Kevin, the seeming leader of the two, spoke first. “I know him by reputation only. Never met him.”
“And what is that reputation?” Krissy asked. This was her favorite part of her job. She loved interviewing a suspect and then experiencing that moment when reluctance turns to victory. She waited eagerly for the answer she was about to receive.
“He’s known around here a source of information.”
He was still going to be vague. Krissy could feel the tide turning, but it wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought. “What kind of information?”
“Numbers,” Kevin said.
Frustration was starting to build. “Give it to me straight, Kevin. What is Steven Mathis known for?”
“Let’s just say he can help out with sports-related investments.”
“Gambling?”
Kevin’s head nodded slightly. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
***
“I have to admit that there are some perks to working with a civilian on a case like this one.” Krissy was trying to hide a thin smile as she walked out of the campus police station.
“I can’t say I’m surprised that these guys know of Mathis,” Colt replied. “So we have confirmed he’s into gambling, but we haven’t confirmed who attacked Samantha.”
“Can we link Creighton to Mathis?” She walked slowly toward the parking a few feet from Colt’s side.
“We have the witness at the dealership who has seen them together and the repair records,” Colt said. “But that is not enough to convict anyone of illegal activity.” Colt paused as he digested the information. “Has Mathis ever done any time?”
“He had that tax problem that cost him about nine months.”
“That’s another angle we haven’t explored. Mathis knows Samantha and has reason to be mad at her.”
“He’s the one who skipped out on his taxes. She actually saved him, but I guess he wanted even more,” Krissy said.
They walked the rest of the way to the car in silence, each trying to piece together what they knew. On the way back to the police station, Colt and Krissy agreed that the next step had to involve scrutinizing the life of Steven Mathis.
“We need to know everything we can about Mathis,” Krissy began. “Who he hangs out with, where he goes after work, what he spends money on. You wanna help me follow him for a while?”
Stakeouts basically consisted of hours of nothing followed by a few minutes of excitement and were a regular part of the job for Colt. Over the last decade he had developed a love-hate relationship with the classic stakeout. “How could I turn that down?”
Colt and Krissy climbed back into Colt’s car to make the drive from the university back to the harbor area. “I’m hungry,” Colt said. “Let’s get something to eat on the way.”
Armed with Chinese take out, chopsticks, and a couple of small drinks, Colt and Krissy pulled into the harbor parking lot. “This is going to be tough, Krissy said. There’s no place to park where we can see the front of his office.”
“Do you see his truck anywhere?”
Krissy scanned the lot. It wasn’t hard to spot Mathis’ silver Ford F-350. It had oversized tires mounted on chrome rims and a hefty lift. The hitch on the back dropped down about ten inches, presumably to tow his boat. Krissy spotted it in a corner of the lot away from other cars. “There it is.”
“Then we know he is here. I guess this is as good a place as any to have some lunch.”
--Results--
As they wait for Mathis, who should they see walk into the Yachtery?
A) Dean Brown, the police chief - 60%
B) Creighton - 0%
C) Krissy’s ex boyfriend who is a criminal defense lawyer - 40%
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 9 (Wednesday)
Creighton Ford’s financial records were not unusual. He rented a house for $1,500 a month and had paid the landlord on time for the last year. Not surprisingly he drove a Ford truck and made payments on that. His credit card debt was heavy, but manageable. The only red flag that stood out was the fact that he had withdrawn $500 from an ATM on the first of the month for the last 6 months. Prior to that, he had only sporadically pulled cash out of his account.
“What do you think of this?” Colt asked Krissy pointing to the line on his bank statement that listed the cash withdrawal.
She glanced back at the previous statements, noting the pattern. “Could be that he wanted to limit his credit card spending, so he went to a cash system.”
“Could also be a way to pay off debt without a way of tracing the money,” Colt added. “What about his credit card statements. Has he stopped charging things?”
Krissy pulled out another stack of paperwork and started scanning the printouts. Running her finger down the dates listed on the most recent American Express bill, it became apparent that he hadn’t cut the card up. “No big purchases, but he is still using the plastic.”
“If he’s paying someone off to the tune of $500 a month, he’s likely relying on credit to keep him afloat.” Colt straightened his back as a subtle crackling noise rippled down his sore spine. He’d been standing and leaning over the desk as he read the documents for several minutes and his age was beginning to catch up with him. “So Creighton is deep into gambling debt to the tune of $500 a month. He was affording that, but barely.” Colt paused, thinking through the clues he knew. “He must have increased his debt to the point that he couldn’t pay it anymore so his bookie sends him a message by kidnapping his girlfriend.”
“It’s the only theory we have right now.” Krissy joined Colt standing. “Let’s go talk to some college gamblers. We still have no proof that Mathis is a bookie. If these kids know the local market, they might lead us to him.”
***
The University of Santa Barbara was located on a hundred acre campus adjacent to the beautiful coastline north of the city. It had tall trees and plenty of shade but also opened up to the vast expanse of beach and ocean. The setting was tranquil with Spanish-style architecture and red tile roofs spread across the campus.
Colt and Krissy checked in with the campus police who had already made arrangements for two students to meet with the detectives in their office. A young campus officer in full uniform led them to a small conference room in the back of the cramped police station. An open window let a cool breeze fill the room. The ocean air was refreshing and Colt drank it in with deep breaths. Moments later two young men, probably in their early twenties, were escorted into the small room by the same uniformed officer who had taken Colt and Krissy back.
There was a look of confusion on the faces of the young men as they entered the small room. “Are we in trouble?” one asked.
“Because I have a right to a lawyer, so I’m not going to be talking without one.”
“Relax,” Krissy said. “We need you to help us solve another case. We aren’t investigating you.”
“We are looking into a kidnapping case that we think has ties to organized gambling,” Colt said. “We have reason to believe that you might be of assistance to us.”
The mood seemed to lighten for a moment when one of the men, the one with wavy dark hair, spoke up. “You care to place a little wager on tomorrow’s championship game? Odds have Florida winning in a landslide, but you could probably do well to consider the underdog.”
“That’s not what we had in mind,” Krissy said taking control of the situation. “But I do need to know if you know the name Steven Mathis.”
“I might have heard of him.” It was the other man this time, the one who had been introduced as Kevin. “If there was a convincing enough reason, I might even recall where I heard the name.”
“If you are looking for a payoff, just consider yourself lucky that cops aren’t watching you even closer,” Detective Malone said with a cop-like sneer.
“I guess I’ve never heard of this Steven Mathis guy, then.”
The sound of Colt’s hand smacking the table rattled the room. Kevin and his friend both jumped back as it came crashing down. “I’m not a cop,” he said. As he began to slide his hand off the table, he revealed the corner of a fifty dollar bill. “So I guess I can’t officially pay you off.”
“What do you think of this?” Colt asked Krissy pointing to the line on his bank statement that listed the cash withdrawal.
She glanced back at the previous statements, noting the pattern. “Could be that he wanted to limit his credit card spending, so he went to a cash system.”
“Could also be a way to pay off debt without a way of tracing the money,” Colt added. “What about his credit card statements. Has he stopped charging things?”
Krissy pulled out another stack of paperwork and started scanning the printouts. Running her finger down the dates listed on the most recent American Express bill, it became apparent that he hadn’t cut the card up. “No big purchases, but he is still using the plastic.”
“If he’s paying someone off to the tune of $500 a month, he’s likely relying on credit to keep him afloat.” Colt straightened his back as a subtle crackling noise rippled down his sore spine. He’d been standing and leaning over the desk as he read the documents for several minutes and his age was beginning to catch up with him. “So Creighton is deep into gambling debt to the tune of $500 a month. He was affording that, but barely.” Colt paused, thinking through the clues he knew. “He must have increased his debt to the point that he couldn’t pay it anymore so his bookie sends him a message by kidnapping his girlfriend.”
“It’s the only theory we have right now.” Krissy joined Colt standing. “Let’s go talk to some college gamblers. We still have no proof that Mathis is a bookie. If these kids know the local market, they might lead us to him.”
***
The University of Santa Barbara was located on a hundred acre campus adjacent to the beautiful coastline north of the city. It had tall trees and plenty of shade but also opened up to the vast expanse of beach and ocean. The setting was tranquil with Spanish-style architecture and red tile roofs spread across the campus.
Colt and Krissy checked in with the campus police who had already made arrangements for two students to meet with the detectives in their office. A young campus officer in full uniform led them to a small conference room in the back of the cramped police station. An open window let a cool breeze fill the room. The ocean air was refreshing and Colt drank it in with deep breaths. Moments later two young men, probably in their early twenties, were escorted into the small room by the same uniformed officer who had taken Colt and Krissy back.
