Better Late Than Dead: Episode 11

This is episode eleven of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 11 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Rich and Hiram reached the office at the same time. Rich carried a large brown envelope. They stepped into the office. Maxine greeted them.

“You look bright and cheery,” Hiram said to Rich. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. How’d it go this morning?”

“I relived an old baseball memory,” Rich said. “This time the first baseman didn’t drop the ball.”

“Well, I’m not sure what that means,” Hiram said, “but I’ve got some work to do.”

“And I have something to share with you,” Rich said.

“Let’s go in and talk,” Hiram said.

They went into Hiram’s office. Hiram sat behind his desk, and Rich sat in the chair in front of the desk.

“What’s on your mind, Rich?”

“As you know, this morning I met with an old workmate,” Rich began. “We met at the park. He was wearing a wire.”

“How do you know?”

“I suspected it. I wrote on a piece of paper as we talked. I asked if we were being recorded. From what he said, we were. We spoke in code. Nothing weird. You know, clear your throat.”

“Smart,” Hiram said. “How did the conversation go?”

“He said that if I needed an alibi for any particular time, he would provide it.”

“Hmmph,” Hiram chuckled under his breath. “That proves they have zeroed in on only you, and it proves they are having trouble with the timeline.”

“What did you tell him?” Hiram asked.

“I told him thanks, but I didn’t need an alibi from him,” Rich said. “Is that legal?”

“Yes,” Hiram said. “I could make an issue of it, entrapment, but they can do that. You haven’t been charged. If you were charged, that would be a different story. However, our defense will show how desperate they are.”

“As much as I think it is underhanded, I guess it’s just good police work,” Rich said.

“Only if they had cause,” Hiram raised his voice. “You have an alibi. They have the right to crack it, but they should first crack it with the information they have investigated. They had no reason to do that. Have they told you that you are a suspect? I mean in those exact words.”

“No,” Rich said.

“That’s my point,” Hiram said. “We are under the assumption you have not been charged, nor are you a suspect. Sure, we know that those closest to the victims are persons of interest. But there has been nothing communicated that you are a suspect.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

“Not until you are charged and we start with discovery hearings,” Hiram said.

Rich reached across the desk and handed the brown envelope to Hiram.

“What’s this?” Hiram asked.

“Did you get hold of the CIA?” Rich asked.

“Yeah,” Hiram said, “but I got nothing but a run-around.”

“I don’t think it was a run-around,” Rich said, “I think it was a try to run you down. I don’t know where Clyde Akers ranks in the CIA pecking order, but he got me paid. I'm sure they have started some sort of ball rolling.”

“The envelope?” Hiram asked again.

“In that envelope are all the things I’ve been involved in at the direction of the CIA.”

“This is for real?” Hiram asked.

“Yes,” Rich said. “And there are other names with no connection to the CIA who can verify much of what happened.”

“Are you thinking this may be related to something you’ve been involved with in the past?”

“I don’t think so,” Rich said. “This is not to suggest the CIA is behind anything. I had interactions with other entities. And again, I can’t begin to imagine what could be gained by what was done to my parents.”

Hiram tapped the envelope on his desk. It appeared he had a thousand words on his lips.

“Hiram,” Rich said solemnly, “if this is too much for you, let me know. I wouldn’t blame you if you referred me to someone else.”

“Nah, no way,” Hiram said. “I defend some of the worst in our community. It’s not always a case of guilt or innocence. It’s a matter of making sure justice is carried out equitably. Or to test the veracity of the evidence and let a judge or jury decide. I defended a case in which the prosecution had six sets of facts that could only point to one person. I took the same set of facts, and they pointed to the prosecutor’s teenage son, a local policeman, a factory worker, and a nurse. That was a murder case. I got the guy off, and two years later, guess what? It was the nurse! And the nurse contacted me to defend him.”

“Did ya?” Rich asked.

Hiram grinned. “I was busy. You didn’t think I was going to defend him and point the evidence back to my original client, did ya? That would have been double jeopardy. I couldn’t handle the nationwide attention. That would have been a case of the ages. Clients would be expecting a rabbit out of the hat every time. One great case like that can ruin a guy.”

“I see writing and reporting much the same way,” Rich said. “I don’t see the difference between a big city story and a little town story. They should both be written with the same truth and vigor. I can’t help but think the same about your work; a poor client deserves the same representation and vigor as a wealthy one. And I’d never want a Pulitzer or a bestseller early in my career.”

