Daughters and Sons Read online

  Daughters and Sons

  A C.T. Ferguson Private Investigator Mystery (#5)

  Tom Fowler

  Tom Fowler Writes

  Do you love free books?

  I know—probably a silly question. Presuming you said yes, I’m giving away the prequel novella to the C.T. Ferguson mystery series. If you’ve wondered what happened to C.T. In China and how he wound up on his unusual path, this book holds the answers.

  It’s called Hong Kong Dangerous, and I don’t sell it anywhere. It’s available only to my VIP readers. To get your copy, please go here.

  Daughters and Sons: A C.T. Ferguson Private Investigator Mystery is copyright (c) 2019 by Tom Fowler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews. For permissions, please contact: [email protected].

  Turning my rubbish visual ideas into an excellent cover: Earthly Charms

  Turning my mad ramblings into proper English: Chase Nottingham

  For Lisa and Isabel

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Bonus Preview: Chapter 1 of A March from Innocence

  Bonus Preview: Chapter 2 of A March from Innocence

  Bonus Preview: Chapter 3 of A March from Innocence

  Afterword

  Chapter 1

  A ringing cell phone is an occupational hazard in my line of work.

  I ignored it. Tonight, I was off the clock. My girlfriend Gloria and I had just come from a play at a community theater. It was so memorable I forgot the name—without the assistance of adult beverages—as soon as we walked out into the night air. Gloria wanted to go to a fancy place for dinner. Had we gone to the Hippodrome, I might have agreed. A local production, however, called for Brick Oven Pizza in Fells Point.

  The name of the place tells exactly what it is and how they prepare the pies. The lady who takes orders at the counter reminded me of my grandmother. Like many places in Fells Point, Brick Oven Pizza operated out of what had been a rowhouse long ago. Tables had little space between them and a large group could clog the whole floor.

  Despite these apparent shortcomings, the place possessed a ton of charm. The wall featured articles testifying about the quality of the pies, and even a signed picture of some celebrity chef I felt glad not to recognize. Also on the walls, and covering the tabletops, were pictures of Baltimore as it existed decades ago. Gloria and I placed our order, walked past the arcade machine in the corner, and snagged a cozy spot for two. The people in line would need to fight for the sole remaining open table.

  “I can’t believe the business this place does,” said Gloria. She’d barely unwrinkled her nose since we entered.

  “A combination of quality and location,” I said. “It’s easy to get to when you stagger out of a bar.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  “Not much. We usually stayed near Towson.”

  A few minutes later, a short man served us our pizza. It came on a pan with a wedge-shaped spatula for lifting and paper plates for eating. Gloria looked at the single-use platters as if the man plopped a dead rat atop the table. “Paper plates?” she said.

  “Only the finest for my best girl,” I said. Gloria still bristled when eating at places she thought beneath her. She’d gotten a lot better about this minor snobbery in the time I’d known her. I used to find her entitled nature annoying—and I knew it made me a hypocrite—but it grew on me, and I’ve long thought it part of her considerable charm. To Gloria, tales of how the middle class lives are found in books.

  I served us each a slice, then refreshed both our teas. True to form, Gloria cut hers with a knife and fork. I let mine cool for a minute, then picked it up and ate it. A group of six college-aged kids left, and a group of hipsters seized the table as soon as it became available. I considered this a downgrade. The two girls with them looked unimpressed, both with the hipsters and the restaurant. I sympathized with the former.

  “What did you think of the play?” Gloria said as we ate.

  “I think I would never have gone to see it if you hadn’t sponsored the theater group,” I said.

  She smiled. “They’re friends of a friend, and they needed the help.”

  I bit off a reply heavy with suggestion of some other help they needed. Instead, I opted to say, “Your career as a matron of the arts is off to a good start.”

  “Baby steps. I think what you do for people is great. If I could find some work with a charity, I’d do it.” The idea of working used to be anathema to Gloria. She’d softened her stance when she saw how my pro bono PI service helped people. Somewhere beneath the entitled exterior, flawless skin, and bewitching curves beat an altruistic heart.

  Gloria ate one more piece and stopped; I devoured another three. She made delicate oinking noises at me. This almost spurred me to a fifth slice, but I abstained. I got a box and put the remaining slices in it. Gloria and I walked out onto Broadway and headed toward Thames Street, where I had parked in a garage a few blocks down. As we turned onto Thames, my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, prepared to ignore the phone. It was Rollins. I took the call. “C.T., how’s it going?” he said.

  “I just finished a late dinner,” I said, “and now I’m going to drive home and ravish my lovely girlfriend.” It still felt strange thinking of Gloria as my girlfriend. We’d formalized our formerly fun and casual relationship about six weeks ago.

