SWEET DEAL

        A Trucker Deal Mystery
In a white-hot market, even a sweet deal can kill you!
  Location is critical!
  And in compulsively-competitive Silicon Valley no address is more highly-prized than tech-savvy, politically-correct, safe and secure Palo Alto, where the white-hot housing market inspires bidding wars, and money falls on the lucky seller like blood gushes from an open wound. Here, even a sweet deal can turn deadly!
  Part-time P. I. Trucker Deal knows zilch about real estate until he agrees to help his girlfriend, Attorney Kim Lockwood, checkout the shocking death of an elderly client. Suddenly awash in a roily pool of predatory developers, pushy Realtors, tight-lipped loan sharks, an evasive millionaire who's a wannabe action hero, a defensive heir and her less-than-stand-up family, pin-striped thugs, a mightable mother, and a very spooky bodyguard, Deal finds the real estate game so twisted and dirty that whodunit's the least of his problems as friends and enemies rev-up for a lethal clash!
  When the high-bid rules, murder's the only bet, so slide by New Deal Investigations where stacked decks are routine, P. C. procedures are an afterthought, and results are what counts!

Reader Reaction:
"If you've ever been shocked speechless, ripped-off, or just plain disgusted by run-away housing prices, you'll love this one..."--Aptos, Ca.
Trade Paperback  ISBN 0-595-26722-X  233 Pages          Print-on Demand  Publication Date: 2-2003
                    
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ONE begins...
  Kim moved with resigned determination, mouth set in a grim line as she placed the evidence photo on her office desk. Holding the picture in place with a single finger, she fixed me with a self-righteous stare, almost defiant, a wordless communication that warned me to shut up and let her have her dramatic moment: a no-brainer if I wanted to stay in her good graces. For two breaths, our gazes locked in perfect silence, then blinking, she began to lose control and her brown eyes started to mist unavoidably.
  "Dammit!" she snapped, angry at her own weakness.
  "April Arvin?" I asked gingerly. The photo was shocking, even for a guy like me who knows both violence and the raw reality of fatal trauma better than many, and its presence in the offices of                  K. H. Lockwood, Attorney at Law, told me Kim was involved right up to her beautiful neck.
  When she resorted to melodrama, it was always for good reason, so the question was: Involved with what?
  "Yes," she said. "She's the one I mentioned last week. I finally got access to the official reports this morning." Her lips twitched upward at the corners in the tiniest of ironic smiles, like this was a flinching contest and she was winning. "She was my client, you know. Look at her, Trucker. Nobody deserves to die like this."
  No argument here. April Arvin was more than dead. Now she was unrecognizable, roasted to a crisp char by the blaze that had caught her in the kitchen and destroyed her modest house in Palo Alto--a terrible end for a kind elder, although such a horrible accident could happen to any of us with the right circumstances and the wrong luck. I nodded understanding, waiting for Kim to continue.
  Continuing to hold back tears, she carefully selected a second image from the clasp file on her desk and placed it beside the first, allowing us to compare a slim, alert-looking white-haired woman with pale blue eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses to the pathetic remains discovered in the smoldering ruins. And when Kim looked up, she gave me a look--one of those looks, you know?--a look between lovers that says This is unacceptable, and you've gotta help. If I'd had any doubts before, I was now sure this private presentation had personal significance.
  Kim and I have been a couple on-and-off for six years--currently, on, which is what I'd prefer were it entirely up to me. And in this case that meant I knew her distress was real and its expression emotional, but she was still completely rational. Being privy to a lawyer's real emotions is sometimes frightening, but always stimulating, and you can believe me that her private face is much softer than her professional mask. And no, that's neither criticism or complaint. We all play our parts, don't we?
  Anyhow, the way she now tapped the snapshot with her forefinger spoke to me of tension...profound distress...situation critical. Rough translation: No way, I'll stand for it!