“Sometimes the poor one needs a lot more vigor,” Hiram said. “It sometimes amazes me how a guy in a suit gets off easy after embezzling hundreds of thousands, and some poor guy two months earlier breaks into the embezzler's house and steals some jewelry and spends a year in jail.”

They both thought for a moment.

“Where do I stand?” Rich asked.

“You’re going to need a lot of vigor,” Hiram said. “I don’t know what they have, but they are acting very sure of themselves. I’ve never been turned down for a meeting with the prosecutor before. He won’t ever return my calls. Usually, he’s calling me, and we’re trying to work out a deal. Working out a deal usually means a weak case. Frankly, I don’t know what’s up.”

“Maybe it’s a bluff?” Rich asked.

“It could be,” Hiram said, “but they know me better than that. The only thing they might be doing is waiting for a crack.”

“What do you mean?” Rich said.

“That could be some piece of evidence that strengthens their position. Or, if we come to them for a plea, that will signal there is something somewhere that will incriminate you.”

“There’s nothing,” Rich said.

“What about what’s in this?” Hiram said, tapping on the envelope.

Rich gave Hiram a half-smile. “Keep it in a safe place.”

Rich stood. He removed a five-dollar bill from his billfold. He placed it on Hiram’s desk.

“What’s this for?” Hiram asked.

“I want to use one of your phones to place a couple of calls,” Rich said. “I have a job waiting for me on the first of the month in Augusta. It appears I won’t make it. And I want to call an old friend.”

Hiram handed the five-dollar bill back. “I just tack it on to your final bill.”

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 10

   This is episode ten of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 10 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Rich drove from the park in his Jeep and had breakfast at a diner. He sat in a booth. It was more private. The waitress was nice. No one recognized him. He had a second cup of coffee after he finished eating.

He mulled over the event with Stan at the park. He wondered what pressure was put on Stan. He didn’t deserve this. Why drag him into this?

Thoughts about his mom and dad swept through his mind. It was something he felt compelled to think about, but too disturbing to visualize. They didn’t deserve to die like that. I think they would have come around. Our last night was our first real try at managing what happened nine years ago. I should have eased into things rather than plopping it down on the dining room table. We needed some space again. Going back to Maine would have given us both time to come to grips with things. They’ve lived like that all their married life and probably before. I broke away from it. And I was lucky to find good people along the way. Mom and Dad needed good people in their lives. Endless nights at bars; they only exchanged their miseries with other people, just as wanting and just as desperate.

Rich folded a dollar and placed it beneath his cup’s saucer. The waitress walked by and noticed the dollar. She sat across from him in the booth.

“That’s a big tip around here.”

“You’ve been kind and efficient,” Rich said, smiling.

“I know who you are,” she said.

Rich tried to give a crooked smile. “Nearly everyone knows who I am.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said and added, “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Rich said, “should I?”

“Jane Burks,” she said, “we went to school together.”

“Yes,” Rich smiled, “I see it now. The smile; you always smiled. You had good teeth. History and English.”

“That’s right,” Jane said. “You got a good memory.”

“For pretty girls,” Rich smiled.

“That’s something,” Jane said. “I’m flattered.”

“I don’t flatter,” Rich said.

“So what ever happened to you?” Jane asked. “I mean, I read the papers and watch the news, but I mean, all of a sudden you were gone from school.”

“I left home at the beginning of my freshman year,” Rich said.

“Really,” Jane said, “I would have sworn you were at homecoming our sophomore year. You didn’t end up in the reformatory, did you?”

Rich chuckled. “Now what would make you think that?”

“Everybody from our end of town, if they suddenly don’t show up for homeroom, odds are they’re in the reformatory. Remember that black kid named Howie?”

“Yeah, an old buddy.”

“Reformatory. Now the big house. How about Benny Staples?”

“I remember Benny.”

“Reformatory. He is the groundskeeper at some cemetery, now, and has a paper route.”

“How about Tinker Baldwin?” Jane said.

“Reformatory?” Rich replied.

“Only if,” Jane said. “Dead. Tried to hold up some bar, The Royal Flush. There’s a few more, but I don’t mean to depress you. You got your own problems.”

“Indeed, I do,” Rich said. “To satisfy your curiosity and fill in some blanks, I went up to Maine. I lived there for three years. I learned how to write and worked for a newspaper.”

“Yeah,” Jane said, “I wondered how you got a job at a newspaper. You were a dropout. I even thought for a while they were talking about another Rich Larsen. Then I saw your picture.”

Rich pulled out his wallet. He tugged out a picture and handed it to Jane. “That is me and my boat. That’s some little island in the Pacific.”

“It sounds like you’ve been around,” Jane said.