There was a look of confusion on the faces of the young men as they entered the small room. “Are we in trouble?” one asked.
“Because I have a right to a lawyer, so I’m not going to be talking without one.”
“Relax,” Krissy said. “We need you to help us solve another case. We aren’t investigating you.”
“We are looking into a kidnapping case that we think has ties to organized gambling,” Colt said. “We have reason to believe that you might be of assistance to us.”
The mood seemed to lighten for a moment when one of the men, the one with wavy dark hair, spoke up. “You care to place a little wager on tomorrow’s championship game? Odds have Florida winning in a landslide, but you could probably do well to consider the underdog.”
“That’s not what we had in mind,” Krissy said taking control of the situation. “But I do need to know if you know the name Steven Mathis.”
“I might have heard of him.” It was the other man this time, the one who had been introduced as Kevin. “If there was a convincing enough reason, I might even recall where I heard the name.”
“If you are looking for a payoff, just consider yourself lucky that cops aren’t watching you even closer,” Detective Malone said with a cop-like sneer.
“I guess I’ve never heard of this Steven Mathis guy, then.”
The sound of Colt’s hand smacking the table rattled the room. Kevin and his friend both jumped back as it came crashing down. “I’m not a cop,” he said. As he began to slide his hand off the table, he revealed the corner of a fifty dollar bill. “So I guess I can’t officially pay you off.”
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 9 (Tuesday)
Samantha Woods carefully and deliberately inhaled then slowly let it out, making sure not to disrupt the stitches from her surgery. She looked away from Colt, her eyes fixated on the window. “I know I can have joy, but it is hard.” She paused and thought carefully before continuing. “That’s the thing about Christianity. On one hand I have assurance of my salvation, but on the other, God is constantly refining me by teaching me lessons, sometimes in ways I don’t understand.”
Colt sat quietly, wanting her to continue her explanation. After a few awkward moments he asked, “So, is there any joy in you now?”
“There’s joy that I wasn’t hurt worse. Or killed.”
“But you don’t seem to be throwing a party about being attacked.”
“I think joy is different than excitement,” Samantha said.
“That makes sense.”
“To be honest, though, I don’t have the kind of joy I know I am supposed to have. I always thought I could handle tough times with grace and dignity, but now that the tough times are here, its not as easy as I had envisioned. It’s a process. With time, I will come to appreciate this trial in my life.”
“So you see appreciation as a form of joy?”
“In a way, yes.”
Transforming from investigator to therapist, Colt asked, “Is there something holding you back?”
Samantha wasn’t ready to answer that question yet, although she knew Colt was leading her down a path she would eventually have to follow. Without a word, she casually shrugged her shoulders.
Colt could tell that he had struck a nerve with her. Samantha wasn’t angry with him for asking the questions, but they had caused her to contemplate her situation. The attack and the hospital room were only the most recent events in her life. There had been many other things that had led to her walking out the door of a prestigious law firm on a warm New Year’s Day evening.
Rising from his chair beside the bed, Colt thanked Samantha for sharing with him. He, too, had a lot to consider.
Downstairs in the hospital lobby, Colt’s phone rang quietly in his pocket. It was Krissy. “Hey, I got two things for you,” she said with some excitement.
“Tell me about them.”
“First, I have Creighton’s financial records. You will want to see them.”
“And second,” Colt prodded.
“I called a friend of mine with the campus police at the university. Thought he might know something about college kids who get caught up in gambling. He gave me the names of a couple of kids who are known for their betting habits. I’m going to check them out. Wanna come?”
“I can be there in about ten minutes,” Colt answered. His mind was instantly back on the case. He still had questions about how a person could find joy in the midst of tragedy, but he was able to temporarily push those aside, knowing they would resurface in due time. The few answers he had gotten from Samantha had cleared his mind enough to allow him to move forward once again.
Colt sat quietly, wanting her to continue her explanation. After a few awkward moments he asked, “So, is there any joy in you now?”
“There’s joy that I wasn’t hurt worse. Or killed.”
“But you don’t seem to be throwing a party about being attacked.”
“I think joy is different than excitement,” Samantha said.
“That makes sense.”
“To be honest, though, I don’t have the kind of joy I know I am supposed to have. I always thought I could handle tough times with grace and dignity, but now that the tough times are here, its not as easy as I had envisioned. It’s a process. With time, I will come to appreciate this trial in my life.”
“So you see appreciation as a form of joy?”
“In a way, yes.”
Transforming from investigator to therapist, Colt asked, “Is there something holding you back?”
Samantha wasn’t ready to answer that question yet, although she knew Colt was leading her down a path she would eventually have to follow. Without a word, she casually shrugged her shoulders.
Colt could tell that he had struck a nerve with her. Samantha wasn’t angry with him for asking the questions, but they had caused her to contemplate her situation. The attack and the hospital room were only the most recent events in her life. There had been many other things that had led to her walking out the door of a prestigious law firm on a warm New Year’s Day evening.
Rising from his chair beside the bed, Colt thanked Samantha for sharing with him. He, too, had a lot to consider.
Downstairs in the hospital lobby, Colt’s phone rang quietly in his pocket. It was Krissy. “Hey, I got two things for you,” she said with some excitement.
“Tell me about them.”
“First, I have Creighton’s financial records. You will want to see them.”
“And second,” Colt prodded.
“I called a friend of mine with the campus police at the university. Thought he might know something about college kids who get caught up in gambling. He gave me the names of a couple of kids who are known for their betting habits. I’m going to check them out. Wanna come?”
“I can be there in about ten minutes,” Colt answered. His mind was instantly back on the case. He still had questions about how a person could find joy in the midst of tragedy, but he was able to temporarily push those aside, knowing they would resurface in due time. The few answers he had gotten from Samantha had cleared his mind enough to allow him to move forward once again.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 9 (Monday)
The Monday morning fog rolled over the sand and across the street enveloping the Oceana Hotel. Colt pulled back the thick drape anticipating a spectacular morning view and was disappointed to see the coast blanketed by the low lying clouds.
His agenda for the day was twofold: catch a cold-hearted criminal and find out how Samantha was dealing with the ordeal. Since it was becoming clear that he would be spending a few more days in Santa Barbara, Colt tidied up the room and headed downstairs to make arrangements for extending his stay. After finding the continental breakfast bar, the investigator tucked himself into a private corner of the hotel dining room. Nibbling a piece of toast, he mindlessly stirred his spoon through a watered down bowl of oatmeal releasing a steady flow of steam. Though it clouded his vision, it sharpened his focus on the task at hand.
Years of investigative experience had taught Colt that the best way to solve a problem was to rehash every detail over a bowl of oatmeal until something new became evident. As the steam began to dissipate Colt grew increasingly frustrated by his inability to move forward with this case. There was something different holding him back and the only thing he could do to move forward was go to Samantha and find out the answer to his lingering question.
Colt made his way down the long hospital corridor and gently knocked on Samantha’s door with a quiet “Good morning.” Samantha was awake and watching a morning talk show on TV. “Sorry to bother you again.”
“Come on in,” Samantha beckoned. “It gets lonely here, so any kind of company is appreciated.” She had been mostly alone for two days and needed to talk to someone about anything. The words began to flow effortlessly the minute Colt sat down. A thin smile spread across Samantha’s face when she told him that the doctor was planning to release her in a day or two.
“That’s great!” Colt said sharing her excitement. After several minutes of reviewing her health status, he decided to get to the point of his visit. “What I really came here for doesn’t have much to do with solving a crime, but there is something I need to know.” He paused and Samantha glanced upward, encouraging him with her eyes to continue. “I had lunch with your parents the other day and as they were recapping your never-ending list of accomplishments, they mentioned that you taught a Sunday School class to kids.”
Samantha’s eyes rolled. “My parents have a tendency to exaggerate my accomplishments, but I do teach the kindergarten class at my church.”
“Do you really believe what the Bible says? I mean, if you teach kids about the Bible, I would think you have to believe it.”
“What I believe is that the Bible is God’s word,” she said.
“What about in the book of James where it says to ‘Consider it pure joy when you face trials?’”
Samantha could see where he was going and she felt her stomach tighten. “I believe that, with God’s help, it is possible to have joy in the midst of a trial.”
“Do you have joy now?”
It was time for Samantha to be honest with herself and this was a conversation she knew she needed to have.