  She crossed her arms below her breasts, causing her formal jacket to bunch up around the middle. Tan dress skirtsuit over white blouse--working clothes--and by choosing to retain her professional appearance even though we were alone in the office, she signaled serious intent, a business meeting. Her light brown hair is cut short for an active life and when styled like today neatly frames her face like a shining accent. Even when she's feeling righteous like this, she's the best looking family lawyer I've ever seen.
  "This...isn't right," she finally said in a voice unnaturally thick with restrained emotion.
  Attempting a sympathetic hug, I reached for her shoulders, but she brushed my hand away. "Of course, it isn't," I offered instead. "No one deserves this."
  Kim took a moment to settle her feelings. "No," she said, enunciating precisely, "what I mean is, it wasn't accidental."
  Oh. So that's it. "All the media reports indicated otherwise," I pointed out--not an objection per se, just a statement of fact--"and their information came from the fire department's investigation and the coroner's office."
  "Yeah, but that's too easy."
  "What are you saying, Kim? Because she was your client, you feel obligated to review the official findings?--to double-check their conclusions?"
  "No. I'm proposing a more aggressive response."
  I watched her eyes carefully. "Okay. I'm all ears. What's up?"
  "Look, Trucker, I know this sounds vaguely irrational, but I've already made up my mind. I have to do this!"
  "Why didn't you tell me last night? Share your concerns? I wouldn't have taken it lightly. When you cancelled our dinner date, I thought you were mad at me."
"Well, I wasn't ready. I needed to think it through without any distractions. Sure, I was disturbed by all this--It's been growing on me for days. But mostly I was just irritated yesterday by the insensitive aggression of the various parties who have an interest in the estate. The scavengers are already circling."
  "Oh. That explains your mood."
  "No, it doesn't. That's only to be expected when you deal with property in this town. I was disgusted, but not really angry until I came in this morning and saw the whole file."
  "You're the executor?"
  "Yes. And I'm convinced that what's needed is open-minded research--and I want you to help. I'll hire you through New Deal Investigations, okay? The agency's already in our accounting system, so it won't raise any eyebrows."
  "Not even mine?" I exaggerated a demonstration to break the uncomfortable mood. "C'mon, Honey, you know I'll do anything for you. Payment's out of the question. Just tell me what you need.."
  "Well, I know...but it's not ethical to take advantage of our personal relationship like that. Besides, if you need official standing to get cooperation, it'll look better if you're employed by K. H. Lockwood. Sometimes, being associated with a law firm gives you instant credibility."
  "They teach you that in Law School, right?"
  She smiled tolerantly. "You know what I mean."
  Digesting all that, I studied the photos on the wall behind her desk, still finding no signs of myself. Credibility is relative, I suppose. There were framed color snapshots of Kim in action--crouched low in a ski run, snow flying as she carved a turn at speed--of Kim smiling happily in front of a huge green Douglas Fir, the startling turquoise shallows of a mountain lake in the background. Not a hint of her and I together, however. No dirty-blonde dudes with deep blue eyes and a busted nose at all, in fact, either with her or solo. Any public suggestion of an unprofessional relationship was apparently in poor taste, so as far as    K. H. Lockwood's office decor was concerned, I didn't exist.
  Trust, it seems, is one thing; proper appearance is another.
  "All right, make it a real job if you prefer, but don't expect to ever see a bill," I answered. "Where'd you get that death-photo, anyway? It was obviously taken at the scene."
  She moved around the desk and gestured at the client's chair for my benefit. "Maybe we should sit down," she decided. "I'm getting ahead of myself, and you deserve an explanation."
  "Obviously, this isn't a snap decision," I remarked.
  "No. I admit it's been bothering me, and I know you noticed. I was trying to talk myself out of it and didn't want to involve you."
  I went with a casual shrug. "What can I say?"
  She settled into her seat and leaned forward, resting her hands flat on the dark brown blotter and showing me her most sincere countenance. "She was murdered, Truck. The official verdict is wrong. The fire resulted from an explosion at unlit burners left open on the kitchen stove. Electric ignitions sometimes plug up due to excess grease collecting on the fittings." She tapped the folder. "The investigation concluded that April inadvertently ignited it by lighting a match--either to start a stove top burner or to light a cigarette--a conclusion, by the way, based on the circumstantial evidence of the victim's location in relation to the stove.
