The Dead Girl: Greg Owen Mystery #1 Read online

  Before the jury began deliberations, Nick Carlisle took a plea deal. Convinced he was going to lose at trial, Nick is now serving twenty-five years for killing his high school sweetheart.

  Greg Owen was a private eye. Was. Now he’s a little bit of everything: ex-husband, devoted father, small business owner, real estate investor … one of these days he’ll make his first million. Doing something. Or, more likely, doing a lot of somethings.

  The last thing he should be doing is looking into a murder where all the evidence points at the young man in prison.

  But.

  An old friend has asked for his help. Greg reluctantly agrees, thinking the investigation will be open and shut—and over quickly enough he can get back to his own mad pursuit of the American Dream.

  But why now, five years into his sentence, is Nick ready to proclaim his innocence again?

  Greg is going to find out.

  Even if it kills him.

  THE DEAD GIRL is the first in an exciting new hard-boiled, amateur sleuth series featuring everyman Greg Owen. One of these days he’ll retire … or die trying. In the meantime, Greg will keep on fighting for the little guy and righting wrongs where he can.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE: I write fast-paced, intense mysteries, thrillers, and sometimes horror stories filled with suspense, real characters, crackling dialog, and wry humor. My books are designed to be read in one or two sittings. If you have an addictive personality, consider this your warning!

  WHO WILL LIKE IT: Fans of Mike Faricy's Dev Haskell whacky adventures, Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series, Robert B. Parker's Spenser mysteries, and John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee books.

  The Dead Girl

  Evan Ronan

  One

  Let’s get this out of the way.

  My name’s Greg Owen.

  At least two of these three things are true—I’m:

  Tall.

  Dark.

  And handsome.

  Two

  I’m sitting in the backroom office of my pool hall, reading the local paper on my laptop. They’re running yet another story about the creep who was picking up teenaged girls, taking them home, and … yeah.

  Before I’m sucked into that horror, I close the news tab on my laptop and open a new page for the Commodore Apartments across town. I’ve looked at this website enough, read the tenant reviews multiple times, and even finagled my way into a few units to look around. I know everything I need to know.

  Enough is enough.

  I call the number I got through a friend of a friend and wait for it connect. My cell reception is lousy back in my office, but I’m too lazy to get up right now.

  Out in the hall, I hear the click of pool halls as a couple old-time regulars, who were coming here back when Pop was still the owner, continue their unending match of straight pool. They must be playing to a billion.

  A nice-sounding lady answers my call. “Diamond Management.”

  I was not expecting this. “Hi, this is Greg Owen. I’m trying to reach Jason Shaw.”

  “Is he expecting your call?” the woman asks, the first note of skepticism already entering her voice.

  I thought I was getting Jason Shaw’s personal number. I thought there was no real operation behind the ownership and management of the Commodore Apartments. I thought I was dealing with a disgruntled, frustrated landlord who would be happy to be rid of the nettlesome property. Motivated sellers are my favorite. But there is at least an appearance of infrastructure here.

  “Expecting? No. But he’ll be pleasantly surprised. I’m a real estate investor and would like to discuss the Commodore buildings with him.”

  “Oh … kay.” There’s a beat followed by some whispers at her end. “He’s concluding another call. Can you hold a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Greg Owen.”

  “Greg Owen … class of ’95?”

  I laugh. Everybody knows everybody around here. “That is me.”

  Her voice grows a lot warmer. “You went to school with my older brother.”

  I have no idea what she looks like but she sounds gorgeous. “What’s his name?”

  And she tells me and, for the life of me, I can’t remember this kid. Our graduating class was about four hundred, so not that big, but this name means nothing to me.

  “Long time ago now, but he was a great guy from what I remember. And what is your name?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m getting another call. Mr. Shaw will be with you in a few.”

  At least there’s no hold music. Sometimes Fate smiles upon you like that.

  I’m on hold for a full minute. I listen to the guys out in the hall. They’ve been coming here for thirty years, and they never get tired of playing or ribbing each other.

  “You can’t cut that ball! You should safe it,” Wally says.

  “If I listened to you, I’d play like you,” Ron retorts.

  I’m laughing with the phone up to my ear when, suddenly, there’s a tiny hiss of air and a squeak of the door and the old-timers stop busting on each other. A meaningful silence suggests someone out of the ordinary has entered the pool hall.

  “Do you need help?” they both say.

  I can tell it’s a woman. These guys wouldn’t stop shooting if the President of the United States entered the pool hall.

  But a woman?

  A rather hushed, and quick, conversation ensues that my straining ears are unable to hear.

  “His office is in the back.”

  “Thank you.”

  It’s a voice from my past. But I can’t place it. An urge to spruce my office up engulfs me.

  I’ve forgotten I’m on hold till a voice growls in my ear. “This is Jason Shaw.”

  “Hi Jason, this is Greg—”

  “Greg Owen, right. She told me your name. What do you want?”

  “Well, Jason, I was calling about the Commodore property. You see, I’m a—”

  “You’re a real estate investor, yeah. Or so you say. Let’s cut to the chase. What are you offering for it?”