His agenda for the day was twofold: catch a cold-hearted criminal and find out how Samantha was dealing with the ordeal. Since it was becoming clear that he would be spending a few more days in Santa Barbara, Colt tidied up the room and headed downstairs to make arrangements for extending his stay. After finding the continental breakfast bar, the investigator tucked himself into a private corner of the hotel dining room. Nibbling a piece of toast, he mindlessly stirred his spoon through a watered down bowl of oatmeal releasing a steady flow of steam. Though it clouded his vision, it sharpened his focus on the task at hand.
Years of investigative experience had taught Colt that the best way to solve a problem was to rehash every detail over a bowl of oatmeal until something new became evident. As the steam began to dissipate Colt grew increasingly frustrated by his inability to move forward with this case. There was something different holding him back and the only thing he could do to move forward was go to Samantha and find out the answer to his lingering question.
Colt made his way down the long hospital corridor and gently knocked on Samantha’s door with a quiet “Good morning.” Samantha was awake and watching a morning talk show on TV. “Sorry to bother you again.”
“Come on in,” Samantha beckoned. “It gets lonely here, so any kind of company is appreciated.” She had been mostly alone for two days and needed to talk to someone about anything. The words began to flow effortlessly the minute Colt sat down. A thin smile spread across Samantha’s face when she told him that the doctor was planning to release her in a day or two.
“That’s great!” Colt said sharing her excitement. After several minutes of reviewing her health status, he decided to get to the point of his visit. “What I really came here for doesn’t have much to do with solving a crime, but there is something I need to know.” He paused and Samantha glanced upward, encouraging him with her eyes to continue. “I had lunch with your parents the other day and as they were recapping your never-ending list of accomplishments, they mentioned that you taught a Sunday School class to kids.”
Samantha’s eyes rolled. “My parents have a tendency to exaggerate my accomplishments, but I do teach the kindergarten class at my church.”
“Do you really believe what the Bible says? I mean, if you teach kids about the Bible, I would think you have to believe it.”
“What I believe is that the Bible is God’s word,” she said.
“What about in the book of James where it says to ‘Consider it pure joy when you face trials?’”
Samantha could see where he was going and she felt her stomach tighten. “I believe that, with God’s help, it is possible to have joy in the midst of a trial.”
“Do you have joy now?”
It was time for Samantha to be honest with herself and this was a conversation she knew she needed to have.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 8 (Thursday)
Today is once again Thursday, so make sure you vote. Earlier you all voted to have Colt involved in a love triangle between Krissy and Samantha and that is coming. This vote will determine exactly where that goes. Enjoy!
----
“Your timeline has just been moved up,” Mathis said holding his cell phone to his ear. “The cops are on to me and I suspect your big mouth has something to do with it.”
Creighton listened to the cool tirade and felt his heart drop. With Mathis demanding payment by Wednesday, the BCS championship game on Tuesday was his last chance. His life and Samantha’s life were both riding on a stupid college football game. The wheels were in motion and nothing could stop them now.
***
The early morning wake up call hit Colt hard around dinner time on Sunday evening. He had spent the afternoon working with Krissy on researching the gambling angle and was ready for an early bedtime. As an out-of-town bachelor, he didn’t know anyone in else, so it looked as if it would be another evening with take-out and TV in a hotel room. As pathetic as it sounded, there was a small part of Colt that thought he enjoyed the solitude and simplicity of his life. Conversely, there was another small part that was ready to grow up and move on. How much of his life had he wasted alone? Did he really enjoy it or did he just buy into the myth that society had sold him? The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that his life was essentially meaningless.
As he raised a straw to his lips and sipped on the 50/50 Coke and Diet Coke mixture, Colt flopped down on the bed ready to grab the remote control and flip the TV on. He looked down and noticed that the remote was not on the bedside table where he had left it. Frustrated, Colt glanced around the room, trying to spot the remote and will it into his hand without moving. His quick scan proved fruitless so he intensified his search and opened to drawer on the night stand to see if the maids had put in in there. No luck. Colt was about to shut the drawer, but stopped when he realized that there could be something of value in it. The red Gideon’s Bible stared up at him, almost daring him to pick it up.
The verse the pastor had talked about that morning in church had come from a book called James. Colt wasn’t sure where to find that, but he did know how to use a table of contents. At least he had paid attention that day in third grade. Almost as if on cruise control, his hand reached in and pulled the Bible out. Scanning with his finger down the list of books, he stopped when he got to the one he was looking for.
The part he was reading began by saying, “Consider it pure joy when you face trials of many kinds.” Colt read that and stopped. How could there be joy in the middle of trials? Samantha was in the middle of a trial. Did she consider it joyful? She was, after all, a Sunday school teacher. How could she teach this stuff to kids if she didn’t believe it herself. Colt had to find out.
---
Results -
When Colt goes to talk to Samantha does he find that
A) She is able to maintain a positive outlook on life despite the attack - 40%
B) She is confused and wants to be joyful, but finds it difficult - 60%
C) She is bitter and set on revenge - 0%
----
“Your timeline has just been moved up,” Mathis said holding his cell phone to his ear. “The cops are on to me and I suspect your big mouth has something to do with it.”
Creighton listened to the cool tirade and felt his heart drop. With Mathis demanding payment by Wednesday, the BCS championship game on Tuesday was his last chance. His life and Samantha’s life were both riding on a stupid college football game. The wheels were in motion and nothing could stop them now.
***
The early morning wake up call hit Colt hard around dinner time on Sunday evening. He had spent the afternoon working with Krissy on researching the gambling angle and was ready for an early bedtime. As an out-of-town bachelor, he didn’t know anyone in else, so it looked as if it would be another evening with take-out and TV in a hotel room. As pathetic as it sounded, there was a small part of Colt that thought he enjoyed the solitude and simplicity of his life. Conversely, there was another small part that was ready to grow up and move on. How much of his life had he wasted alone? Did he really enjoy it or did he just buy into the myth that society had sold him? The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that his life was essentially meaningless.
As he raised a straw to his lips and sipped on the 50/50 Coke and Diet Coke mixture, Colt flopped down on the bed ready to grab the remote control and flip the TV on. He looked down and noticed that the remote was not on the bedside table where he had left it. Frustrated, Colt glanced around the room, trying to spot the remote and will it into his hand without moving. His quick scan proved fruitless so he intensified his search and opened to drawer on the night stand to see if the maids had put in in there. No luck. Colt was about to shut the drawer, but stopped when he realized that there could be something of value in it. The red Gideon’s Bible stared up at him, almost daring him to pick it up.
The verse the pastor had talked about that morning in church had come from a book called James. Colt wasn’t sure where to find that, but he did know how to use a table of contents. At least he had paid attention that day in third grade. Almost as if on cruise control, his hand reached in and pulled the Bible out. Scanning with his finger down the list of books, he stopped when he got to the one he was looking for.
The part he was reading began by saying, “Consider it pure joy when you face trials of many kinds.” Colt read that and stopped. How could there be joy in the middle of trials? Samantha was in the middle of a trial. Did she consider it joyful? She was, after all, a Sunday school teacher. How could she teach this stuff to kids if she didn’t believe it herself. Colt had to find out.
---
Results -
When Colt goes to talk to Samantha does he find that
A) She is able to maintain a positive outlook on life despite the attack - 40%
B) She is confused and wants to be joyful, but finds it difficult - 60%
C) She is bitter and set on revenge - 0%
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 8 (Wednesday)
Steven Mathis tied up the vessel he had been piloting and bid farewell to the clients while still on the dock. It didn’t appear to Colt that a sale was going to happen at that moment, which meant that the broker would walk back up to his office alone. Colt and Krissy waited patiently while Mathis finished his duties with the boat then watched from a distance as he unlocked the door and entered The Yachtery office.
“So what exactly is your plan,” Krissy asked?
“I have found that if you accuse someone of something that is way out there, they will sometimes be so surprised that they reveal a hint about their real crime,” Colt explained.
“You know you need evidence, right?” Krissy questioned, growing a little concerned with Colt’s strategy. “People get mad when the cops come in and accuse them of something and have no evidence.”
“Ahh,” Colt said, “but I’m not a cop.”
“Maybe it would be better if I sat this one out. Plausible deniability is always a good defense.”
“Suit yourself,” Colt replied as he walked off toward the now unlocked door of The Yachtery office.
Inside, the receptionist’s desk was empty, as would be expected on a Sunday afternoon. The sound of the door must have alerted Mathis because he appeared from the back room seconds after Colt wandered in. “I thought I already told you I was busy the night your friend was attacked,” Mathis began abruptly.