“What about you?” Rich asked.

“Oh, I’ve been around all right,” Jane said. “Got knocked up on graduation night, married four months later, divorced two years ago, and raising a kid on my own. I’ve been around.”

“There’s something I remember about you,” Rich said. “You weren’t afraid of anything. And you stuck your neck out for others. I remember when you stood up to Mr. Brimmer. He was wrong, and nobody would tell him he was wrong except for you.”

“You remember that?” Jane exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Rich said, “and you can choose to believe this or not, but I often thought about you when I needed courage. This place here is only your beginning.”

“You know something,” Jane said. “I’ve never told anybody this, but I have my eye on a place that I think can be turned around. It will just take hard work.”

“Let me tell you something,” Rich said, “you draw up a business plan, take it to a bank, and just be you.”

“You’re something,” Jane said. “You’re facing a terrible fate, but you’re taking the time to give me a little boost.”

“Nah,” Rich said. “You already had it in ya.”

Rich stood and held out his hand to help Jane up. He walked to the door and turned around. Jane was clearing the table.

“Jane, I owe you more than you will ever know.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Eighth-grade dance, do you remember it?”

“Sure do.”

“That was the first time I ever danced with a girl. You weren’t the first girl I danced with, but you were the one I danced with most.”

Rich left with a smile and drove to Hiram’s office.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 9

 This is episode nine of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. . 

Episode 9 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

A week passed. Rich met with Hiram or Miss Winslow every day. Rich steered clear of anyone from the newspaper. A reporter whom he knew slightly contacted him twice, but Rich did not give him an interview or a comment. He directed all communications to his lawyer.

As expected, the newspaper painted Rich in an unfavorable light. He couldn’t go anywhere without stares and whispers. He stayed to himself. He took occasional drives on country roads that led to nowhere. He drove once past his parents’ home but did not even slow down. The home seemed to him as dead as his parents.

A funeral was held. The funeral home made a provision for Rich to sit in a private room. He did not attend the graveside service. Not attending might be viewed by some as a sign of guilt. And attending might be viewed as a sign of gall.

Rich spent a lot of time reading alone in his room. One day in his room, the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Rich, this is Stan.”

“Getting ready for high school football season?” Rich asked.

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Our alma mater ain’t lookin’ so good this year.”

“What’s up?”

“Can we meet at the city park tomorrow morning at the shelter house?”

“How about the bleachers at diamond number two?” Rich said.

“That’s fine,” Stan said. “7:15?”

“I’ll be there,” Rich said and hung up.

Rich called Hiram immediately. Hiram told him to be cautious and aware that Stan might be wearing a wire or a recorder.

The next morning, Rich arrived shortly past seven. He sat on the bleachers. Stan showed up right on time. They greeted each other.

“Let’s take a walk,” Rich said.

They walked down the third baseline of the ball field. 

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Stan said.

“It’s not about trust,” Rich said, “it’s about being cautious.”

As they walked away from the bleachers, Rich handed him a note. “It’s a beautiful morning, wouldn’t you agree?”

The note said, If you are wired or we are being recorded, clear your throat and say, ' It sure is.

Stan cleared his throat. “It sure is, but I really hate it when the barometric pressure is high. I get a headache.”

“You know something,” Rich said, “it has the same effect on me.”

“How have you been doing?” Stan asked.

“I’m fine,” Rich said.

“How are things at the paper?”

“You know,” Stan said, “news is news.”

“Any chatter around the office about me?”

“Not much.”

“My back is kind of against the wall,” Rich said. “I have a good lawyer. There are some gaps that need to be filled, but he’s pretty confident my alibi will hold.”

“Rich,” Stan said seriously, “we’ve become good friends. One of my best friends I’ve ever had, and I hope you feel the same about me.”

“I don’t make friends easily,” Rich said, “but we’ve hit it off good. I can really trust you. I mean, you are willing to be seen with me and take some time to talk with me this morning; that’s big.”

“Look,” Stan said, “if you need me for an alibi, I’m willing. If there’s a time frame you need, I can say we had a couple of beers together.”

“Thanks, Stan,” Rich said, “but I don’t need an alibi. When I left home, my parents were alive and well. I knew nothing of their death until the police told me. If there’s a gap in my alibi, there’s a gap. There’s nothing I can do about the truth.”

Rich stopped walking and turned back toward the infield. “You ever play ball on this field?”

“A couple of times,” Stan said. 

“I played third base on this field,” Rich said. “I made a backhand grab on a grounder, deep behind the bag. Perfect throw to first. Beat the runner by a step. First baseman dropped the ball.” 

