Read Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1) for Free Online Page B
Authors: Nick Vellis
sir,” I said, quoting another Army core value - duty.
General Hunt, the meticulous military man, used to having things his own way sighed and said, “I need your help Captain. Can I count on you to find out who’s trying to hurt my family?”
“Yes, sir you can,” I replied. I meant it as I’d never meant it before. Still, he was holding something back. I wished I really could read minds, but I’d find out soon enough.
The drive back to Orlando gave me time to think. I hadn’t gotten much information from my new client other than his suspicion his son had an affair. I learned where the younger Hunt worked, his country club, but that was about it. The sun flamed orange in the rearview mirror and began to dip behind the downtown buildings as I swung off Interstate 4. It was about seven by the time I negotiated the traffic and got back to my office. I tried to call a source I use but had to leave a message. I’d find him in the morning. The promise of cold hard cash for information on the general’s son, Cary Hunt, and his wife Stephanie was sure to turn up something. With a big enough bankroll you can get information on anybody, and working for Hunt, money was no object.
My meeting with General Hunt got me thinking it was time to dry out or at least cut down. He hadn’t come right out and called me a lush, but it was plain what he thought. My army buddy Roscoe Black had been trying to get me in a program since I’d come to back to Orlando. He’d tried to get me squared away, but somehow, when the general pegged me in 3.3 seconds, it shook me up. Maybe it was time.
The pigsty I lived in reflected my train wreck of a life. As a gesture to my newfound inspiration, instead of grabbing a cold one, I spent a couple hours mucking out my apartment. I ditched dozens of empty pizza boxes, even more beer bottles, and close to a case of empty Old Overholt fifths. The recycle bin behind the Drunk Monk overflowed with dead soldiers from months of my benders. By ten, I had the place spic and span, good enough for a boot camp inspection.
I spent the rest of the evening at the computer researching my client, his son Cary and trying to find anything that might sniff out who was trying to blackmail the general. There was a lot of dope on the Hunt family, but nothing you could call a lead. I was feeling rough so when I started to get the shakes I called it a night and hoped it would be a calm night.
Next morning I woke feeling like crap. It wasn’t the DTs, but damn close. My hands shook so bad I thought I’d slit my throat with my safety razor. I tossed on some mostly clean clothes then hit the bricks. I headed over to the Embassy Suites on East Pine where I know the manager and a certain guy in the kitchen.
Ted Graves, the day manager was just finishing his count of the previous night’s receipts when I breezed through the door. Ted and I went through OCS together and our paths crossed in Iraq. He’d helped me out a time or two since we’d come home.
“Oh crap,” he said when he looked up. “Look what the cat dragged in. I think you look worse every time I see you.”
“Good to see you too, Ted. You know that little gold name tag on your chest is bigger than your…”
“At ease, at ease,” he said. He broke out into a big smile and reached over the reception desk to shake my hand. “You come for some of Marco’s eggs?”
“That and to see you,” I shot back as I shook his hand. “Is Marco here?”
Marco Lima worked as the night prep chef and did the breakfast line in the morning. He’d been a cook at the Orange County jail until he retired. He knew everyone at the jail, in uniform or an orange jump suit. He had more snitches than the cops did. I never did understand how a clean guy like Marco could get so much intel, but he did. He was a good guy and people talked to him. He could keep his mouth shut when it counted and he could root out reliable information, for a reasonable price.
“Got a case
General Hunt, the meticulous military man, used to having things his own way sighed and said, “I need your help Captain. Can I count on you to find out who’s trying to hurt my family?”
“Yes, sir you can,” I replied. I meant it as I’d never meant it before. Still, he was holding something back. I wished I really could read minds, but I’d find out soon enough.
The drive back to Orlando gave me time to think. I hadn’t gotten much information from my new client other than his suspicion his son had an affair. I learned where the younger Hunt worked, his country club, but that was about it. The sun flamed orange in the rearview mirror and began to dip behind the downtown buildings as I swung off Interstate 4. It was about seven by the time I negotiated the traffic and got back to my office. I tried to call a source I use but had to leave a message. I’d find him in the morning. The promise of cold hard cash for information on the general’s son, Cary Hunt, and his wife Stephanie was sure to turn up something. With a big enough bankroll you can get information on anybody, and working for Hunt, money was no object.
My meeting with General Hunt got me thinking it was time to dry out or at least cut down. He hadn’t come right out and called me a lush, but it was plain what he thought. My army buddy Roscoe Black had been trying to get me in a program since I’d come to back to Orlando. He’d tried to get me squared away, but somehow, when the general pegged me in 3.3 seconds, it shook me up. Maybe it was time.
The pigsty I lived in reflected my train wreck of a life. As a gesture to my newfound inspiration, instead of grabbing a cold one, I spent a couple hours mucking out my apartment. I ditched dozens of empty pizza boxes, even more beer bottles, and close to a case of empty Old Overholt fifths. The recycle bin behind the Drunk Monk overflowed with dead soldiers from months of my benders. By ten, I had the place spic and span, good enough for a boot camp inspection.
I spent the rest of the evening at the computer researching my client, his son Cary and trying to find anything that might sniff out who was trying to blackmail the general. There was a lot of dope on the Hunt family, but nothing you could call a lead. I was feeling rough so when I started to get the shakes I called it a night and hoped it would be a calm night.
Next morning I woke feeling like crap. It wasn’t the DTs, but damn close. My hands shook so bad I thought I’d slit my throat with my safety razor. I tossed on some mostly clean clothes then hit the bricks. I headed over to the Embassy Suites on East Pine where I know the manager and a certain guy in the kitchen.
Ted Graves, the day manager was just finishing his count of the previous night’s receipts when I breezed through the door. Ted and I went through OCS together and our paths crossed in Iraq. He’d helped me out a time or two since we’d come home.
“Oh crap,” he said when he looked up. “Look what the cat dragged in. I think you look worse every time I see you.”
“Good to see you too, Ted. You know that little gold name tag on your chest is bigger than your…”
“At ease, at ease,” he said. He broke out into a big smile and reached over the reception desk to shake my hand. “You come for some of Marco’s eggs?”
“That and to see you,” I shot back as I shook his hand. “Is Marco here?”
Marco Lima worked as the night prep chef and did the breakfast line in the morning. He’d been a cook at the Orange County jail until he retired. He knew everyone at the jail, in uniform or an orange jump suit. He had more snitches than the cops did. I never did understand how a clean guy like Marco could get so much intel, but he did. He was a good guy and people talked to him. He could keep his mouth shut when it counted and he could root out reliable information, for a reasonable price.
“Got a case