“I am actually not here about that,” Colt replied. He hesitated a minute before continuing, his eyes darting around the room, trying to look as uncomfortable as possible. “What I am actually here for is another issue altogether.” Mathis looked at him without saying a word, but his expression indicated that Colt should continue. “I’ve got a client who had a friend down in Mexico. He wants to bring him up here. I hear your boats have been known to help out with that kind of transaction before.”
Mathis wasted no time in shutting down Colt’s imaginative theory. “I don’t know where you heard that from, Mr…”
“Crawford,” Colt reminded him.
“But I can assure you I am not in that business. I will gladly sell you a boat, and what you do with it is your business, but I am 100% legitimate. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
“You bet,” Colt said. The words almost froze Steven Mathis in his tracks.
“Excuse me? Mathis said.
“Oh, I just said, ‘You bet,’” Colt reiterated.
Mathis stopped to let the flow of the conversation sink in, then added, “Good afternoon, Mr. Crawford.”
Once back outside with Krissy, Colt summarized his second encounter with Steven Mathis. “Something the Chief said gave me an idea,” he said. “Just as I was about to leave, I said, ‘You bet.’ That seemed to give the guy pause. He just stopped and stared at me for a minute.”
“OK, and your point is?” Krissy prodded.
“I think the guy’s a bookie,” Colt explained. “Creighton was in too deep with gambling debt and Mathis hires a guy to send Creighton a message. He feels bad about getting his new girlfriend into all of this and tries to kill himself when he hears what happened.”
“That all makes sense,” Krissy said. “Now all we have to do is a) prove it, b) figure out who actually attacked the girl, and C) connect all that back to Steven Mathis.
“Hey, I did my part. Now you do yours,” Colt said with a slight snicker.
“Meet me back at the station,” Krissy said with a smug grin.
“So what exactly is your plan,” Krissy asked?
“I have found that if you accuse someone of something that is way out there, they will sometimes be so surprised that they reveal a hint about their real crime,” Colt explained.
“You know you need evidence, right?” Krissy questioned, growing a little concerned with Colt’s strategy. “People get mad when the cops come in and accuse them of something and have no evidence.”
“Ahh,” Colt said, “but I’m not a cop.”
“Maybe it would be better if I sat this one out. Plausible deniability is always a good defense.”
“Suit yourself,” Colt replied as he walked off toward the now unlocked door of The Yachtery office.
Inside, the receptionist’s desk was empty, as would be expected on a Sunday afternoon. The sound of the door must have alerted Mathis because he appeared from the back room seconds after Colt wandered in. “I thought I already told you I was busy the night your friend was attacked,” Mathis began abruptly.
“I am actually not here about that,” Colt replied. He hesitated a minute before continuing, his eyes darting around the room, trying to look as uncomfortable as possible. “What I am actually here for is another issue altogether.” Mathis looked at him without saying a word, but his expression indicated that Colt should continue. “I’ve got a client who had a friend down in Mexico. He wants to bring him up here. I hear your boats have been known to help out with that kind of transaction before.”
Mathis wasted no time in shutting down Colt’s imaginative theory. “I don’t know where you heard that from, Mr…”
“Crawford,” Colt reminded him.
“But I can assure you I am not in that business. I will gladly sell you a boat, and what you do with it is your business, but I am 100% legitimate. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
“You bet,” Colt said. The words almost froze Steven Mathis in his tracks.
“Excuse me? Mathis said.
“Oh, I just said, ‘You bet,’” Colt reiterated.
Mathis stopped to let the flow of the conversation sink in, then added, “Good afternoon, Mr. Crawford.”
Once back outside with Krissy, Colt summarized his second encounter with Steven Mathis. “Something the Chief said gave me an idea,” he said. “Just as I was about to leave, I said, ‘You bet.’ That seemed to give the guy pause. He just stopped and stared at me for a minute.”
“OK, and your point is?” Krissy prodded.
“I think the guy’s a bookie,” Colt explained. “Creighton was in too deep with gambling debt and Mathis hires a guy to send Creighton a message. He feels bad about getting his new girlfriend into all of this and tries to kill himself when he hears what happened.”
“That all makes sense,” Krissy said. “Now all we have to do is a) prove it, b) figure out who actually attacked the girl, and C) connect all that back to Steven Mathis.
“Hey, I did my part. Now you do yours,” Colt said with a slight snicker.
“Meet me back at the station,” Krissy said with a smug grin.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 8 (Tuesday)
Colt and Krissy thanked the art gallery proprietor for his time and stepped outside . “So what do you think of that?” Colt asked.
“Well, there seems to be a pattern of suspicious behavior,” Krissy said. “But that doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”
Colt glanced down the ramp and noticed a healthy-looking retirement-aged couple as they stepped down off a 35 foot sport fisher and made their way up the dock. Krissy saw them as well and, as they approached, she called out, “Did you catch anything, Chief?”
“Nothing today, Detective,” he called back. Once they were through the gate, Krissy shook his hand and introduced Colt. “This is Colt Crawford,” she began. “He’s the one who found the girl in the case I’m working.”
Colt offered his hand as the chief introduced himself, “Dean Brown,” the man said. Colt took in his classic top-cop image: the short hair, the full greying mustache, the slightly enlarged belly. “Are you at the harbor on business or pleasure,” he asked, turning again toward his detective.
“Business,” she replied, but stopped short of offering any details. She wasn’t ready to reveal to her boss that a P.I. was helping her with an investigation. There was a stigma in the police world about that sort of thing.
“Don’t work too hard. It is the weekend, you know,” Chief Brown said stepping away.
“I won’t. Enjoy your afternoon, Chief,” Krissy said.
“You bet,” the chief replied.
After he was well out of ear-shot, Colt turned to Krissy and said, “Seems like a nice boss.”
“You bet,” she replied with a slight giggle. “He loves to say that. It’s kind of like his mantra.”
Colt glanced back down into the marina and saw another boat approaching one of the empty slips closest to them. Fastened to the railing on the starboard bow was a sign that read “Offered by The Yachtery.”
“I’ll bet that’s our guy,” he said nodding toward the 40 foot sail boat. Then Colt got quiet, his eyes seemed to fix on something just past the distant horizon. Something was churning in his head as he tried to fit the pieces together. “I just had a thought,” he said without taking his eyes off the their distant gaze.
“Tell me,” Krissy prodded.
“What if this office is a front for something?” He paused before continuing. “Creighton sees him regularly, but clearly can’t afford a yacht. The gallery guy says that a lot of people who can’t afford yachts come through his office. It seems like an expensive way to sell drugs, but who would suspect an upscale yacht broker.”
“So Creighton tries to kill himself because he got Samantha involved in drug deal?” Krissy speculated.
“The only drugs in his system were the sleeping pills he took to kill himself,” Colt continued, “so he’s not taking anything illegal.”
“But he may be selling them,” Krissy added.
“Follow my lead,” Colt said with a hint of mischief in his eyes.
“That look makes me nervous,” Krissy replied.
“It should, but this could be fun, too.”
“Well, there seems to be a pattern of suspicious behavior,” Krissy said. “But that doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”
Colt glanced down the ramp and noticed a healthy-looking retirement-aged couple as they stepped down off a 35 foot sport fisher and made their way up the dock. Krissy saw them as well and, as they approached, she called out, “Did you catch anything, Chief?”
“Nothing today, Detective,” he called back. Once they were through the gate, Krissy shook his hand and introduced Colt. “This is Colt Crawford,” she began. “He’s the one who found the girl in the case I’m working.”
Colt offered his hand as the chief introduced himself, “Dean Brown,” the man said. Colt took in his classic top-cop image: the short hair, the full greying mustache, the slightly enlarged belly. “Are you at the harbor on business or pleasure,” he asked, turning again toward his detective.
“Business,” she replied, but stopped short of offering any details. She wasn’t ready to reveal to her boss that a P.I. was helping her with an investigation. There was a stigma in the police world about that sort of thing.
“Don’t work too hard. It is the weekend, you know,” Chief Brown said stepping away.
“I won’t. Enjoy your afternoon, Chief,” Krissy said.
“You bet,” the chief replied.
After he was well out of ear-shot, Colt turned to Krissy and said, “Seems like a nice boss.”
“You bet,” she replied with a slight giggle. “He loves to say that. It’s kind of like his mantra.”
Colt glanced back down into the marina and saw another boat approaching one of the empty slips closest to them. Fastened to the railing on the starboard bow was a sign that read “Offered by The Yachtery.”
