Russian Roulette Read online

  Russian Roulette

  Mike Faricy

  Mike Faricy (2011)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  Tags: General, Mystery & Detective, Fiction

  A Dev Haskell tale, read them in any order you wish. Russian Roulette is an entertaining tale of intrigue, rank ineptitude and one night stands. Dysfunctional PI Dev Haskell wakes up in bed with his latest client and she's signed him up with the Russian mob. Their 'special' relationshp quickly finds Dev at odds with the local police and an FBI Task Force. In the process Dev places one foot on both sides of the law. Another fast paced, engrossing supense thriller from Minnesota's master of the bizarre, Mike Faricy.

  From the Author

  Russian Roulette introduces my character Devlin Haskell. The Dev Haskell books can be read in any order, but this is his entry door. A voracious reader, I became tired reading about the same sort of ex-special forces or super-cop character who just wanted to be left alone, but the bad guys pushed him too far and now 'He's coming back with more than just revenge on his mind'. Dev isn't going to be sailing onto the roof of the White House at O-dark-thirty strapped to a kite, ready to take out the bad guys holding the First Lady for ransom. He's not going to be saving the world from banking conspiracies or from international terrorism. Rather, Dev Haskell represents the sort of character we all know, but wisely keep at arms length. He's the guy who didn't mean to knock over the wedding cake. As a teenager he probably smashed up the family car, more than once. You want to keep tabs on him, it's always interesting, but you wouldn't want him dating your sister or your daughter.

  From the Inside Flap

  Don't miss these Mike Faricy titles;

  Baby Grand

  Chow For Now

  End Of The Line

  Finders Keepers

  Merlot

  Russian Roulette

  Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick

  Mike Faricy

  Russian Roulette

  Books by Mike Faricy

  Slow, Slow Quick, Quick

  Baby Grand

  Chow For Now

  Merlot

  Finders Keepers

  End of The Line

  Russian Roulette

  Mr. Softee

  Published by Mike Faricy 2011

  Copyright Mike Faricy 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior and express permission of the copyright owner.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011 by Mike Faricy

  Russian Roulette

  ISBN-13: 978-0615521060 (Mike Faricy)

  ISBN-10: 0615521061

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for their help and support:

  Special thanks to my editor, Kitty, for her hard work, cheerful patience and positive feedback.

  I would like to thank Dan and Ari for their creative talent and not slitting their wrists or jumping off the high bridge when dealing with my Neanderthal computer capabilities.

  Last, I would like to thank family and friends for their encouragement and unqualified support. Special thanks to Maggie, Schatz, Av and Pat for not rolling their eyes, at least when I was there. And, most of all, to my wife Teresa, whose belief, support and inspiration has, from day one, never waned.

  To Teresa

  “The very first kiss she gave him was electric… he was toast.”

  Russian Roulette

  Chapter 1

  I was sitting in the Spot Bar, minding my own damn business, content in a mild and steadily growing alcoholic haze. A client had paid me. The check was enough to cover my overdrafts and fund a night or two of partying.

  I saw her come in the side door and look around for fifteen seconds. She was blond, hot looking, thirty something, maybe wearing a little too much makeup, dressed in a delightfully slutty sort of way. Conversation didn’t stop but heads turned as she walked past. She headed toward an empty stool. There were four on either side of me. Her chest was like the prow of a battleship and plowed a firm, bouncy course down the length of the bar. She passed the first three empty stools and pulled out the one next to me. It was red vinyl and edged in worn duct tape.

  “Is anyone sitting here?”

  I caught the slightest hint of an accent.

  “Not that I can see.”

  “You are Mr. Devlin Haskell, right? The private dick?”

  She batted her eyes a few times, which at the moment struck me as extremely sexy. Her perfume wafted over me like a plastic dry cleaning bag and forced me to gasp for breath. It was strangely spicy.

  “Yeah, that’s me. Although it’s not all that private,” I joked.

  Incredibly she smiled but didn’t comment. After a moment she said,

  “Mr. Haskell, I’ve been looking for you. Of course the other places were a little nicer than this,” she said, gazing around at the dingy brown, smoke-stained ceiling. Maybe she caught the two bullet holes in the front door now filled with putty and supposed to have been painted sometime just before Obama took office. Maybe it was the 60s-style cheap wood paneling on the walls, or the ode de beer reek of the place. Maybe it was the worn wood-grain Formica tables in the booths or the twenty-watt bulbs in the light fixtures. Maybe it just didn’t matter, I thought, as she sat up straight, spun toward me on her stool, and thrust her death-defying cleavage in my face.

  “You were looking for me?” I asked, wondering if my luck had finally begun to change.

  “Yes, a friend gave me your name.”

  “Really, what can I do for you?” thinking maybe a getaway weekend to a quiet lake, or a bed and breakfast with a Jacuzzi in the room, or just your basic tawdry night at my place.

  “Well, I hope you won’t think I’m strange.”

