion as an excuse to leave.

"Mr. Jay, I
gotta go,” he said, jumping from his chair, spilling coffee. "I'll
straighten up, I promise. Look, I'm late for a tennis match, okay?"

The pleading in
his eyes made me relent. I hoped I'd had some effect. He was a good kid who was
getting a little too big for his britches and dealing in some things he didn't
truly understand. His future was bright. I'd keep my fingers crossed that he
wouldn't screw it up.

The woman
quickly sat down in the chair Jeff, Jr. vacated. I looked at her with an
expression I hoped conveyed my irritation.

It must have
been effective.

"What I
need can't wait,” she said, quickly. "I apologize for barging in. We tried
to call last night but couldn't reach you. I took a chance, drove up this
morning, hoping to catch you."

Leaning back in
my chair, I took a long look at this lady. She was close to six feet in height,
wore no jewelry or rings. There was nothing gaudy about her appearance though
she gave off an aura of flashy vulgarity. Her hair was ash-blond, shoulder
length and curled at the ends. The forehead was broad and high with wide, dark eyebrows
covering greenish eyes. Yet there seemed to be harshness deep down waiting to
surface. Her mouth had a permanent grin, a smile that seemed to say I can love
you or I can kill you. The nose, sharp, perfect, teeth straight and white as a
fresh spring snow.

She wore a
black, one-piece dress. It was tight fitting, open at the top, and held up by
thin straps, which revealed wide, strong shoulders. The dress was more appropriate
for a Friday evening dinner than for ten-thirty on Saturday morning.

I could not
judge the age, thirty-ish, five years either way. It would depend on what she'd
been through. In a nutshell, she looked like a young Lauren Bacall. I expected
Bogie to come walking up behind her at any moment growling a line from
To
Have and Have Not
.

Making a
decision, I said, "So what's on your mind?"

"Thank you.
You're very kind,” she said with an arrogance which let me know she'd won the
game up to this point.

I offered
coffee. She declined.

She now sat
stiff and erect in the chair. The relaxed, sultry pose she'd had leaning
against the doorframe had dissipated. It was a complete change.

I looked for the
flaws. Seeing flaws in people is something I work on. Not because I've become
languid towards humans, even though I've seen every aspect of our noble race
from rotten bodies to deadly, evil people. But because when they come to me
there's always a problem. Something is wrong with everyone to some degree.

She stared
straight at me, unflinching. The cognac from last night had my nerves on edge,
and her intrusion was irritating.

Finally I could
stand it no longer. "Look, lady, it's Saturday, I've got paper work to do,
then I have to be somewhere. What's on your mind?"

"I need
some help." Her body was tense and bent. Her arms folded in front of her
as if she were trying to protect her chest and belly.

I had seen
people change from a facade of bravery to one of cowardice, but I'd never seen
a person change so dramatically, and so fast. It caught me by surprise. I was
still admiring her beauty, looking for flaws.

Giving her a
moment to settle down, I asked her name. Head bowed, she didn't respond. She
started a nutational movement in the chair, which would have been sexy and
alluring had it been under different circumstances. Moving around the desk, I
approached her to offer comfort.

"Don't you
touch me! Don't you put your hands on me." She leapt up, turned to face
me, and clinched her fists. There was hatred in her eyes, and a deadly
seriousness.

She'd startled
me. Jumping back, I felt guilty, wondering what made her react so violently.
Then her eyes focused and the tears started flowing. She came into my arms and
I held her until she stopped crying. Her body was hard and firm like an
athlete.

"Oh, I'm so
sorry,” she said, pulling away, sitting back down. "I'm not a crybaby.
It's just been a rough couple of days. It all just came out. Please..."

"I have
some cognac,” I said gently. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes,” she
said, wiping her eyes. "That would be wonderful."

Pouring two
ounces of cognac in a coffee cup, I fought the urge to join her. Instead, I had
another cup of coffee. She drank the cognac down in one swallow, made a bitter
face, shook her head, set the cup on my desk. The tears were still there.

"Thank you,
Mr. Leicester,” she said, attempting a smile. "That helped. May I call you
Jay?"

"Feel
free,” I said. "You haven't told me yours."

"Sandy.
Sandy Rinaldi,” she said, wiping more tears.

"Well,
Sandy Rinaldi, what can I do for you? How did you know about me?"

"I have a
business associate in Gulfport, Guy Robbins. I believe he's a friend of yours.
I'd driven over to the Mississippi Gulf Coast for some business, and was with
him and his wife when I received word about my brother. Guy said to get in
touch with you. You were the only person he'd recommend. He said you were
honest."

"I'll have
to thank Mr. Robbins for the kind remarks,” I said, sipping the bitter coffee
and wondering why Guy hadn't called. Maybe he had, she'd said they'd tried. I
was out late last night. "What about your brother?"

"They say he's
missing. His rental car was found in the parking lot of the Ferry Company. He
didn't take the ferry. The car was unlocked; the police say his bag was still
inside. That's how they knew to call me, I was listed on his driver's license
as the one to contact in an emergency. I'm really worried about him. I have a
feeling something bad has happened."

"Sandy,” I
said, beginning my usual spiel. "The police are working on it. How could I
do anything they aren't already doing? Why don't you just let them do their
job? He'll probably turn up. Maybe he met a lady in one of our new Mississippi
Gulf Coast casinos, lost track of time. Is he married?"

"No, he's
not married, and he didn't meet a woman." She stood, clasped both hands
together as if starting a prayer, circled the chair then sat back down, still
holding her hands together. "The police say they have a body fitting the
description of my brother. Please, Jay, I need someone to go with me. I'm not
sure I can do this alone."

"Why didn't
you get Guy to go with you? The ferry to Ship Island is only two blocks from
his office. You could have looked at the car, then went to the morgue and
viewed the body. Why drive all the way up to Jackson for my help?"

"It's not
the ferry to Ship Island,” she said with a desperate expression. "It's the
ferry to Monhegan Island."

"Monhegan
Island? Where's Monhegan Island?"

"It's off
the coast of Maine."

God, I hate
Saturdays, I said to myself. And I think I hate Guy Robbins, too!