“I’ll bet that’s our guy,” he said nodding toward the 40 foot sail boat. Then Colt got quiet, his eyes seemed to fix on something just past the distant horizon. Something was churning in his head as he tried to fit the pieces together. “I just had a thought,” he said without taking his eyes off the their distant gaze.
“Tell me,” Krissy prodded.
“What if this office is a front for something?” He paused before continuing. “Creighton sees him regularly, but clearly can’t afford a yacht. The gallery guy says that a lot of people who can’t afford yachts come through his office. It seems like an expensive way to sell drugs, but who would suspect an upscale yacht broker.”
“So Creighton tries to kill himself because he got Samantha involved in drug deal?” Krissy speculated.
“The only drugs in his system were the sleeping pills he took to kill himself,” Colt continued, “so he’s not taking anything illegal.”
“But he may be selling them,” Krissy added.
“Follow my lead,” Colt said with a hint of mischief in his eyes.
“That look makes me nervous,” Krissy replied.
“It should, but this could be fun, too.”
Monday, February 15, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 8 (Monday)
When Detective Krissy Malone arrived at the Santa Barbara Harbor, she quickly tracked Colt down in front of the Yachtery office. “I saw his truck in the parking lot,” Krissy said as she leaned her back against the railing that separated the commercial part of the marina from the private docks.
“He’s out on a cruise right now with a client,” Colt replied. “He’ll be back soon.” Nodding toward the art gallery next door to the Yachtery, Colt added, “Let’s go talk to the guy in there.”
“You want to go in as cops or as wealthy art connoisseurs?” Krissy asked with a mischievous gleam in her eye that did not go unnoticed by Colt Crawford.
“The artist in me couldn’t possibly pass up an offer like that,” he replied. With a quick pivot he offered his arm to Krissy and together they marched toward the gallery. Although the gesture had been entirely in play, something about it felt right.
The inside of the gallery displayed various color and black and white photography by one of the local artists. On the back wall, Colt found himself transfixed by a display of photos of various doors from old European buildings. The washed out blues and dull reds captured the mixture of the hope and despair felt by the locals. Something about the images made him wonder what was hidden on the other side of the doors. How many doors had Colt closed in his lifetime? How many had he failed to open? Were there doors to open in front of him now? Was he missing opportunities that he should seize?
His mind traced back to the church service he had attended that morning. Something that the pastor had said reverberated in his mind as his eyes traveled across the wall form door to door. “If you ask God for wisdom, He will give it to you?” Were the answers to all his questions simply waiting behind a door labeled, Ask God?
“May I help you?” a voice asked from behind. Colt and Krissy turned and greeted the trendy young proprietor of the gallery.
“We are actually waiting for Mr. Mathis next door at The Yachtery,” Colt said. “But I am very intrigued by these photos.” Colt decided to use the photography exhibit as a tool for starting the conversation that could lead into questions about Steven Mathis. The proprietor began to explain that the photographs had been taken by a local photographer who had made several trips to Europe over the past decade, each time adding to his collection.
After several minutes of a low pressure sales talk, Krissy jumped in to redirect the conversation. “Honey,” she began, staying in character, “we are here to buy a boat, not a picture.”
Colt took the hint and immediately changed the subject. “Is he usually late for appointments?” he asked gesturing toward the office next door.
“I don’t know about his schedule. But he is odd.”
“Really? How so?” Colt asked.
The proprietor continued, “For a salesman, he’s not very friendly. He goes into his office and only comes out to show boats to clients. I’ve tried saying hi to him before, but he doesn’t seem to have time to say anything back.” The man paused for a minute as if trying to decide if he should say any more. Apparently deciding to go on he added, “You know what I’ve always thought was strange, though?”
“What?” Krissy asked quizzically.
“He gets these clients in there who obviously can’t afford what he is selling. I’d say most of his clients are not the yacht type, if you know what I mean. But” he continued, “he takes them out on these cruises anyway.”
Colt and Krissy nodded as he spoke, not quite sure what it meant.
“He’s out on a cruise right now with a client,” Colt replied. “He’ll be back soon.” Nodding toward the art gallery next door to the Yachtery, Colt added, “Let’s go talk to the guy in there.”
“You want to go in as cops or as wealthy art connoisseurs?” Krissy asked with a mischievous gleam in her eye that did not go unnoticed by Colt Crawford.
“The artist in me couldn’t possibly pass up an offer like that,” he replied. With a quick pivot he offered his arm to Krissy and together they marched toward the gallery. Although the gesture had been entirely in play, something about it felt right.
The inside of the gallery displayed various color and black and white photography by one of the local artists. On the back wall, Colt found himself transfixed by a display of photos of various doors from old European buildings. The washed out blues and dull reds captured the mixture of the hope and despair felt by the locals. Something about the images made him wonder what was hidden on the other side of the doors. How many doors had Colt closed in his lifetime? How many had he failed to open? Were there doors to open in front of him now? Was he missing opportunities that he should seize?
His mind traced back to the church service he had attended that morning. Something that the pastor had said reverberated in his mind as his eyes traveled across the wall form door to door. “If you ask God for wisdom, He will give it to you?” Were the answers to all his questions simply waiting behind a door labeled, Ask God?
“May I help you?” a voice asked from behind. Colt and Krissy turned and greeted the trendy young proprietor of the gallery.
“We are actually waiting for Mr. Mathis next door at The Yachtery,” Colt said. “But I am very intrigued by these photos.” Colt decided to use the photography exhibit as a tool for starting the conversation that could lead into questions about Steven Mathis. The proprietor began to explain that the photographs had been taken by a local photographer who had made several trips to Europe over the past decade, each time adding to his collection.
After several minutes of a low pressure sales talk, Krissy jumped in to redirect the conversation. “Honey,” she began, staying in character, “we are here to buy a boat, not a picture.”
Colt took the hint and immediately changed the subject. “Is he usually late for appointments?” he asked gesturing toward the office next door.
“I don’t know about his schedule. But he is odd.”
“Really? How so?” Colt asked.
The proprietor continued, “For a salesman, he’s not very friendly. He goes into his office and only comes out to show boats to clients. I’ve tried saying hi to him before, but he doesn’t seem to have time to say anything back.” The man paused for a minute as if trying to decide if he should say any more. Apparently deciding to go on he added, “You know what I’ve always thought was strange, though?”
“What?” Krissy asked quizzically.
“He gets these clients in there who obviously can’t afford what he is selling. I’d say most of his clients are not the yacht type, if you know what I mean. But” he continued, “he takes them out on these cruises anyway.”
Colt and Krissy nodded as he spoke, not quite sure what it meant.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 7 (Thursday)
Thursday is here. That means it is voting time! There are two questions for this chapter, so make sure you look at the poll at the top right part of the screen. I know there are a lot of you out there who have been reading and not voting. Don't be shy!
----
Krissy walked around the outside of her cubicle and came up from behind Colt. She peered over his left shoulder and her eyes locked on the name that he had highlighted. “For some reason, I’m not surprised,” she said. The effort they had spent combing over Creighton’s phone records was about to pay off.
“Why would a guy who works at the Ford dealer in Los Angeles call a yacht broker in Santa Barbara?” Colt asked.
“The broker does have a second house in L.A.,” Krissy responded. “So there could be a connection there.”
Colt realized the connection, but continued thinking aloud. “Can you run a DMV search on him? Find out what kind of cars he owns?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” Krissy said as she slipped around to her own desk. Colt could hear her fingers tapping away on the keyboard as she initiated her search. A few mouse clicks later, she announced what she had found. “Here it is. He’s got a Lexus, a Ford pick up, and a boat all registered in his name.”
“A Ford pick up, that’s our link. He goes down to L.A. in his big, old truck, takes it to the dealer for some work and runs into our buddy, Creighton.”
“The question is ‘What did they talk about?’” Krissy said. “I’ll see if I can get the service records from the Ford dealer for Steven Mathis. If you are right, that will tell us when they met.”
Colt and Krissy agreed that they wanted to have as much in their arsenal as possible when they confronted Mathis again, so Krissy got right to work on the service records while Colt decided to drive down to the marina and see what he could learn about the owner of the Yachtery.
Given that it was a Sunday afternoon, Krissy ran into some resistance from the operator at the Ford dealer. She insisted that the service area was closed until Monday morning and that no one in the building had access to the records. After working her way up the food chain, Krissy finally was routed to a salesman who had once worked in service and knew his way around the database. He promised he would fax her the information as soon as he found it.
