Chapter 1
It lay before him, a three-carat, blood red, teardrop ruby, set in platinum. Surrounding the ruby were ten smaller, quarter carat diamonds, five on each side, that led to the apex of the teardrop, where a single one carat diamond finished off the pendent. The chain was simple linked platinum. It glittered in the small halo of his flashlight. Stunning, Jake Cutler thought. His experienced eye picked out six other pieces in the box that were of more value, but he was here to retrieve the ruby necklace. The others were of interest of course. Most were heirloom pieces with some contemporary stuff off to the side. It seemed strange that Judy Alder would have so much antique jewellery. It was much like the interior of the Alders home, which he had walked silently through, just to get the lay. Old paintings and furniture that seemed out of place, even a small showcase of military medals, all within the otherwise modern art deco set of the house. An out of place museum of sorts.
He lifted out the piece and dropped it into a black velvet bag. Job done, he was about to leave when a sudden brilliance of light caught him off guard. He froze for an instant. The mirror of the dressing table before him offered a reflected image. There in the doorway to the bedroom, stood Judy Alder, and behind, her husband, Albert. Jake reacted instinctively, and bolted toward the window through which he had gained entry. Thirty feet across the bedroom.
Judy pulled a large pistol out of her handbag and swung it towards him. The first booming shot was late and shattered a large, floor standing, porcelain vase of Asian origin. No doubt expensive, he thought as he was running for his life. Funny how adrenalin worked, expanding time and changing your thought process. Though it had been less than two seconds, his brain had calculated that he would make it to the safety of the window at the same time Judy Alder would have him clearly lined up with the end of the barrel. He felt the second shot pass near his back to blow out a large chunk of wall plaster. Judy was indeed catching up on her tracking and the next shot would be right on target.
Had the Mrs. corrected properly from the second shot recoil, she would have gotten Jake in the temple. It was high and blasted the bottom of the raised sash, blowing wood and glass down and out. His balaclava stopped all the shrapnel, save for a five-inch splinter of hardwood that buried half its length under his scalp. He felt only a sharp sting as he cleared the window and landed in the soft grass. A forward tumble brought him to his feet and with ears ringing, he sprinted into the darkness of the landscaped grounds. He thought it unlikely that Judy could track him, but since there was enough ambient light to make his way through the grounds, there was enough for her to spot his black figure against the less black background. He ran a weaving pattern just in case.
How in the hell did that happen? The Alders were supposed to be at a fundraiser until midnight. They had come home early, but how did they enter so quietly? It was as if they knew he was there and wanted to catch him in the act. Well, whatever, now he needed to clear the area quickly but stealthily. The cops were no doubt on their way.
Reaching the low adobe fence that surrounded the Alder estate, Jake easily side straddled it to land within a few feet of his car. Catching his breath, he leaned back against the fence and removed his gloves, then without thinking, reached up and yanked the balaclava off. A searing pain screamed through his head, bending him over in agony.
“Shit,” he hissed through clenched teeth and suffered the pain. Instinctively, he probed the wound and found a long and painful bump under his scalp. Finding the end of the splinter, he wanted to pull it out. Jake hesitated, best to leave that task to someone else, he thought. Blood began to flow but scalp wounds looked worse that they were. The Tet offensive in 68 had shown him that. He would have to deal with it later as distant sirens echoed down the street.
Clamping the removed balaclava to his head, he fished out the car keys, got in in and left the oak arched lanes of the rich. He left headlights remained off until he was two blocks out of the area. Accelerating the old, battered Datsun, he managed to shift and steer with one hand. Finding a quiet street with minimal street lighting, he pulled to the curb and addressed the bleeding issue. Jake lifted the now blood soaked balaclava and noticed a slight tug. Good news. His blood had started to congeal around the wound, which his lifting had opened only slightly. Genetically blessed in the clotting of blood was Jake, as he had found out in Vietnam.