  "Cause of death was heart failure--however, there was evidence of scorching in her primary air passages. In other words, she was alive--breathing--when the kitchen exploded."
  "Uh-huh," I said, maintaining careful neutrality.
  "In the first place, April never used the stove. The official scenario presupposes a distinct and uncharacteristic change in her living habits."
  "Yeah?'
  "She was eighty-nine years old, you know, but had an active interest in the modern world, in modern conveniences. She actually ate very little, and most of that was micro waved. She'd installed a unit in her bedroom, so it was located in the rear corner of the house diagonally opposite the kitchen area."
  "Unlikely source of ignition," I said.
  "Quite. The point is, she was used to the microwave--In fact, she had several small appliances in her bedroom and stocked food accordingly. Evidence from the kitchen bears this out."
  "Maybe a little eccentric?"
  Kim shrugged and smiled slightly. "Individualistic. She was a dear, Truck. A stand-up lady."
  "Why mention cigarettes? Was she a smoker? A routine investigatiion should have cleared up that point."
  Her head shook in a negative response. "Bear with me," she urged. "Here's where we get a little subjective. She simply wasn't an airhead--not careless at all. You had to know the woman."
  "And you did."
  "Sure. She's been my client since I started, and I met her through her previous  attorney--Pauline Taloretta--before she retired. I considered her a friend."
  "I see. The smokes, then?"
  "That's the thing!" she said forcefully. "April was a lifelong non-smoker. The idea of her lighting up in the kitchen or anywhere else is ludicrous!"
  "People change," I suggested. Devil's advocate, right?
  "Not April! She was into health and exercise, belonged to a walking club."
  "So how'd the smoker thing get into the conclusions? Even assuming she was smoking when the room went up, the evidence would be destroyed by the fire."
  "Yes. As a causitive action, it's totally assumptive. They found an open carton of Lady-Lites on the dresser in her room--one pack missing. Part of the room was saved. The rear bedroom wall and south corner are still standing."
  The image jarred me. "Fingerprints?"
  "Oh, yeah. Two sets, representing both hands: one on the box, one on the open lid of the carton. Only two, Truck. She'd been handling the carton, but only touched it in two places."
  "Is that it?" I asked, frowning, although I knew her far better than that.
  "Not quite. I spoke to a neighbor--sharp old black gentleman named Marshall DeVeau. He lives across the street with his daughter's family. Mr. DeVeau and April were friends and often got together to shoot the breeze on the front lawn. In fact, he called in the fire alarm. He was alone in the house at that time of day."
  "Okay," I said.
  "During the initial confusion, as police and fire units arrived, Mr. DeVeau rushed across the street, following his instinct to help, but the police officers escorted him off the site almost immediately. However, he was watching his feet as he left--hoses were out, disarray everywhere--and noticed a cigarette butt on the sidewalk. See, Mr. DeVeau has a hellacious tobacco habit, but his family made him give 'em up. Truck, the butt was a Lady-Lite."
  "Who else knows this?"
  "Everyone! They blew if off! That's a big piece of the reason I'm pissed off!"
  "Well, it's practically nothing, even to a suspicious mind. Coincidence. Look, I've gotta ask--Are we overlooking the obvious? Could this be a suicide?"
  "They could have gone that way with the conclusions, I suppose, but nothing in her recent comportment or attitude suggested it. She was active, outgoing, and seemed to enjoy life. I can't buy it."
  "Then is that it?"
  "That and women's intuition."
  "I don't believe you actually said that."
  "I wouldn't say it to anyone but you. What the hell, you know?"
  "So, in that case, I bet you have multiple reasons," I said with a quick smile, watching her closely.
  "She wasn't a smoker. Tell me why there's a whole carton in the bedroom. It's too convenient. It's staged!"
  "Sharp old Mr. DeVeau?"
  "Trust me on this one, okay? He's not the type to smoke Lites."
  "If you say so."