  “Before you do, I think we need to talk. I need your help.”

  Rollins didn’t ask for help often. Ravishing Gloria would have to wait a while. “Come by my house in fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  * * *

  A few minutes after Gloria and I got home, we heard a knock at the door. Gloria said she would leave us to our business and headed upstairs. I opened to find Rollins on the doorstep. He wore a salmon button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his well-muscled forearms, dark blue skinny jeans, and dark brown loafers (with pennies). I beckoned him inside. His black head was still shaved as smooth as a bowling ball, but I noticed traces of blond in his beard stubble. "This must be serious," I said. “You put coins in your shoes.”

  "How could I not?" he replied.

  Rather than offend Rollins’ fashion sense further, we went to my office. I’d rented a proper office in the CareFirst building but still maintained the remnants of one here. My small desk held only a single computer and monitor, but I still rocked the leather executive chair. Some things cannot be sacrificed, satellite location or no. Rollins sat in a guest chair. "Thanks for seeing me on short notice," he said.

  "Of course. What's going on?"

  "You were right . . . it's pretty serious. It's work I'm not really cut out to do.”

  "I can't imagine there are many jobs you can't ha
ndle.”

  He grinned briefly. "A few."

  "What's so hard about this one?"

  Rollins crossed his legs. The skinny jeans hugged his calves. He didn't have socks on under the loafers. "A hooker hired me to look after her."

  "Isn't that what her pimp is for?"

  "Theoretically. She felt someone was stalking her."

  "Eager john?"

  "I don't know." He shrugged. "I haven't seen a stalker. I haven't seen anything to alarm me."

  "How can I help you, then?"

  "The hooker is convinced she's being followed. I can't watch her all the time. I can handle a stalker as long as he shows up, but finding people is more up your alley than mine."

  "True. Have you talked to the hooker about this?"

  "I told her I might have to refer her case to an expert."

  "Are you talking to an expert after you leave here?" I said.

  He chuckled. "You're the best I could find this late."

  "I guess it’ll have to do. What's the hooker's name?"

  "She goes by Ruby."

  I rolled my eyes. "Not, I presume, the name I’d find on her birth certificate."

  "It's the only name she provided,” said Rollins. “I asked her for her real name. She wouldn't give it up."

  "I guess I'll see if I can get it from her."

  "Female hookers are a lot more your speed than mine."

  "I'll go along to get along there,” I said. “Do you know who her pimp is?"

  "I don't know. Some guy."

  "Some guy?"

  "What?" he said.

  "Here I figured you'd be more progressive. This is the twenty-first century.” Rollins rolled his eyes. I continued undaunted. “How long have you been helping Ruby?”

  “She hired me three nights ago. I haven’t seen a stalker yet, but it hasn’t made her change her tune.”

  “Who have you seen around her?”

  “A lot of guys who wanted to fuck her.”

  “She didn’t seem scared of any of them?”

  “No. She’d go off, and . . . they’d do their business. I didn’t follow them for those parts, of course.”

  “Where would they go?” I said.

  “A hotel, usually. The kind probably renting rooms by the hour, if you know what I mean.”

  “So she’s not working in a great part of town.”

  “Route Forty,” Rollins said, “from Monument up to around Moravia.”

  I pictured the stretch of road in my head. I didn’t get to the seedy part of town he described too often. “Definitely not a very good area,” I said.

  Rollins smirked. “Good areas tend not to have a lot of hookers,” he said.

  “If they do, they have the class to refer to them as ‘call girls.’”

  “Touché.”

  “Big area, though. She cover it on foot every night?”

  “Moves around. She told me she sticks around Erdman on weekends because a lot of guys come out of the strip clubs horny. During the week, she’s closer to Moravia. More truckers and more no-tell motels.”

  “Sounds like she has a business plan all figured out.”

  “She’s no dummy, I’ll give her that.”

  “Surprised?” I said.

  “I didn’t figure too many smart girls got into hooking,” Rollins said. “Being a call girl or a madam, maybe, but not this. This girl’s putting in her time on the streets.”

  “If I look into this situation for her, are you still going to be around?”

  “Not as much. She doesn’t have to pay you. I feel sorry for the girl, so I’m giving her a good rate, but I don’t think she can pay me forever. Plus, I don’t want her working overtime to try, you know?”

  “I hear you. OK, I’ll see what I can find out.” I looked at my watch. “Should be prime working hours for her.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What’s this girl look like?”