Tonight, was the first time that someone had shot at him since that wicked place, and the gunfire had instantly snapped him back twenty-six years. It was the reason he had moved as quick as he did. Instinct foraged from an experience that would never be forgot. Killing, he had seen and done more than his share.
Being a teenager in the sixties, rock and roll and hot rods figured large in Jake’s life. He reveled in it all. Hot rods, that straight line thunder, had captivated him for a time and then bored with going straight, turned to the Sports Car Club of America, where instead of going straight at great speed, you went around corners and up hills and down, with other cars in close proximity. At great speed. He enjoyed it immensely.
It was through the SCCA, that he met Willy, a Cockney Brit who knew how to tune exotic European sports cars. Jake took to the racing and did well, but as he grew older, his weight gain decreased performance for his competitive lightweight car. Willy was blunt, “yur too bleedin’ big, mate and I can’t afford to go up a class.” As much as Jake loved racing, he gave it up.
Thus, Jake, with only a high school diploma and nothing that interested him, except cars, enlisted at nineteen, with the Marines. After a rigorous boot camp, that he actually enjoyed, got his orders for Vietnam. It was there, in the steaming, hostile jungle, that he developed the skill for seeing what was intended to be, unseen. The trip wire, muddied up to hide the glint of steel, the ever so slight depression in the trail that would hold all kinds grief. The branch, that bent unnaturally, holding back killing spikes and sometimes, his own army’s claymores, disguised by VC, to resemble anything other than a claymore. The disguises where always out of place, out of context for the environment, obvious to a trained eye but invisible to the average grunt. Jake always had point on patrol.
After the horror of Vietnam, Jake came to Willy for a job Not having any domestic skills and knowing it, he hoped his racing mentor could set him up somewhere in the racing scene. Instead, after hearing Jake tell of his experience at war, Willy told him of a stolen 250 GTO Ferrari. The owner had put up a ten grand reward for the car. It was one of the most sought after cars in the world, worth millions. Willy said, “Find that car and get it back. I’m sure the owner will pay you a lot more than ten grand.” It took Jake six months to find the Ferrari. It took another four months, using a certain amount of subterfuge, recover it. As Willy had said, the owner, Manfred Heinz, compensated him well. Much more than ten grand. Jake began his career of find and recover. Has business card read, FAR, Jack Cutler
Manfred, was an ex-con, retired safe cracker, who, when released from prison, used his substantial savings to buy a tavern. The Ferrari came with the tavern and Manfred not being a car guy, intended to sell it to finance a remodeling of the joint. Manfred was so impressed with Jake that he introduced him to his friends, who were still in the business, so to speak. They found Jake to be a kindred spirit, took him into their circle and began tutoring him in the art. Jake however, was not criminally inclined. He discovered, while chasing down the Ferrari, that he was good at finding things and prying information loose from all kinds of sources. He became a private detective of sorts. He found and recovered things that would otherwise be too difficult, under law, to claim. The Alders had the necklace and Jake got the commission to recover it.
Driving randomly, left here, a right there, Jake was oblivious to his surroundings, until he saw the barber pole. He was on Clover Street and memories took him back. He had not been in this part of the city for twenty some years and the Halliburton’s barbershop striped pole brought a smile. His old man used to drag him to the barbershop for his weekly brush cut, when all his pals were Brit invaded. That enforced habit was re-enforced in the Marines. He kept the brush cut because he didn’t give a shit for being trendy and besides, it was simple to look after.
Halliburton’s he saw was now a high fashion boutique, appropriately called the Barber pole. As he slowed, he saw that the street, once alive with people, music and bars, was now dead and silent. Now a street of travel agencies, boutiques and trendy coffee shops. The later being the only establishments open at this time of night. He cruised slowly, taking in all the changes. Towards the end of Clover, as it neared the cross of River Street; he saw the marquee of the Roxy theatre jutting out over the sidewalk. Still there, he thought and again his mind went drifting back to his youth.
