John Logan: Into the Magic Night

JOHN LOGAN:

INTO THE MAGIC NIGHT

by Rick Nichols

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2014 Rick Nichols

All rights reserved.

Contents

Dedications

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

About the Author

DEDICATIONS

To my wife Lisa for her patience and understanding.

To Seven Realms Publishing, for believing in me and allowing me to do what I love.

Special thanks to Dr. Morgan Paul, M.D., for his assistance with this book. Your uncle is extremely grateful.

And to my fans—you are the best!

I close my eyes, then I drift away, into the magic night I softly say. A silent prayer, like dreamers do, then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you.

—Roy Orbison

ONE

She was no more than twenty-five. Tall, with legs all the way up to her neck, shoulder- length hair curled at the ends, and the color of darkest night. She wore jeans that accented an ass so firm you could bounce a quarter off of it and a tank top that was stretched to the max and showed off a mouth-watering rack that had already caused every guy in the place to give himself whiplash. They were ample, without being excessively large, and the tank-top did nothing to hide them. Even a couple of the women noticed. I had to tear my eyes away from the cleavage show to look into a pair of coffee brown eyes.

She gave a nervous glance around. Are you Mr. Logan?

I was happy to answer. Yes.

You are the private investigator?

That’s right.

Another glance around. I’d like to talk to you.

Charlie’s was filled with the usual lunch crowd and I sat at the bar nursing the final few sips of a beer. A plate containing the crumbs of a chicken salad sandwich and onion rings sat before me. I reached over and popped the complimentary breath mint in my mouth. I hadn’t planned on talking to a beautiful woman when I’d come in here. Sure. Have a seat.

Another glance. Her eyes darted everywhere as though she were trying to keep tabs on everything around her. She bit her lower lip.

I said. Is everything all right?

No, she said. I don’t think it is.

Have a seat, Miss…

Danni, she said. My name’s Danni, with two N’s and an ‘I’.

Okay, Danni, I said. Have a seat.

She glanced around. I think I’d like somewhere more private.

How about a table?

She didn’t answer, just gave me a slight nod of her head while she scouted the place. I raised a finger and made eye contact with a guy who stood near the bar. He was a big fellow with a Hemingway beard and Marine Corps tattoos on his forearms. Charlie owned the place. He came over. His eyes darted to the cleavage display before refocusing back to me. I couldn’t blame him. They were worthy of a man’s attention.

Need somewhere private, Charlie.

He nodded. I’d made the request from him before and he walked to the front where he checked the seating chart. He strode back with an ease that belied his bulky frame and gestured toward a corner table that was just being bussed by a kid with a Mohawk haircut. Charlie led us back without a word.

Would you like something to drink? I asked.

Just water, she said.

I gave a discreet glance at Charlie; he caught my eye in understanding and went off without a word.

Now, Danni with two N’s and an I, what can I do for you?

She handed me a photograph. It was just an old Polaroid, one of those self developing ones from years past, but for a moment my mind was filled with memories. It showed Danni with another girl that I had known all too well.

I was a friend of Tracy Rochelle, Danni said. You helped her when she was in trouble.

Tracy Rochelle had been the youngest daughter of the man who had been my father figure, my mentor, my friend, and later my boss. Bill Rochelle had befriended me when I came to America from Japan, orphaned for the second time, and treated me as his own son. I’d gone to college, got into Special Forces, then worked for Bill’s own covert ops team. All because of him. Tracy had been his youngest daughter, a rebel who never fit into Bill’s military, disciplined world. In the not so distant past she’d been accused of murdering a wealthy businessman. I’d helped her out. Not long after I found her with a half dozen others in a flophouse on the east side, dead from a bad batch of dope. She had been on a self destructive path and though I had known the truth, I had tried to buck it, to try and get her off the road, but in the end it came down to the undisputed truth of life: you can’t save someone from themselves.

Yes, I said, bringing myself back to the present. How did you know Tracy?

We worked together at the Apollo.

The Apollo was a strip club on the island. It was no surprise. Tracy had done whatever she needed to do to survive and though they called them gentlemen’s clubs and the women were exotic dancers, stripping was stripping, no matter if it was in Daytona or Vegas or Paris.

I wasn’t judging. We all played the hands we’re dealt and I knew girls made damn good money in many of those places. I’d met one who was picking up five hundred a night cash when you included her lap dances. Maybe if I’d been built like Danni, I would have done it, too.

Charlie returned with the water and sat it down and walked away. I couldn’t tell if he stole another discreet glance at the cleavage. Charlie was happily married, but the man wasn’t dead.

I said, Are you still at the Apollo?

Yes, she said. She kept glancing over her shoulder. I’m also going back to school at the University. Part time, of course.

Good for you. I looked past her at the patrons and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. No one seemed to be paying any unusual attention to us. I wondered if I were missing something. Maybe she was just paranoid. Maybe I was being sloppy. I decided to watch the place a little closer.

How did you find me?

