Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) Read online

  No question that was his boy. Alan Cranford, two-time B&E loser up for his third count, a junkie, a thief, a cheat, and now a fugitive after he failed to appear at his arraignment last week. But most importantly, Cranford meant five thousand dollars in Drake’s pocket as his fee – ten percent of the bond’s value, which the scumbag had allowed his aging mother to post before kicking her, and the bail bondsman, to the curb.

  Cranford had a rep for being violent, Drake knew from Harry Rivera, his sometimes employer and longtime friend.

  “Be careful, kid. He’s mean as a reservoir dog and twice as dangerous,” Harry had warned in his distinctive gravelly voice tempered by two packs a day of unfiltered Pall Malls and an affinity for Jack Daniels. “Last time he was in the joint he almost killed his cell mate. You don’t wanna play him wrong.”

  “Sounds like my kind of fella,” Drake had said as he’d studied the photographs Harry handed him. “A sweetheart, really. I’ll just ask him politely to come in with me – that should do the trick.”

  “Drake, don’t go overboard. I can’t afford any more complaints. Do you read me?”

  “Complaints? Of course they’re going to complain. I drag their asses back to justice. What do you expect?”

  “No unnecessary force. I’m still taking heat over Jarvis.” Mel Jarvis had been a drug dealer who’d skipped on an eighty-grand bond. He’d tried to remove most of the top of Drake’s skull with a two-by-four when Drake had caught up with him after a three-day meth binge at one of his girlfriends’ houses. Drake had tackled him and Jarvis had hit his head on the sidewalk when he’d fallen, resulting in a concussion and more than a few stitches. Of course the girlfriend had lied and said Drake had beaten her boyfriend unconscious. The police were still looking into the matter, although no charges had been filed – they had slim patience for dope dealers who skipped on bail.

  “Jarvis was a fecal speck. He tried to brain me. What was I supposed to do? Frown? Give him one of my scary looks? Guy was trying to kill me.”

  “That’s not what his squeeze said.”

  “I love it when you use that old-time talk. I think they call ’em ‘shorties’ now.”

  “Just bring him in without any broken bones. All right? You don’t want the contract, I got guys knee deep begging for work.”

  “I’ll bring him in soft. I promise. Maybe I’ll use passive aggression. Perps looking at their third strike respond well to that. If he gets snotty, I’ll scowl disapprovingly or something.”

  “Okay, smartass. Just go find him and stop breathing my air.”

  Drake was pulled back to the present as he watched Cranford return to the door. Someone inside handed him a backpack. Cranford threw the street another predatory glare and began walking toward the main boulevard two blocks away.

  Drake reached over the passenger seat and grabbed the bulky pistol grip of his stun gun, and then exited the car, the weapon’s bulk hidden in the oversized gray hoodie he favored for stakeouts. Patting the steel handcuffs in his pocket, he locked his doors with a chirp and sauntered across the street, pretending to talk on his cell phone as he beelined for Cranford.

  It was looking like an easy takedown until some part of Cranford’s reptilian brain sensed he was being followed. He broke hard right across a ramshackle house’s brown lawn, accelerating with surprising agility for a dope fiend. Drake gave chase, his Converse Chuck Taylors pounding the ground as he turned on the speed. Cranford vaulted over a four-foot-high chain-link fence and into the home’s yard, and Drake hesitated, but only for a second, any worries about trespassing overshadowed by the five grand Cranford represented.

  He landed on the far side of the fence in time to see his quarry darting across the back lawn, which was littered with dog droppings and trash. Cranford threw his hands over the top of a wooden fence at the rear of the lot and pulled himself up and over. Drake was just about to follow him when the back door of the house creaked open and an old woman’s sandpaper voice called out.

  “You. What are you doing in my yard? Filthy punk. Brutus! Get him!”

  Drake gripped the fence and cursed under his breath at Cranford for making this hard. He was scrambling up, feet trying for a grip as he hoisted himself, when Brutus made all hundred and ten pounds of his Rottweiler presence known with a chomp on Drake’s left leg. Drake screamed and kicked at the monster as he boosted himself over the fence, his ankle radiating pain.