Colt arrived at the marina and parked a short distance from the Yachtery office. He was hoping that the brokerage would be closed so that he would have a chance to chat up the locals in an effort to learn more about their newly identified suspect. Next door to the Mathis’ office was a small art gallery. Colt peeked through the front window and saw a few people milling around. He made a note to check in there before he left if he didn’t have any leads, but first, he wanted to talk to the people who knew boats.
Glancing down one of the ramps that lead to a row of slips, Colt noticed a man in a wet suit with full scuba gear and a bucket of tools approaching him. Although he had limited knowledge of the sea, Colt was aware enough to recognize a barnacle scraper when he saw one. “Good afternoon,” Colt said when the man was close enough.” Once he had his attention, Colt continued. “Do you know what kind of hours the guy at the yacht broker up there keeps?”
“He’s usually busy on weekends showing people boats,” the barnacle man said. “It’s kind of a weekend business.”
“Good chance he’ll be in and out today, then?” Colt asked somewhat rhetorically. Barnacle Man nodded and handed him a card from his tool bucket as he said, “Once you buy a boat, call me. Your first scrape is half price.”
Just then Colt’s phone rang. He picked it up and heard Krissy’s voice filling him in on the service records she had found. Sure enough, Steven Mathis was a regular at the dealership. As a matter of fact, he stopped by nearly every week according to the salesman, but he only had work done every three or four trips. The others were purely social visits. “This salesman remembered seeing Mathis once he realized which truck he drives. I guess it’s pretty distinct so he was able to give me a lot of details over the phone,” Krissy said.
Colt told Krissy that Mathis was out at the moment, so he was going to continue talking to the locals. He wanted to find out all he could before Steven Mathis returned to his office.
---Results ---
Question #1
If you were Colt Crawford, who would you interview next?
A) The ice cream shop owner three doors down from The Yachtery - 0%
B) The art gallery owner next door to the Yachtery - 100%
C) A local boat owner who was walking by - 0%
Question #2
What should he learn from his interview?
A) Mathis is a friendly guy who talks to everyone - 0%
B) Mathis keeps to himself and doesn’t talk to the neighbors much - 50%
C) Mathis behaves suspiciously at times - 50%
----
Krissy walked around the outside of her cubicle and came up from behind Colt. She peered over his left shoulder and her eyes locked on the name that he had highlighted. “For some reason, I’m not surprised,” she said. The effort they had spent combing over Creighton’s phone records was about to pay off.
“Why would a guy who works at the Ford dealer in Los Angeles call a yacht broker in Santa Barbara?” Colt asked.
“The broker does have a second house in L.A.,” Krissy responded. “So there could be a connection there.”
Colt realized the connection, but continued thinking aloud. “Can you run a DMV search on him? Find out what kind of cars he owns?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” Krissy said as she slipped around to her own desk. Colt could hear her fingers tapping away on the keyboard as she initiated her search. A few mouse clicks later, she announced what she had found. “Here it is. He’s got a Lexus, a Ford pick up, and a boat all registered in his name.”
“A Ford pick up, that’s our link. He goes down to L.A. in his big, old truck, takes it to the dealer for some work and runs into our buddy, Creighton.”
“The question is ‘What did they talk about?’” Krissy said. “I’ll see if I can get the service records from the Ford dealer for Steven Mathis. If you are right, that will tell us when they met.”
Colt and Krissy agreed that they wanted to have as much in their arsenal as possible when they confronted Mathis again, so Krissy got right to work on the service records while Colt decided to drive down to the marina and see what he could learn about the owner of the Yachtery.
Given that it was a Sunday afternoon, Krissy ran into some resistance from the operator at the Ford dealer. She insisted that the service area was closed until Monday morning and that no one in the building had access to the records. After working her way up the food chain, Krissy finally was routed to a salesman who had once worked in service and knew his way around the database. He promised he would fax her the information as soon as he found it.
Colt arrived at the marina and parked a short distance from the Yachtery office. He was hoping that the brokerage would be closed so that he would have a chance to chat up the locals in an effort to learn more about their newly identified suspect. Next door to the Mathis’ office was a small art gallery. Colt peeked through the front window and saw a few people milling around. He made a note to check in there before he left if he didn’t have any leads, but first, he wanted to talk to the people who knew boats.
Glancing down one of the ramps that lead to a row of slips, Colt noticed a man in a wet suit with full scuba gear and a bucket of tools approaching him. Although he had limited knowledge of the sea, Colt was aware enough to recognize a barnacle scraper when he saw one. “Good afternoon,” Colt said when the man was close enough.” Once he had his attention, Colt continued. “Do you know what kind of hours the guy at the yacht broker up there keeps?”
“He’s usually busy on weekends showing people boats,” the barnacle man said. “It’s kind of a weekend business.”
“Good chance he’ll be in and out today, then?” Colt asked somewhat rhetorically. Barnacle Man nodded and handed him a card from his tool bucket as he said, “Once you buy a boat, call me. Your first scrape is half price.”
Just then Colt’s phone rang. He picked it up and heard Krissy’s voice filling him in on the service records she had found. Sure enough, Steven Mathis was a regular at the dealership. As a matter of fact, he stopped by nearly every week according to the salesman, but he only had work done every three or four trips. The others were purely social visits. “This salesman remembered seeing Mathis once he realized which truck he drives. I guess it’s pretty distinct so he was able to give me a lot of details over the phone,” Krissy said.
Colt told Krissy that Mathis was out at the moment, so he was going to continue talking to the locals. He wanted to find out all he could before Steven Mathis returned to his office.
---Results ---
Question #1
If you were Colt Crawford, who would you interview next?
A) The ice cream shop owner three doors down from The Yachtery - 0%
B) The art gallery owner next door to the Yachtery - 100%
C) A local boat owner who was walking by - 0%
Question #2
What should he learn from his interview?
A) Mathis is a friendly guy who talks to everyone - 0%
B) Mathis keeps to himself and doesn’t talk to the neighbors much - 50%
C) Mathis behaves suspiciously at times - 50%
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 7 (Wednesday)
Creighton had been in the hospital for two full days and was ready to get out. It had not been the way he had planned to spend his weekend, although, he did admit to himself that the hospital was a better alternative than his original weekend plan. He carefully pulled the I.V. from his arm and found his clothes wadded up in a small plastic bag in the closet.
Given the failed attempt at suicide, the baggage that he had created over the past year was weighing heavily on him. Had it really been a year already? How could things have gotten so bad in such a short amount of time? Only one year ago he had been living a comfortable life with little stress and a good job. Now the debt he faced consumed his every waking minute. The fear that accompanied that debt kept him awake at night and eagerly stole any remaining quality from his life.
What had he gotten from all of this? He had no new possessions to show for it, only stress and fear. His girlfriend was almost killed because of his selfishness. He had even tried to kill himself. All Creighton knew was that his life was spinning out of control. He had to get back on top and the only way he knew how was the same way that had brought him down.
The phone number for a new bookie was on his dresser at home. His friend had assured him that the guy was good and a big pay out was within reach. The BCS championship game was coming in only 2 more days. If he played his cards right, this little football game could be his ticket out of this pain - a ticket back to a normal life. If he played it wrong, he had one more bottle of pills.
Creighton became consumed with getting home. He had to get the number for the bookie and make the call. His old agent would never take his bet. He was in too deep. Creighton needed a fresh start and this was his only shot. With his clothes back on, he turned toward the door and walked out of the hospital a free man. And no one even saw him going.
Since he had arrived in the back of an ambulance, he had to find a cab outside the hospital to take him home. L.A. has its fair share of cabs, but it’s not New York. With no leads in sight, Creighton whipped out his cell phone and made a quick call. Six minutes later, a yellow car pulled up in front of him and he climbed in.
Once he was safely at home, Creighton Ford went into his bedroom and found the phone number he needed. With a deep breath and pounding heart he dialed the number, knowing he could be making a fatal mistake, but what other choice did he have? The only thing that could guarantee Samantha’s safety was to pay what he owed. He had been given until Friday. The warning had been perfectly clear. If things weren’t squared up by then, Samantha had seen her last weekend. The phone rang three times before someone answered it. Creighton told the mysterious voice where he had gotten the number and what he wanted to do. With trembling hands, he hung up the phone and waited until the big game on Tuesday night was over.
Given the failed attempt at suicide, the baggage that he had created over the past year was weighing heavily on him. Had it really been a year already? How could things have gotten so bad in such a short amount of time? Only one year ago he had been living a comfortable life with little stress and a good job. Now the debt he faced consumed his every waking minute. The fear that accompanied that debt kept him awake at night and eagerly stole any remaining quality from his life.