I went to your boat and your neighbor said I might find you here. I’m sorry if I interrupted your lunch.

I waved it away. I was finished.

She took a sip of water. A cell phone buzzed two tables down and Danni looked as though I would have to scrape her off the ceiling.

You seem nervous. Is something wrong?

I think I’m in danger, Mr. Logan.

Tell me about it.

Not here, she said. Too many ears around.

I’m sure you’d be okay.

No, she said.

Okay, where?

Any suggestions?

How about my houseboat?

Just for a moment, an expression crossed her face.

Don’t worry, I said. I’m not gonna jump your bones.

I wasn’t thinking that—

—yes you were and it’s okay. It’s a natural thing to think and I don’t blame you. But my boat is safe, no one around except for my cat, and he won’t tell a soul. There are a lot of sleaze balls in my line of work, Danni, and they taint the whole profession. But I’m not one of them.

She nodded. I know. I knew from the way Tracy talked about you before she—you know.

You knew her well? I had to get her relaxed and the best way was to talk about something else.

Tracy was nice to me when I first came here. She let me crash at her place and gave me advice on working—she was a great dancer and made a ton of cash. But… Danni paused and sipped water. …she had her demons, I guess.

Maybe we all do in one way or another, I said.

Have you had them? Demons I mean?

Sure, I said. Part of being human. But you have to learn to recognize them and deal with them. They can make you stronger or destroy you.

Like Tracy, she said.

I nodded. Yes.

She glanced at her watch. Listen, I gotta go. Can I meet you on the boat tomorrow? Say about seven?

Sure. I’ll be there. Do you have my number? I gave her a business card. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you at seven.

She smiled, the first time she’d done so. But it was a nervous smile. Thank you, Mr. Logan.

She got up and every straight guy in the room watched that jean covered rear walk out. She was gone and the place suddenly seemed a little dimmer.

Charlie came over. Everything okay?

Fine, I said. But I was very wrong. I just didn’t know it yet.

TWO

Just so you know, my name is John Logan. I work as a private investigator and security consultant although I was never a cop. My previous employer, officially, is the United States Army where I retired a Major with the Spec Ops Group, specifically the Green Berets. Unofficially, I was an operative for a covert anti-terrorist unit authorized by Reagan in the good old days. My boss was Major General Bill Rochelle, the father of Danni’s friend, Medal of Honor winner, and who now rested in peace in Arlington National Cemetery. I resigned from the unit and took retirement to be with my wife Shikira and become a PI here in Coral Bay. All was well until Shikira died on our second honeymoon in Paris. I went a little crazy after that and killed a lot of people in retaliation.

I guess we’ll just leave it at that.

My actions didn’t get me any points with the brass in D.C. or across the Potomac in Langley. In fact, there are rumors that some would like to see my head on a flagpole. But then I never was a politician. They threatened my pension, but I knew too much and they knew it and they had to protect their own careers, so they cut me loose with my pension and military service intact.

Once I had a house on the beach; after Shikira died, I sold it and got a sweet deal on an 18 × 83 custom Sumerset houseboat that I keep docked at Pier 2 of the downtown marina. Normally, I couldn’t afford to dock here but I got a break on the price from the company that owns the marina in return for some investigative work I did for them that saved them a lot of money and legal troubles.

The next morning after my meeting with Danni, I was in the process of hanging my new HD flat television. Teri Johnson, a former member of my covert team, expert sniper, investing whiz, and part time girlfriend was helping me by threading the wires that would attach to the TV through the hole in the wall. I waited at the baseboard at the other hole. The wires would come out there and hook to the satellite box and when everything was in place, no wires would be visible.

See them? She asked. Teri wore cut off shorts and a Sting tee-shirt and did so very well.

Not yet, I said.

Teri knows a dozen languages and she muttered something in one of them while she worked the cable down.

Was that Farsi?

Yes.

I won’t ask what you said.

I insulted the wire’s parentage, she said. She wiggled the cables again. So she didn’t tell you what was bothering her?

Not a clue, I said. But she was scared as hell.

Boyfriend maybe, Teri said. Or a creepy fan. Strippers get these guys sometimes who develop fantasies and while most are too shy to ever do anything, now and then…

Yeah, I said. Either way, she didn’t say.

Finally the cables poked out and I tugged them a little. Now we can hang the TV.

You lift it up here and I’ll hook up the cables.

It’s heavy.

But once you hang it I can’t get behind here to get to them, Teri said. So suck it up, cupcake.

Is that any way to talk to a superior officer, Lieutenant Johnson?

Teri rubbed her nose with her middle finger. I gave her a wink and hefted the TV up. Teri made quick work snapping in the myriad of cables and wires, then she helped me lift it onto the brackets.

And she knew Tracy.

Yep, showed me a photo of both of them.

Sad, Teri said. She used a cordless screwdriver to attach the bracket to the TV. Once her side was done she handed it to me.

You still think about her?

Who?

Tracy. She stepped back to admire the work. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a