  He landed in another yard and winced. After confirming that the dog’s teeth hadn’t penetrated his skin, Drake took off after Cranford, who was fumbling with a tall iron gate at the side of the house. He reached him just as Cranford was turning toward him, a sneer on his face, the metal trash can by his side emanating the telltale stink of a recent fishing expedition on the bay.

  Drake pulled the stun gun from his pocket and held it aloft.

  “It’s over. Only question is if you want to do this the easy way, or the way that zaps the crap out of you. All the same to me.”

  Cranford responded by ducking to the side and lifting the garbage can in front of him to block Drake’s shot. Then he charged him, using the can for cover. Drake dodged to the left, but not enough to completely avoid the container, and found himself covered in fish guts and beer dregs as it struck his ribcage, knocking him backward. He landed on the ground with a grunt, and by the time he’d rolled and gotten the stun gun aimed, Cranford was swinging a leg at him, trying to kick his teeth in.

  Cranford’s work boot struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head. A starburst exploded behind his eyes, and then he had the punk’s foot in his grip and the gun pointed at his crotch. He fired and heard a howl of agony as he shocked Cranford, who dropped next to him like a sack of twitching rocks. Drake sat up and shook his head, trying to clear it, and zapped Cranford again, just for good measure.

  “There. You like that? That what you had in mind?” Drake stood unsteadily and tossed the cuffs at Cranford. “Put those on. Try anything and you get another dose.”

  A man’s voice boomed from the rear of the house. “What’s going on? I’ve got a gun.”

  Great. Just what he needed. Drake looked over his shoulder.

  “I’m apprehending a criminal, sir. Please don’t shoot me.” Drake returned his attention to Cranford. “Put the cuffs on or I push the button. Now.”

  All the fight had gone out of Cranford, and he grudgingly snapped the cuffs in place. The man approached carrying a shotgun and stood a safe distance away.

  “Why are you in my yard?” he demanded.

  “This scumbag jumped the fence and was trying to get your gate open. I followed him over.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

  Drake shook his head. “No, he’s a bail skip.”

  “So you’re a bounty hunter?”

  “I much prefer fugitive recovery agent.”

  “Well, Mister Fugitive Recovery Agent, my brother’s in the joint doing hard time, and I don’t like the law. Especially bounty hunters. So I’m gonna call the cops while you two wait, and then I’m filing trespassing charges. Now don’t you move,” he ordered, and pulled a phone from his pocket.

  Drake swore under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to trespass. That was one of the cardinal rules of his trade and a very real legal issue. Harry would be livid, and worse, the charge was likely to stick, if the man couldn’t be dissuaded from pushing it.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, I wouldn’t have had to enter your property if this dangerous felon hadn’t been there first.”

  “Shut your pie hole. You play this way for a living, you take the hits.”

  A small voice called out from the open doorway. “Ew. You got fish guts on you, mister.”

  Drake sighed, trying not to gag at the reminder of the rotting leavings soaked into his hoodie.

  “I know, kid.”

  The man snarled over his shoulder. “Shut up. Bailey, go back into the house. Git. Now.”

  “I ain’t outta the house.”

&n
bsp; “You want a strapping? Talkin’ back like that? Get back inside. Now.”

  “You gonna shoot ’em?”

  The man grinned, an ugly display of marginal dental work that chilled Drake’s marrow. “Never know, son. Now git.”

  Sirens greeted them several minutes later, and Drake stood by patiently while the disgruntled homeowner insisted on swearing out a complaint. A second squad car arrived and carted Cranford back to jail as the officer finished filling out the form and had the owner sign it.

  “All right, Simmons. You know the drill. We gotta take you in and book you.”

  Drake shook his head. “Tell me this is a joke.”

  “Wish it was. Sorry. Let’s go. Oh, and I need your Taser.”

  Drake handed it over as the homeowner watched, a smirk on his face, and Drake got another waft of fish stink rising from his shirt.