  Not exactly how I envisioned this conversation going, but at least he’s willing to entertain my offer.

  “I’m …”

  And then Denise Gagliardi appears in my doorway.

  Leaving me speechless.

  It’s been about ten years since I last saw her. She’s still long and lean and in trademark fashion offers me that sad half-smile where both eyes magically twinkle.

  “Hello?” Jason Shaw growls into my ear. “Listen, buddy, I’m real busy and don’t have time for—”

  “Can I call you back in …” I look up at Denise.

  She mouths half an hour.

  “Half an hour?” I say. “You won’t regret talking to me.”

  Jason Shaw makes a noise like I’ve just insulted his mother. “I’m stepping out to lunch soon, but if I’m here I’ll talk to you.”

  It just turned ten o’clock in the morning. Either Jason Shaw takes his meals at odd hours or he’s blowing me off.

  Before I can say goodbye, he hangs up. I put the phone down on my cluttered desk, making sure not to knock any of the towers of paper down, and stand up.

  “Nise,” I say.

  “Greg.” Her voice is like warm butter.

  I come around the desk and behold her. Denise is wearing of all things a Class of ’95 Apache High School t-shirt and a pair of decidedly non-Mom jeans.

  She throws her arms around my neck and I put mine at her waist, and we hug for a moment. It reminds me of dancing with her at the junior prom.

  I go to give her a platonic kiss on the cheek, only she whips her head around and
our lips touch. I feel like I’ve just stuck a fork in a socket.

  “It’s great to see you,” I manage, when the power of speech returns.

  “You too.” She rubs my arm. “I see you’ve kept in great shape.”

  Oh boy.

  “It’s the maid’s week off,” I try, the lamest joke in the book to laugh away at a messy space, but she’s polite enough to chuckle, and gracious enough to take a seat across from me. “You could pass for thirty.”

  “Thank you.” She looks around the office. It doesn’t take her long. It’s a small space and there is exactly one kind of decoration I adorn with. “Your daughter is so beautiful.”

  “Thanks. Takes after her mother.” I take a moment to survey the room myself. The walls are covered with pictures of my daughter at various ages and much of her artwork. Right now, she’s into charcoals.

  “She really is,” Denise says. “And how old is Tammy now?”

  Denise gets major points for remembering my tween’s name. “Just turned twelve. Can you believe it?”

  Denise shakes her head and, now that the initial shock has worn off, I do see some little signs of age. Crow’s feet are beginning to appear around her eyes. Her jaw is a little softer. And maybe, just maybe, the hips have added an inch or two.

  All of which is fiiiiiiiine by me.

  “Where does the time go?” she asks rhetorically and then bows her head. She seems saddened by the mention of children and time. Denise was married and is divorced and never—to my knowledge—had any children. Shame too, because she always seemed like she would have made a great mother.

  I might have even told her that back in high school.

  I reach, “In all the pool halls in all the towns …”

  She doesn’t quite get it, but pretends to. “Greg, I don’t know who else to go to.”

  Tears verge.

  “Whoa, whoa,” I say, reaching across the desk for her hand. “Take it easy, Nise.”

  Denise is fast on the draw like an old gunslinger, snatching a tissue that seemed waiting for her hand out of her purse.

  “Sorry.” She wipes under her eyes and blows her nose, and now I see those dazzling eyes are a touch bloodshot too. “I’m sorry. This has been … Ah.”

  “Take your time,” I say.

  “Are you still licensed?”

  I’m very confused by the question. “To drive?”

  She laughs. “That’s you, Greg. You always have something funny to say.”

  I wasn’t going for ha-ha, but I don’t disabuse her of her opinion of me.

  “I mean,” she says, still smiling, still almost crying again, “are you still a licensed private investigator?”

  It takes me a moment. “I think I paid my fees … should be good for another couple of months.”

  She lets out a big breath, like I’ve just answered a life-and-death question. “Oh that’s good.”

  I let her gather her thoughts.

  Denise takes out another tissue, reblows her nose, and dabs under her eyes. “I must look a mess.”

  “Not from where I’m sitting.” How easy we fall back into our old patterns. I was always Denise’s shoulder to cry on. I believe the expression the kiddies use today is: I was friend-zoned.

  “Oh, Greg.” She rolls the used the tissues up and looks for a trash can. I get mine out from under the desk and offer it. She goes two for two.

  “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Okay.” She holds a palm out. “Now, I know this is going to sound crazy but I really need you to hear me out.”

  “Denise, I run a pool hall and own a laundromat and spent a few years in the Marines. I see crazy all day long.”

  She laughs but then grows very serious. “My nephew needs your help.”

  “Your nephew?” I only know one of her nephews and that guy is beyond my help. Or anybody’s help for that matter. So it can’t be Nick Carlisle.

  “It’s Nick,” she says.

  My jaw metaphorically drops. “Excuse me?”

  “Just …” She takes a deep breath and seems to gather herself. When she speaks again, it’s with a strange calm. “Nick is innocent.”