Stan placed his hand on Rich’s shoulder and grasped it. He smiled.

“I suppose you'd better head to work,” Rich said. “Thanks for the time.”

“Take care, Rich,” Stan said.

They shook hands and had a secret smile. Stan walked away, down a brick park pathway.

“Hey, Stan!” Rich cupped his hands around his mouth. Stan stopped and turned around.

“The barometric pressure will be lower tomorrow,” Rich said.

Stan gave a thumbs-up.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 8

  

  This is episode eight of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

 

  Episode 8 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

  Rich called Hiram Holiday, a lawyer. He had interviewed him a few months earlier. Hiram was a bit of a local celebrity. He had told Rich that if he ever got into any kind of trouble, to give him a call, and he would be there in half an hour with two witnesses.

After talking with Hiram over the phone, Grillo returned Rich to the interview room. Forty minutes later, there was a rap on the door. Hiram walked in. They shook hands.

“You can go,” Hiram said.

“I can go?” Rich asked.

“Unless you want to stick around for lunch,” Hiram said. “Stale bread, bologna on its way out, and, let’s see, this is Tuesday—water-flavored water.”

“That was fast,” Rich said.

They walked down the hallway and into the lobby.

“Don’t say anything until we’re outside,” Hiram said.

They walked to Hiram’s car and got in.

“Okay,” Hiram said, “I read the detective’s notes. You had an alibi, and they had nothing to refute it. Now, say nothing to nobody. Got it? Nothing. Now, let’s go to my office.”

Hiram’s office was a short distance away. It was on the top floor of a five-story office building. They walked into the office. There was a brief introduction to his secretary, Maxine, a woman who looked more like a librarian. He opened a door on the side of the room.

“Miss Winslow, my office.”

They walked into Hiram’s office. It was richly paneled, and on one wall were shelves of law books. On another wall were shelves with various statues and memorabilia. Miss Winslow was introduced as a paralegal. She was an attractive, tall, middle-aged blonde.

Hiram sat behind his large mahogany desk. Miss Winslow sat to his right. Rich sat in front of the desk in a plush leather Queen Anne chair.

“We speak plain around here,” Hiram said. Hiram turned to Miss Winslow. “Larsen has an alibi. But I know Sheriff Morris. He’s looking at an election. But election or not, he wants a notch on his belt. Frankly, he’s good for business. He and the county prosecutor are as dirty and crooked as they come. They keep arresting on flimsy and non-existent evidence, and we keep getting them off.”

“Miss Winslow, hound the sheriff’s department every day. If they withhold so much as a comma or period, note it. This is a big one for Morris. He smells blood.”

Hiram turned to Rich. He pointed a pencil at him. “You’re a bright guy. You have to be. You called me. You’ve interviewed me, and as much as you got a feel for me, I got a feel for you. What are things about the last couple of days that can be used against you?”

“My parents had a bitter argument last night,” Rich said. “I planned on moving in another two weeks. I packed last night and moved into a motel.”

“They were alive when you left, right?” Miss Winslow asked.

“Yes,” Rich said. “The police asked the same question, and I told them they were alive.”

“My relationship with my boss at the News couldn’t be any more acrimonious. We had bitter words this morning. It was about an article I wrote about Morris. I quoted him saying he was going to ignore Tillman Township and all the low-lifes who live there.”

“Is there anything else between you and Morris?” Miss Winslow asked.

“No,” Rich said, “nothing I’m aware of. Yesterday was the first time I ever talked to him.”

“Did he know you were going to print defamatory statements about him?” Hiram asked.

“It was just a normal interview,” Rich said. “I was asking about upgrades to the county jail, and he goes off into a tirade about how few votes he gets from Tillman. He never said it was off the record.”

“Let me ask you this,” Miss Winslow said, “did you know, or was there any hint it was off the record?”

“The only thing I got was this morning, when my boss, Briggs, said he’s our man, meaning Morris.”

“What did you take that to mean?” Miss Winslow asked.

“I was supposed to ignore anything that might be derogatory and only report the good things. In fact, he said as much at the top of his voice in front of the whole newsroom.”

Hiram glanced at Miss Winslow. “I think we know how the news will be slanted.”

“Is there anything in your past that might cast any sort of shadow over your character?” Miss Winslow asked.

“I left home when I was fifteen,” Rich said. “I had no contact with my mom or dad for seven years. My reason for returning was to mend fences.”

“Why did you leave?” Miss Winslow asked.