  “Christ. What is that? Smells like an open sewer,” the cop complained as they walked together to the car.

  “You ever have one of those days?” Drake asked.

  The cop stopped by his cruiser, opened the back door, and nodded. “All the time, man. Watch your head.”

  Chapter Four

  The afternoon light faded to amber as dusk approached. Harry paced in the small area behind his desk, gazing through the window at a copse of trees behind the office, the stub of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. Obviously agitated, he finally stopped and faced Drake, who was sitting in one of two dilapidated chairs in front of the desk.

  “I’m sorry, man, but I warned you. I can’t have this kind of crap associated with my company.”

  “What crap? I nailed him. Dead to rights,” Drake protested.

  “While trespassing on private property. You’re lucky the old lady didn’t jump into it and file, too.”

  “She’s lucky I don’t sue her for the dog bite.”

  Harry shook his head and sat in his worn executive chair, his nervous energy finally dissipated, and leaned over to open his bottom desk drawer. He extracted a locking metal box and lifted the lid.

  Drake caught the bundle of rubber-band-wrapped hundreds in midair.

  Harry smiled. “Good catch.”

  “Thanks. This the five?”

  “Yup. Listen. Drake. We go back a ways, so let me make a suggestion. Lie low. Take some time off. Go find a girl or get drunk or something. Take a vacation. And consider a different line of work. This isn’t for you. You’re too smart to be a bounty hunter. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, a degree…you’re wasting your time with this.”

  Drake’s eyes fixed on Harry’s face. “You firing me? For real?”

  “You don’t work for me. You’re a free agent. So I can’t fire you. But if you’re asking, I’m not going to hand you any more jobs, at least not for a while. I don’t need the grief. You know better than to chase a perp through private property like that. And Cranford’s complaining that you used cruel and unusual subjugation techniques. He may press charges, too.”

  “What? I Tasered him.”

  “You got him in his family jewels.”

  “While he was trying to kick my face in.”

  “Still. It looks bad.” Harry’s gaze wandered to his message pad. “Dude, you’re the best I’ve ever seen at figuring out where these mugs are hiding. It’s eerie – like a sixth sense. But you don’t follow the rules, and that’s a big problem. So even though you’re great at the tracking part of the job, you suck at the obeying the law part, and I can’t have that reputation associated with me.” He squinted at the writing on the pad. “Oh. Hey. I almost forgot. This came in earlier. Some guy looking for you. An attorney, he said.” Harry tore off the message slip and handed it to Drake, who read it with a puzzled expression.

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Nope. Maybe somebody else wants to file charges against you. Been a full day even by your standards, hasn’t it?”

  “Very funny. Can I use the phone?”

  “Sure. And then make yourself scarce. If you still want work, call me in a month. But for now, you’re off my approved list. Nothing personal, of course.”

  “Of course.” Drake stood and walked to the office door. “I’ll use Betty’s phone, okay?”

  “Mi casa, baby. Sorry to cut you off at the knees.”

  “No sweat. Maybe you’re right. Time for some sightseeing someplace warm and sunny. Maybe Mexico. You can live pretty cheap there, I hear.”

  “That’s the spirit. Get a tan. Have too many beers. Find a señorita to lie to. You’re a young man. Live a little.”

  “Not that young.”

  “What are you, twenty-five? I got stuff in my freezer older than that.”

  “Twenty-six. Not that I’m counting.”

  “Course not.”

  Drake sat behind Betty’s receptionist desk and dialed the number. Washington State, judging from the area code. It rang three times and then a musical female voice answered.

  “Baily, Crane, and Lynch. May I help you?”

  “I think so. I’m returning a call from a Michael Lynch?”

  “Certainly, sir. And who may I say is calling?”

  “Drake Simmons.”

  Music on hold waltzed in his ear for thirty seconds and then a refined baritone boomed over the line. “Michael Lynch.”

  “Mr. Lynch, this is Drake Simmons. You called today?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. First of all, let me extend my sincere condolences.”