  At this point Grace, the bartender, stepped in front of us. An experienced little voice inside my head said just smile, finish the drink and get the hell out of here before you get in real trouble.

  “Buy you a drink?” I asked.

  “Will you have another?”

  That experienced little voice whispered no.

  I nodded yes toward Grace who rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, okay, I guess I’ll have a double vodka martini, two olives,” she ordered quickly, then smiled at me.

  A double, my kind of girl.

  “So, I was about to think you’re strange?” I said.

  “What? Oh yes. Look, I wanted to hire you, to sort of find someone. I will pay you,” and with that she dug in a small beaded handbag suspended on a chain over her shoulder.

  I hadn’t noticed it before but then I’d been otherwise engaged making careful notes as to her physical characteristics.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said as she snapped the handbag closed with an audible click and then reached into her front pocket. She pulled out a small wad of hundred-dollar bills. I was actually more amazed there was room for anything thicker than a dime in her pocket. The jeans looked to have been sprayed on over her perfect thighs.

  “Here is five hundred dollars I can get you more if you need it.”

  “You still haven’t told me who you want me to ‘sort of’ find. A name would help, for starters. Not to mention, you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

  Grace brought our drinks, grabbed a ten off the bar from the small pile in front of me.

  “Oh yes, sorry, I’m Kerri.” She held out her hand to shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Kerri, call me Dev. Your accent?” I asked.

  “Ahhh French.”<
br />
  She nodded, batted her eyes innocently, then proceeded to drain nearly half her martini glass.

  “Mmm-mmm, that is a very good vodka,” she gasped. “Yes, French, but from a long time ago. I was just a little girl. Dev, I hope you’ll help me find my little sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yes, she is called Nikki.”

  “Hmm, Kerri and Nikki, sisters. Anyone else in the family? Mom, Dad, brothers, more sisters?”

  “No, we are the only ones. My, I mean, our parents passed away eight years ago, maybe six months apart,” she made a quick sign of the cross, in the Orthodox way, reverse order to the Irish Catholic I grew up with. Then she washed it down with a hearty sip of martini.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. My father killed himself, one drink at a time. And my mother was a religious crazy woman. She wore herself out trying to put a stop to anyone thinking of enjoying himself. You know the old question? Which came first, the alcoholic husband or the long-suffering wife?”

  “Can’t say that I do, but I know a couple or two it might fit.”

  “Yes, well.”

  “So, Nikki?”

  “Oh right, I have not seen her in maybe two months. Not that we were really close or anything, but she hasn’t been home for quite a while as far as I can tell and her phone is disconnected. Her car remains in the same place, in her driveway. I have a key to her house. I went through it but nothing seemed unusual, do you know? It was not trashed or ransacked or some-such.”

  “Husband, boyfriend, kids?”

  “Not that I know about. She had a boyfriend about a year and a half ago, but he did away with her. Actually he was keeping her on the side and had a regular girlfriend. He married that woman last spring. Nikki read about it in the newspaper.”

  “That’s a tough way to find out.”

  “Yes. I think he was maybe four years older than Nikki, Bradley Cadwell. Brad the Cad we called him. He is a lawyer now. But I must be honest, she only spoke of him, I never really met him.”

  “But a lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say no more.”

  She didn’t, instead she drained her glass and left the olives. With a nod I had Grace mixing a new double just after her empty glass hit the bar. Things become a little bit bleary after that.

  I remember checking the rearview mirror constantly on the drive home to make sure she didn’t lose me, although I couldn’t swear to the exact route we took. I remember she could drink vodka like a fish, had a gorgeous figure. She was trimmed as opposed to shaved and had a little Victorian-looking angel with wings, sitting on a cloud tattooed on her right butt cheek. I was too drunk to read the writing that encircled the angel.

  I’ve got a bite mark on my left nipple, scratches on my back, my bed’s a mess, and the place reeks of stale spicy perfume. My head is pounding and I just finished reading a note that says she only took a hundred dollar bill from the five she gave me out of “professional consideration”.

  She penned her phone number at the bottom of the note, just after she wrote to hold onto her emerald green thong from Victoria’s Secret should I run across it.

  I needed aspirin, coffee, and a sauna. Any phone call to Kerri could wait until after those things were accomplished. And ever the professional I made a mental note to find out her last name.

  Chapter 2

  While recovering I sat in a back booth at Moe’s a little after one in the afternoon. Moe’s was my morning office at least three days a week. The earlier sauna and aspirin were working their magic, and the third cup of coffee kept me going until breakfast was delivered. I was just finishing up the last of my hash-browns, dragging the remnants through a slick of heart-stopping hollandaise sauce as I phoned Kerri. Her phone message kicked in, but the voice didn’t sound like her at all.

  “Hey baby, thanks for calling. Sorry I’m all tied up at the moment. Leave your name and number, and one of us will get back to you just as soon as we can, bye-bye.”

  My guess was Kerri didn’t work for a pediatrician. I checked my watch as the beep sounded to leave a message.