“At the time, I didn’t think I could bear it anymore,” Rich said. “I was never physically abused, but Mom and Dad were physical with each other. Mom tried to wreck our car into a tree one night. She said she wanted to kill us all. Dad was an alcoholic. He saw his life as a complete failure. For seven years, I went over everything in my life and convinced myself that I should have stayed and that it was all my fault.”

“Children of alcoholics always do that,” Miss Winslow said. “They end up blaming themselves because they think their parents are infallible. So it must be somebody else’s fault—the kid. And I’m sure you got blamed for everything too.”

“It sounds to me you’ve been down that road,” Rich said.

“Indeed,” Miss Winslow said.

“So you left,” Hiram said. “Where did you go?”

“If you don’t mind, sir, please don’t say I ran away; I left.”

“I will,” Hiram said. “The distinction is valid.”

“I peddled a bicycle to Maine and found work as a janitor for a newspaper,” Rich began. “I lied about my age. The owner and editor took me under his wing and before long I was writing and reporting. Every day was like sitting in one of the most exciting classrooms you could imagine.”

“You have really lifted yourself up,” Hiram said. “That’s impressive.”

“The editor and owner of the newspaper was Sam White.” Rich glanced at Miss Winslow and back to Hiram. “Does that name mean anything to either of you?”

Hiram raised an eyebrow. “The guy who became an informant?”

“Yes,” Rich said.

Hiram tapped his teeth with his pencil. “Were you aware of his activities before the time he became an informant?” Hiram asked.

“Could Miss Winslow leave?” Rich asked.

“No,” Hiram said. “Miss Winslow is bound by the same ethics that I am, and she is as much a part of me as the heart that beats in my chest.”

“All I will tell you is that I believe the CIA has a file on me,” Rich said. “Rather, I’m sure of it. Before Sam White turned informant, I had to escape from him. I spent the next four years sailing around the world. There were several attempts on my life.”

“Does anyone in this community know about any of this?” Hiram asked.

“Only you and Miss Winslow.”

“By any stretch of the imagination, do you think any of this is connected with the seven years you spent away from home?” Miss Winslow asked.

“No.”

“We got a big puzzle, Miss Winslow,” Hiram said. “And we may have to put it together with missing pieces.” He looked at Rich. “Just so ya know.”

“Miss Winslow,” Hiram said, “you can go do your magic. Mr. Larsen and I have some other things to talk over.”

Miss Winslow smiled at Rich, and they had congenial parting words. She closed the door behind her.

“Well, Rich,” Hiram said, “I’m nervous.”

“I guess you really do speak plainly,” Rich half-grinned. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You see,” Hiram said, “seven years missing will be turned into seven years of pent-up rage. Your relationship with Briggs will be turned into an outlet for your contempt for your parents until you cannot hold it in anymore. You had a job to go to. You were packed. Nobody knew you were leaving?”

“I told a friend, another reporter, from the sports desk,” Rich said.

“Planning, premeditation, is the way it will be presented by the prosecution,” Hiram said. “They can turn a hangnail into motive. And as far as means, if there’s a half-hour window that no one saw you, they will say that’s when it was done. The only thing I’ve heard is that there was a knife and a gun involved. And I can guarantee it will be linked to you. Did your dad own a gun?”

“I don’t think he did,” Rich said. “He hated guns. We were visiting relatives one time. My uncle brought out his new hunting rifle, and my dad packed my mom and me into the car, and we drove away. He was absolutely petrified of guns.”

“Okay,” Hiram said, "do you have a place to stay?”

“I can stay at the Hillcrest Motel,” Rich said.

“How are you set on funds?” Hiram asked.

“I drive a Korean War vintage Jeep,” Rich said. “I paid mom and dad fifty dollars a month. They insisted on nothing. My underwear is wearing thin. Over four years around the world, living on a sailboat, I learned to live with less than less. I don’t smoke, gamble, or have a girl.”

“Rich,” Hiram said, “I’m a good lawyer. Good lawyers keep their clients from going before a jury. You can’t predict a jury. One person can hang a jury. One person can sway the other eleven into a guilty verdict. You are tying my hands a bit. But I do need a name. Somebody I can contact who will at least vouch for some of your story.”

“There’s an agent named Clyde Akers,” Rich said. “He helped me in the past. It’s been several years. I don’t know where he’s at now. I met him in Grenada. He paid me.”

“For what?” Hiram asked.

“I was a decoy,” Rich said, “an expendable pawn in a game of chess in which there are no rules.”

“I will be discreet,” Hiram said pensively. “But I don’t give a rat’s patootie about anybody but you. It’s my sacred oath.”