What had he gotten from all of this? He had no new possessions to show for it, only stress and fear. His girlfriend was almost killed because of his selfishness. He had even tried to kill himself. All Creighton knew was that his life was spinning out of control. He had to get back on top and the only way he knew how was the same way that had brought him down.
The phone number for a new bookie was on his dresser at home. His friend had assured him that the guy was good and a big pay out was within reach. The BCS championship game was coming in only 2 more days. If he played his cards right, this little football game could be his ticket out of this pain - a ticket back to a normal life. If he played it wrong, he had one more bottle of pills.
Creighton became consumed with getting home. He had to get the number for the bookie and make the call. His old agent would never take his bet. He was in too deep. Creighton needed a fresh start and this was his only shot. With his clothes back on, he turned toward the door and walked out of the hospital a free man. And no one even saw him going.
Since he had arrived in the back of an ambulance, he had to find a cab outside the hospital to take him home. L.A. has its fair share of cabs, but it’s not New York. With no leads in sight, Creighton whipped out his cell phone and made a quick call. Six minutes later, a yellow car pulled up in front of him and he climbed in.
Once he was safely at home, Creighton Ford went into his bedroom and found the phone number he needed. With a deep breath and pounding heart he dialed the number, knowing he could be making a fatal mistake, but what other choice did he have? The only thing that could guarantee Samantha’s safety was to pay what he owed. He had been given until Friday. The warning had been perfectly clear. If things weren’t squared up by then, Samantha had seen her last weekend. The phone rang three times before someone answered it. Creighton told the mysterious voice where he had gotten the number and what he wanted to do. With trembling hands, he hung up the phone and waited until the big game on Tuesday night was over.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 7 (Tuesday)
The drive north was uneventful. Given that it was early Sunday afternoon, the traffic was light and the pace was quick, just the way Colt and Krissy liked it. As Colt veered off of the 101 he came to a stop at a red light at the bottom of the ramp. The rest of the drive to the police department would be on slow-moving surface streets, so Colt reached down and pressed a small black button on the dashboard. With only the slightest hum, the car’s top automatically lowered itself into a tidy storage bin behind the rear seat. The warm winter sun almost made up for the cool ocean air that was blowing from the left side of the car. To compensate for the breeze, Colt reached down and turned the heater up to its highest setting. “That’s the way I like it,” he said glancing across the car toward Krissy.
“Top down, heater on,” Krissy replied. “Interesting.” Colt glanced over at her just as the light turned green. He saw a quick smile flash across her face and something told him that this was not going to be an ordinary day.
“Let’s pay Samantha a quick visit, then check on those phone records,” Krissy suggested.
After a brief stop at the hospital, Colt and Krissy found a sandwich shop and ordered a couple of subs to go. In the car once again for the short jaunt to the P.D. Colt began to piece things together. “So Samantha is a lawyer for some rich Beverly Hills snob. She stops by his house one day to drop off some legal documents and meets his live-in girlfriend, Mandy. They meet again at a party the snob was throwing a few weeks later and become friends.”
“I’m with you so far,” Krissy said.
“Then one day Mandy introduces Samantha to her brother, Creighton,” Colt continued as Krissy nodded her agreement. “Creighton is a creep of some sort, only we don’t know the exact variety of creephood that he comes from. Samantha gets attacked, presumably on purpose, and Creighton feels so bad about it that he tries to kill himself.”
“Allegedly,” Krissy added in her most sincere cop voice.
“So, if we can find a motive for Creighton wanting to hurt Samantha, then we have the missing link,” Colt concluded.
“Yes, but I don’t think he’s just going to tell us,” Krissy added. “But those phone records just might.” Colt steered the Beemer into the parking lot at the police station and flipped the transmission into park. Together he and Krissy marched in and made their way to Detective Malone’s cubicle. “Hey, Sanchez,” Krissy said. “Did you get those phone records I needed?”
“Catch,” Detective Sanchez said as he tossed a manilla envelope towards Krissy. Eager to start the process of combing over every number, Krissy, pried open the clasp and split the documents into two piles.
“You take half,” Krissy said tossing a stack to Colt. “Let me know what you find.” Colt began pouring over the numbers, plugging them into a reverse online directory. The task was tedious. Creighton had a home phone as well as a cell phone and apparently made a lot of calls in the last month. He eagerly chomped on the 12-inch hoagie he had picked up at the sandwich shop as his fingers zipped away at the ten-key pad on the computer he was using. His frantic data entry stopped when a familiar name flashed onto the screen.
“Now that’s interesting,” Colt said to himself. “Krissy, take a look at this.”
“Top down, heater on,” Krissy replied. “Interesting.” Colt glanced over at her just as the light turned green. He saw a quick smile flash across her face and something told him that this was not going to be an ordinary day.
“Let’s pay Samantha a quick visit, then check on those phone records,” Krissy suggested.
After a brief stop at the hospital, Colt and Krissy found a sandwich shop and ordered a couple of subs to go. In the car once again for the short jaunt to the P.D. Colt began to piece things together. “So Samantha is a lawyer for some rich Beverly Hills snob. She stops by his house one day to drop off some legal documents and meets his live-in girlfriend, Mandy. They meet again at a party the snob was throwing a few weeks later and become friends.”
“I’m with you so far,” Krissy said.
“Then one day Mandy introduces Samantha to her brother, Creighton,” Colt continued as Krissy nodded her agreement. “Creighton is a creep of some sort, only we don’t know the exact variety of creephood that he comes from. Samantha gets attacked, presumably on purpose, and Creighton feels so bad about it that he tries to kill himself.”
“Allegedly,” Krissy added in her most sincere cop voice.
“So, if we can find a motive for Creighton wanting to hurt Samantha, then we have the missing link,” Colt concluded.
“Yes, but I don’t think he’s just going to tell us,” Krissy added. “But those phone records just might.” Colt steered the Beemer into the parking lot at the police station and flipped the transmission into park. Together he and Krissy marched in and made their way to Detective Malone’s cubicle. “Hey, Sanchez,” Krissy said. “Did you get those phone records I needed?”
“Catch,” Detective Sanchez said as he tossed a manilla envelope towards Krissy. Eager to start the process of combing over every number, Krissy, pried open the clasp and split the documents into two piles.
“You take half,” Krissy said tossing a stack to Colt. “Let me know what you find.” Colt began pouring over the numbers, plugging them into a reverse online directory. The task was tedious. Creighton had a home phone as well as a cell phone and apparently made a lot of calls in the last month. He eagerly chomped on the 12-inch hoagie he had picked up at the sandwich shop as his fingers zipped away at the ten-key pad on the computer he was using. His frantic data entry stopped when a familiar name flashed onto the screen.
“Now that’s interesting,” Colt said to himself. “Krissy, take a look at this.”
Monday, February 8, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 7 (Monday)
“Take a look at this,” Colt said to Krissy as they walked down the hallway toward the bank of elevators.
“What is it?” Krissy asked, her curiosity clearly piqued.
“That’s a surveillance picture I took last Friday for one of my clients. I was following the girl when I took this shot.”
Krissy looked at the picture and instantly recognized the face. “So you’ve seen him before?”
“Only for a few minutes,” Colt said. “Shortly after I took this shot, I went off the deep end and left it all behind.”
“What do you know about him?” Krissy asked.
“Not much. His sister’s name is Mandy Miles and he was trying to help her get out of an abusive relationship. I never did get his name.”
“You did now,” Krissy said. “You want to go back and chat him up some more?” That was an idea that Colt couldn’t pass up. Without missing a beat, he turned around and walked straight back to room 3104 to learn more about Creighton Ford and his sister Mandy.
“Mr. Ford,” Colt said as he entered the room. “I just have a few more questions.” Creighton did not look enthusiastic about seeing the duo again so soon.
“I told your lady friend everything I could,” he said.
Undeterred, Colt pressed on. “How’s Mandy doing? Is that bum boyfriend of hers still beating her?”
“How do you know about that?” Creighton demanded, shock evident on his face.
“I’m an investigator,” Colt responded cooly. “I get paid to investigate.” Changing the subject, he continued, “How did you and Samantha meet?”
Creighton’s face fell revealing his resignation. Fearing what more Colt might already know, he tried to sort out his thoughts before talking. Averting his eyes from Colt’s intense stare, Creighton shifted his gaze toward the small window that overlooked the hospital’s parking structure. Then, with a series of controlled breaths he began. “Mandy introduced us a few months ago.”
“And how does Mandy know Samantha?” Colt prodded.
“All I know is that they are friends. You will have to ask one of them how they met,” Creighton answered.