  Rollins pulled up a picture on his phone. Ruby had red hair—kind of a light, fiery auburn. It looked bottled, but she could have won the genetic lottery with respect to awesome hair colors. Her face was pretty with a delicate nose and soft lips. In the picture, she wore a short denim skirt to show off long, smooth legs, and a tight top to hug her curves. She looked a little thin for her frame but was certainly an attractive woman. I zoomed in on the picture. Her blue eyes looked clear. No bruising or signs of a beating marred her features.

  “She looks a lot better than the average Baltimore hooker,” I said.

  “I know,” said Rollins. “I don’t see any signs she’s a druggie or someone is forcing her into this work.”

  “Has she talked about why she does it?” I asked. “Or maybe what she’s trying to do with her life?”

  “I didn’t ask her where she saw herself in five years. Figured I’d save that question for her next job interview.”

  “What I mean is does she intend to take over from her pimp, or open her own . . . business, so to speak? You said she’s smart, and she obviously has enough money to pay you for a few nights. Maybe she’s trying to work her way up to being a madam somewhere.”

  Rollins shrugged. “Could be. I didn’t ask her. You can, though.”

  “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.

  * * *

  Gloria wasn’t pleased with me leaving late at night but accepted it as a part of the job. I even told her I was going to look for a hooker, which made the conversation more interesting than it otherwise would have been. Such are the pitfalls of being me. On the whole, it’s worth it.

  I drove the Caprice to the Route 40 corridor where Rollins said Ruby worked. U.S. 40 goes by a few different names as it weaves its way through Baltimore; past Ellwood Park, it changes from Orleans Street to Pulaski Highway. It retains the name through Baltimore County, then goes back to being Route 40 as it heads farther north. I drove through the city and picked it up when it was Orleans Street.

  The area Ruby frequented might have been more vibrant in my youth, but the remains were not the kind of neighborhood to get lost in. The big draw was the Gentlemen’s Gold Club with the rest of the area littered by shabby housing, check-cashing joints, convenience stores, and the detritus of bygone industry. The Caprice with its irregular blue paint let me fit right in. The Audi would have drawn too much attention.

  I did a few circuits of the area from Monument Street up to Moravia Park Drive and didn’t see Ruby prowling the streets. I saw a few other working girls with hard faces belying their skimpy attire. They looked more beaten down by the world and their profession than Ruby did. Maybe I would need to talk to one of them if I couldn’t find her.

  From across the street, I saw a girl who looked like Ruby cross a motel parking lot with a man in tow. Her hair proved easy to spot. I turned around the next chance I got and parked the Caprice a few spots away from the other cars. I didn’t know which room Ruby and her john had gone into, and I wasn’t about to knock on the doors to find out. I could have waited for them, but the idea struck me as unsavory, not to mention a good way to draw attention to myself. I got out of the Caprice and walked into the motel office.

  The differences between a hotel and a motel are legion, chief among them being the severe downgrade from lobby to office. The Deluxe Plaza Motel, which was not deluxe and had no plaza I could see, featured a sharper downgrade than most. Two people with bags would have a hard time turning around inside the office. The walls needed several days of intense disinfecting before getting a few coats of paint. In addition to selling things like aspirin and maps, the gift shop stocked a wide variety of condoms. I supposed advertising the hourly rate would have been too obvious.

  “Need a room?” the fellow behind the counter said. He looked oily, the exact kind of person who would work at such an establishment. He wore a dingy unbuttoned blue shirt atop a multi-stained wife-beater whose immolation would have been a mercy. He smiled at me like he had seen a thousand guys just like me before. My sense of uniqueness cringed along with the rest of me.<
br />
  “Just some information,” I said, showing him my ID.

  His insincere smile vanished. “You a cop?”

  “Does this say I’m a cop?”

  He squinted and looked at my ID. “No.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “What do you need?” He busied himself with something on his old CRT monitor. I had no interest in knowing what he looked at.

  I queued up a picture of Ruby on my phone and showed it to him. When he reached for the phone, I pulled it back. Boundaries are important, doubly so with motel employees. “I’m looking for this girl.”

  “Never seen her.”

  “Odd. I saw her go into one of your rooms a few minutes ago with a man.”

  “Wasn’t her.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He looked away from his screen long enough to glare at me. It was probably supposed to be menacing. Considering the source, I felt non-menaced. “I said I ain’t seen her. What do you want?”

  “The truth. I know what she does. I’m not trying to make trouble for her, and I don’t care what arrangement you have with her.”

  “Who says I have an arrangement with her?”

  “Because I don’t think she’s renting your room for the whole night.”

  He looked at me for a few seconds. I guess he’d decided he hadn’t seen a thousand guys just like me before. My sense of uniqueness stopped cringing. The rest of me kept at it. “Fine. She uses a room when she needs to.”