  How do I let her down easily?

  Three

  “I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, I know,” Denise says.

  “Denise, I’m very sorry about what happened to your nephew but—”

  “I’m not asking you to believe me,” she interrupts. “All I’m asking is you talk to him.”

  They say talk is cheap, but I’ve always found it pretty damned expensive. “Why don’t you tell me why you think he’s innocent?”

  She’s reaching into her purse for money.

  I don’t want it.

  “All I’m asking is you talk to him,” she repeats, withdrawing a worn bulging envelope from her purse. “I’ll pay you for that. Just for that. Please.”

  I give her the palm. “Let’s take a step back. I’ve got a healthy sense of self, but I’m not sure what I can do here.”

  “You’re a private eye,” she says.

  “Technically.”

  “You just told me your license is active.”

  “My license is. I’m not.” I can’t hold her stare. This is the last kind of obligation I need right now. I’m about to jump into the real estate market, thinking of my tiny piece of the laundromat, possibly opening another …

  She’s talking. “… really needs your help. Nick is …” She searches for le mot juste. Doesn’t find it. “Nick is not cut out for prison. Those men in there are animals. You should see what they did to him a couple months ago. He’s finally able to see out of his right eye again.”

  He deserves whatever he gets.

  Because Nick Carlisle is guilty as sin.

  Denise is on the verge again. Preemptively she scoops out another tissue, while still holding onto the money envelope with the other hand.

  “Just talk to him,” she pleads.

  “Denise, I worked with lawyers in personal injury cases and chased the occasional cheating spouse for all of five minutes. I’m hardly what you’d call a seasoned private eye. And, murder is not in my wheelhouse.”

  “No one else will help.”

  Wonder how far back in her mental Rolodex I am. “That should tell you everything you need …”

  To know.

  The uncompleted thought goes into her like a knife. Denise closes her eyes for a moment.

  “You heard about that guy that just got sentenced,” she says, her eyes still closed. “Over in Glenside?”

  Oh boy.

  “You’re telling me that Nick knows this guy is the real killer?”

  “No.” She shakes her head for emphasis and finally opens her eyes. I look deeply into them. Wonder if she knows how often I— “Nick doesn’t know who killed Julie.”

  I stand up. There’s not enough room to pace, but I do it anyway. Time to be a little harsh.

  “Denise, your nephew took a plea deal.”

  “I tried talking him out. I tried. I begged him to fight. And I was there when the judge approved the sentencing. That boy has to wait twenty-five years before he gets a chance at parole, and even that’s no guarantee.”

  “Why is he changing his story now?”

  “He never said he did it.”

  “He just took a plea deal before the decision went to the jury.”

  Denise frowns. All the fight has gone out of her.

  She opens the envelope and peels off ten hundred dollar bills. “Just take this. You can keep it. No matter what. Even if you decide not to take the case.”

  Oh the hook is in.

  “I don’t want your money.”

  She leaves it on the desk. “Please.”

  Why did she have to go and say please?

  Four

  I try reaching Jason Shaw again but neither he nor his lovely assistant answer this time. I’m dumped into voicemail and I have that sinking feeling that I’m late to the game.

  The reason I li
ke the property is pretty simple. I believe I can get it at a good price, and the County has just inked a deal with SEPTA to put in a regional line stop a mere four blocks from the complex. Four blocks! Now, it’ll take two or three years to get the stop built but in the meantime the apartment should more than pay for itself with the rents and then the property value should skyrocket when the construction is done.

  A buddy of mine on the County Board tipped me off. It pays to know people.

  Thing is, this little deal with SEPTA is public knowledge and will be in the papers in the next few days. So chances are, other people know as well.

  That’s why I wanted to hook Shaw right away.

  I leave him a voicemail about the great offer I want to make on the property, making sure to let him know my financing is preapproved.

  Then I sit in my office and think. And think some more.

  Denise’s money is still sitting on the edge of the desk. Just staring at me.

  Nick Carlisle is Denise’s nephew by blood. Her sister, Gabrielle, married Tony Carlisle right after the two graduated college. Nick is their only son, a bright boy and star athlete, who’d secured a scholarship to a local college to play both football and basketball. I remember seeing him play. As a wide receiver he was fast and had great hands. As a forward he could defend and shoot from deep. He was one of those guys who had it all in high school: popularity, grades, a college ride, and, of course, the homecoming queen.

  Julie Stein played field hockey and took the lead roles in the high school musicals. If memory served, she too had gotten a scholarship, though one based on GPA. They were one of those perfect high school couples, the kind you read about in books.

  As it turns out, things were too good to be true.

  Julie Stein was brutally murdered the night of the big high school graduation party. Her body was discovered thirty-six hours later in one of the protected lakes. Her throat cut. Among various other injuries.

  Nick was quickly arrested. The rest is history.

  After Nick got slaughtered at trial, his attorney struck a deal with the DA before the jury almost certainly convicted him. According to the terms of the deal, Nick would serve twenty-five years and become eligible for parole in eighteen.