  “Hi Kerri, Devlin Haskell here. Please give me a call when you can. I’d like to schedule an appointment so we can review some facts on your case and I can begin my investigation. It’s Wednesday afternoon at one-thirty, you can reach me at ….”

  I’ll be the first to admit it was a bit presumptuous to suggest I’d be able to review facts on her case. I really only had four facts; Kerri’s first name, her sister’s name, Nikki, Kerri’s phone number, and five, make that four hundred dollars, cash in advance.

  A half hour later I was behind the wheel of my car, debating about starting it up or going back into Moe’s for a couple more aspirin when my phone rang. I glanced at the number coming through like I always did and just like always couldn’t read the numbers.

  “Haskell Investigations.”

  There was a very long pause on the other end before a female voice sounding somewhat confused said,

  “I think I must have the wrong number,” then hung up.

  The phone rang again less than a minute later, I did my routine of looking at the incoming number, just like before I was unable to read the damn thing.

  “Hello,” I said in what I thought passed for pleasant considering my hangover.

  It was the same voice from a minute before, female, young sounding.

  “Yeah, I’m calling for Devil.”

  “That would be me, Devlin, actually,” annunciating the last syllable in my name.

  “What do you need, baby?” sounding decidedly unimpressed with my attempt at correction.

  “I need to speak with Kerri, actually. Is she available?”

  “She can’t do nothing I can’t do better, honey. You don’t need her, do you?” She hissed the word nothing, suggesting maybe there was a space between her teeth.

  “Actually, yes I do, ahhh, need to talk with her. Is she there or is there a number I can reach her at?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No, I’m not. But look, I’ll call the cops and give them this number unless you have Kerri call me in the next half hour. If I don’t hear from…” Whoever she was, she was so impressed she hung up.

  I decided to venture home, grab some aspirin, maybe close my eyes for a few minutes. My mood improved as I considered I could be sitting on the easiest four hundred dollars I ever made.

  I had just put my feet up for the briefest of moments when my phone rang. Yes, I looked at the number. No I still couldn’t read the damn thing.

  “Haskell Investigations.”

  “Oh, no wonder Da’nita thought you were with the police. Do you always answer like that?”

  I recognized her voice immediately. A hazy, torrid scene from the previous night replayed in my mind.

  “Kerri?”

  “Dev?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dev, I’m returning your call, remember? You wanted to set an appointment. I think we should. No drinks please, at least not until we’re finished with the serious business,” she chuckled.

  “You tell me where and when.”

  “How about your office?”

  “My office?” I swallowed, the throbbing in my head returned with a vengeance.

  “Yes, that is okay, no?”

  It would be okay if I had an office, so I dodged the question.

  “No, I mean, look, I think I owe you at least dinner, after last night and all. You free this evening?”

  “I can be.”

  “Okay, tell you what. You know Malone’s?”

  “It is a place on the corner, with the black awning.”

  “Yeah, you got it. I’ll make reservations, say seven, seven-fifteen, no alcohol. At least not until we’re done discussing. Sound okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Oh, Kerri, can you bring some pictures of your sister? And I’ll need her address and, ahh, if you have a spare key to her place that would help too.” />
  “Maybe I should just bring her.”

  “Hunh?”

  “Joking, never mind. I will see you at Malone’s.”

  I was pretty sure I wouldn’t need a reservation, but phoned anyway.

  “Yeah, I’d like a table for two at about seven tonight.”

  “Not a problem, you won’t need a reservation.”

  “Let me make one anyway, so I look important.”

  “A reservation here is gonna make you look important? Jesus.”

  “See you at seven.”

  Chapter 3

  I had a nap, cleaned up a little, actually changed the sheets. Stole some flowers from the neighbor’s after I belatedly remembered I was supposed to water the garden while they were out of town. Showered, shaved, found a clean shirt, and some fairly clean black jeans. I topped it off with my black leather coat that a former girlfriend once described as making me look incredibly sleazy.

  I was at Malone’s five minutes early and then waited twenty minutes nursing a Coke before Kerri arrived. Malone’s is one of those restaurants with passable side dishes, great steaks, a nice bar, and no surprises. It was about half full, which seemed rather good for a Wednesday night in the midst of the Great Recession. As far as I was concerned it was a good steak place with a limited wine list and cheap drinks. Ambience was not its strong suit. The placemat was white paper sporting purple script that spelled out Malone’s and looked like it was designed by a fourteen-year-old girl serving detention after class.

  I was seated in the back, close to the kitchen door, which pushed in or out, depending, and thumped loudly every time it swung closed. So much for reservations.

  Even the women sitting at tables cast an appraising eye for a brief moment when Kerri sauntered through the front door, stopped, and scanned the room. She was wearing some sort of black stretch fabric pants that were indeed stretched, wonderfully. Sling back heels, dangerously high, clicked across the oak floor. Conversation halted as she strutted past.