  "I do! And furthermore, you should have listened in on some of these calls I've been fielding on behalf of the estate. These people are relentless. It's ugly behavior, rude, insensitive, and dammit, it makes you think!"
  "Okay, I'm convinced of your determination. Now, clear this up for me, please. If you truly believe you have reason to dispute the official record, if you suspect foul play, so to speak, why not take it to the cops? Try the detectives."
  "Get real!"
  "You know Cynthis Salant would be willing to hear you out--and how about Elliott?"
  "Phil's not even on full duty," she objected. "He's still recovering from that chest wound, and they're pushing disability retirement."
  "Yeah, but they should still be interested in this."
  "I suppose we could approach them," she admitted reluctantly, "but we're not on their A-list anymore--especially, you."
  "So leave me out of it, Counselor. But it there's a murder in question, the Palo Alto Police Department should definitely be in the loop."
  "Well, granted...of course...but...Oh, let me think about it. I don't believe badges are necessarily the way to go. Besides, at this point, I can't even suggest a serious suspect, and they're bound to ask. I would if it were me."
  "Suspicions: One--Suspects: Zero," I said with a grin.
  "Yeah, but don't forget the scavengers."
  "I thought you said she had few assets."
  "Right. But in this burg you only need one--She owned a nice chunk of residential property. Don't lose sight of where we live and what that means."
  "Aaah..."
  "Now are we on the same wavelength?"
  "Then as long as we're into rationalization, how the heck did you get that death photo? You've been pulling strings big-time, huh?"
  She allowed herself a heavy sigh and a hint of guilt in her soft brown eyes. "As her Executor, I deal with the insurance company--who were all over this, as you might imagine. That and a lot of persuasive negotiation eventually got me copies of every report--but no pix."
  "And?"
  "And Corinne is acquainted with one of the evidence techs: old schoolmates."
  Now I had to smile. Hadn't seen her recently. "The ever-enthusiastic Miss Cuevas: all-star paralegal," I said. "How's she doing?"
  "Well, fine, and why not?!" Kim demanded in a defensive tone. "Using your friends is a perfectly legitimate research technique. And speaking of friends, why don't you tell Jason you're unavailable for a few days, just so he doesn't weasel you into covering a route? K. H. Lockwood needs you more that Deep Blue Pools."
  "Hey, Trucker James Deal is a paragon of integrity!" I declared in my most pompous voice. "I'll tell Jay to cool it and clean his own darn pools. You are my number one priority. I'm yours!"
  "Good. I know this won't be simple, and I realize there's not a shred of hard evidence to support us. We've got a lot of ground to cover."
  "It's only noon," I said cheerfully.
  Finally, she showed one of her brilliant smiles, and I, at least, perked up in its glow. "Let's go stir it up!" I added. "You're really stuck on this, aren't you? You really think there's a rat in the woodpile."
  She held the smile but didn't respond.
  "So, who's the rodent?" I persisted. "The one with the match?"
  "I know you're trying to cheer me up, but I'm deadly serious. I'm smiling because you've agreed to help, not because I'm happy about any of this."
  "Of course, Kim. I don't mean to be flippant. I know you're committed."
  She regarded me with an unsettled look. "And I can count on you, right? You're in, too?"
  "Yes! Absolutely! If you're in, I'm in. It's you and me, Babe."
  "Babe?!" she snapped, immediately offended.
  You can't get away with much when a legal mind's involved.
  "What was that about being flippant?!" she demanded.
  "Sorry. It just slipped out. Thoughtless and insensitive." I tried an apologetic smile.
  "Well...that woodpile of yours is hiding at least one variety of vermin--a predatory human." She bit off the words with an intense hiss in her coice that I'd never heard before. If she'd been a cat, her ears would be laid back and her fangs bared to attack.
  "Call him a rat if you want, but the rat should be insulted by the slur because your rat is a servant of evil and as morally bereft as any creature on earth! You're right that we're starting from scratch, but even without a suspect, I can still guarantee two things."
  "Okay, I'll bite."
  "Then first, he's a cold-blooded killer, and second, you and I are gonna find him!"