  “Condolences?”

  “Yes. Your aunt, Patricia Marshall, passed away the day before yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry. Patricia Marshall? You say she was my aunt?”

  “That’s correct. I gather you weren’t close?”

  “There must be some mistake. I’ve never heard of Patricia Marshall.”

  “Mmm. Apparently she was your father’s sister.”

  “My father didn’t have a sister, as far as I know.”

  “Well, be that as it may, as executor of her will, her instructions were very clear. I have a package here that I’m to hand to Drake Simmons, currently of San Antonio Road in Mountain View, California, in person. Your employer was kind enough to confirm that’s you. I’ve also been authorized to purchase a plane ticket to get you to Seattle, as well as pay for accommodations for two days. And of course, compensate you for your time.”

  “Compensate me?” Drake echoed, his ears perking up.

  “Yes. A thousand dollars a day. Apart from what she left you, of course.”

  “She left me something besides the…package?”

  “Correct. Twenty-five thousand dollars. All the money she had in the world.”

  “Mr. Lynch, I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t know this woman, and as sorry as I am to hear she passed away, I’m not sure what to make of this. How do I know you’re legit?”

  “You called the firm’s offices. If you like, go online and check us out – verify that I’m a member of the bar, that we’ve been here for over twenty years, whatever you like. You should be able to do that quickly.” Lynch paused. “Mr. Simmons, there’s twenty-five thousand dollars with your name on it in my account, and a package that requires you to sign for it in my office. Do you have something so pressing that you can’t make it here to claim your inheritance?”

  “See, that’s the problem. It’s an inheritance from an aunt I didn’t even know I had.”

  “If you say so. That’s not my concern. But it’s your money, assuming you show up to claim it.”

  Drake thought about the odd set of circumstances. “And there are no strings attached?”

  “Correct. Show up, confirm your identity, sign, collect your cashier’s check and the package, and you’re done.”

  Drake picked up one of Betty’s pens. “Fine. I can fly in tomorrow. I’ll verify your bona fides, and if it all checks out, I’ll be on the first plane out tomorrow. How do I get a ticket paid for, and will you be there around lunchtime?”

  ~ ~ ~
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  When Drake arrived at Lynch’s building the following afternoon, he was impressed by the baroque décor and wood-paneled offices on the firm’s floor. The suite smelled like prosperity, of weighty matters and important men. The receptionist was a perfectly manicured Chinese woman not much older than Drake, who peered over the rims of designer glasses at him with the glacial composure of a surgeon. One look at her severe suit made him feel instantly underdressed in his dark gray cargo pants and blue polo shirt, his North Face jacket clenched in one hand as he waited for her to alert Lynch of his arrival.

  A tall bearded man in a charcoal suit with a leonine head of graying hair approached from the back offices with an outstretched hand and a somber expression.

  “Drake Simmons? Michael Lynch. Good of you to come. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t bad.”

  “Excellent. Would you be kind enough to follow me to the conference room?”

  “Sure.”

  They moved through the hushed suite to a large room with a rectangular table. A bookcase filled with legal tomes occupied one entire wall, with a panoramic view of the Seattle skyline through the picture windows that ran its length the main attraction. Lynch offered Drake a seat by the window.

  Lynch moved to the head of the table, where a small package wrapped in brown paper sat next to a check and a heavy green leather-bound signature book.

  “Let’s dispense with formalities. Do you have identification?” Lynch asked.

  “Of course. Driver’s license okay?”

  “Certainly.”

  Drake slid it across the table to the attorney, who pressed a button on the intercom box mounted on the corner of the table. “Would you please come in and make a copy?”

  Twenty seconds later a blonde in a black business suit entered and wordlessly took Drake’s license. She offered a polite smile and departed as quietly as she came, exuding high-priced professional discretion.

  Lynch made small talk until she returned with a photocopy and deposited it in front of him. He studied the license like it held nuclear launch codes and then opened the big ledger and slid it, and the ID, to Drake.