Colt had the connection he needed. Somehow the case he was working before he left L.A. two days ago was connected to the case he had stumbled upon late Friday night. And the link was Mandy Miles.
“Mr. Ford, it’s time for you to get some exercise,” a cheery Filipino nurse said, her accent revealing her non-mastery of the English language. “The doctor says you need to keep your blood flowing to flush those dirty pills out of your system.”
Colt and Krissy again thanked Creighton for his time and excused themselves while he tried to maintain his modesty in the hospital gown and get out of the bed. As they again walked down the hall, Colt said to Krissy, “We need to get a copy of his phone records. I want to know who he has been talking to. There is a lot he’s not telling us.”
“I agree,” Krissy said. “I’ll have them waiting at the P.D. when we get back.”
“You need anything else while we are here?” Colt asked.
“I have what I need. Let’s get back to Santa Barbara.”
“What is it?” Krissy asked, her curiosity clearly piqued.
“That’s a surveillance picture I took last Friday for one of my clients. I was following the girl when I took this shot.”
Krissy looked at the picture and instantly recognized the face. “So you’ve seen him before?”
“Only for a few minutes,” Colt said. “Shortly after I took this shot, I went off the deep end and left it all behind.”
“What do you know about him?” Krissy asked.
“Not much. His sister’s name is Mandy Miles and he was trying to help her get out of an abusive relationship. I never did get his name.”
“You did now,” Krissy said. “You want to go back and chat him up some more?” That was an idea that Colt couldn’t pass up. Without missing a beat, he turned around and walked straight back to room 3104 to learn more about Creighton Ford and his sister Mandy.
“Mr. Ford,” Colt said as he entered the room. “I just have a few more questions.” Creighton did not look enthusiastic about seeing the duo again so soon.
“I told your lady friend everything I could,” he said.
Undeterred, Colt pressed on. “How’s Mandy doing? Is that bum boyfriend of hers still beating her?”
“How do you know about that?” Creighton demanded, shock evident on his face.
“I’m an investigator,” Colt responded cooly. “I get paid to investigate.” Changing the subject, he continued, “How did you and Samantha meet?”
Creighton’s face fell revealing his resignation. Fearing what more Colt might already know, he tried to sort out his thoughts before talking. Averting his eyes from Colt’s intense stare, Creighton shifted his gaze toward the small window that overlooked the hospital’s parking structure. Then, with a series of controlled breaths he began. “Mandy introduced us a few months ago.”
“And how does Mandy know Samantha?” Colt prodded.
“All I know is that they are friends. You will have to ask one of them how they met,” Creighton answered.
Colt had the connection he needed. Somehow the case he was working before he left L.A. two days ago was connected to the case he had stumbled upon late Friday night. And the link was Mandy Miles.
“Mr. Ford, it’s time for you to get some exercise,” a cheery Filipino nurse said, her accent revealing her non-mastery of the English language. “The doctor says you need to keep your blood flowing to flush those dirty pills out of your system.”
Colt and Krissy again thanked Creighton for his time and excused themselves while he tried to maintain his modesty in the hospital gown and get out of the bed. As they again walked down the hall, Colt said to Krissy, “We need to get a copy of his phone records. I want to know who he has been talking to. There is a lot he’s not telling us.”
“I agree,” Krissy said. “I’ll have them waiting at the P.D. when we get back.”
“You need anything else while we are here?” Colt asked.
“I have what I need. Let’s get back to Santa Barbara.”
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Our First Contest!
I am trying to get a feel for how widespread my audience is and you can help me out. Leave a comment below with your city and state and whoever is the furthest from me (except for my sister. Sorry Bekah) will get a special mention in the next chapter as the name of the Santa Barbara police chief.
If you are having trouble posting comments, make sure you click on the "publish comment" button a second time. It doesn't always work on the first try for some reason. You can also e-mail me at aaron643@roadrunner.com if you are not adept at commenting. I will post your comments for you.
If you are having trouble posting comments, make sure you click on the "publish comment" button a second time. It doesn't always work on the first try for some reason. You can also e-mail me at aaron643@roadrunner.com if you are not adept at commenting. I will post your comments for you.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 6 (Thursday)
Today is voting day. I tried hard to get to the drama at the hospital that we voted on last week, but it took a while to get Colt out of Santa Barbara. (He's kind of a slowpoke.) I hope you can all wait until next week to find out what the drama is. As a little token, I'm giving you the chance to vote on it at the end. Enjoy!
---
The church was an old brick building that had been constructed in the 1920s and had been maintained in its original condition for the most part. The pews were long and wooden, the carpet a deep crimson. It was not a large building, but it could comfortably accommodate 120 people. Colt estimated that there were about 80 worshippers at the 8:00 service. According to the church bulletin he had received when he walked in, there was a Sunday school hour at 9:30, then another service after that.
To say he was uncomfortable was an understatement. At least the guy on stage who played the guitar told the crowd when to stand up or sit down, so Colt wasn’t put on the spot, but the whole church setting was not something to which Colt was accustomed. He nervously pretended to leaf through the bulletin, reading a word every now and then, but not really digesting any of it.
As the pastor got up on the stage and started preaching, Colt struggled with a sense of inner conflict. He felt uncomfortable and awkward in the church and wanted to leave, yet there was something inside him that compelled him to stay. There was something strangely inviting about the little place where people came together on Sunday morning to hear God’s word.
As the sermon progressed, Colt listened, but didn’t really understand. He must have missed the context. The preacher was reading from somewhere in the Bible in a book called James. Colt made a note to look that up in the free hotel Bible when he got back to his room that night. As a detective, he always wanted to know the big picture.
Just over an hour after it all started, the guy with the guitar was back on stage for one last song. The congregation stood and Colt dutifully followed. As the music faded away, the crowd started filing out, smiling and shaking hands with each other as they left. Was this really Los Angeles? Colt wondered to himself. No one ever appeared genuinely happy in this town, yet these people were different.
“You ready to head over to the hospital?” Krissy asked after shaking another hand in the foyer.
“It’s why we came,” Colt said. “Might as well go.”
As predicted, the visiting hours didn’t officially begin until 10:00, but with a flash of her badge, Krissy was able to get the senior citizen volunteer at the information desk to overlook the fact that it was only 9:45. The old woman pointed down the hall toward a bank of elevators and indicated where they would find Creighton.
Together Colt and Krissy followed her directions and made it to the third floor. There they made a right and and followed the signs to room 3104. The door was open and the light was on, so Colt gently knocked as they entered.
Creighton was sitting up in his bed, staring at a Sunday morning political talk show, slowly picking at his breakfast. He appeared well-rested and healthy. Apparently the damage done by the pills was mitigated by the highly trained emergency responders. Just before he introduced himself, Colt realized that he had seen this man somewhere before. He couldn’t place it, but there was a familiarity about him that Colt recognized.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said as Krissy began asking questions. Colt stepped out into the hallway and made a quick phone call. Given that it was Sunday morning, it took a few minutes to convince Charlie to do him another favor, but once Colt explained it, his good friend was on board. He wouldn’t even have to leave his house. He could access the files at the office remotely and then e-mail Colt what he found.
Colt returned to the room to find Krissy jotting down a few notes as Creighton recounted what had obviously become a rehearsed story about him being tired of being alone. There was clearly something that Creighton was hiding and Colt was determined to figure it out.
As they stepped out of room 3104 and into the hallway, Colt’s phone indicated that an e-mail had arrived. He looked down at the screen and opened the message. “I knew it,” Colt said as he stared at the the picture Charlie had sent him.
---Results---
With Colt’s newfound information, he and Krissy are going to go back and confront Creighton again. When they get there which of the following scenarios should they encounter? (See voting buttons to the right at the top of the page.)
A) Creighton has left the hospital against medical advice - 34%
B) Creighton has gone into cardiac arrest and Colt and Krissy are turned away - 16%
C) Colt finds another piece of evidence linking Creighton to Samantha - 50%
---
The church was an old brick building that had been constructed in the 1920s and had been maintained in its original condition for the most part. The pews were long and wooden, the carpet a deep crimson. It was not a large building, but it could comfortably accommodate 120 people. Colt estimated that there were about 80 worshippers at the 8:00 service. According to the church bulletin he had received when he walked in, there was a Sunday school hour at 9:30, then another service after that.
To say he was uncomfortable was an understatement. At least the guy on stage who played the guitar told the crowd when to stand up or sit down, so Colt wasn’t put on the spot, but the whole church setting was not something to which Colt was accustomed. He nervously pretended to leaf through the bulletin, reading a word every now and then, but not really digesting any of it.
As the pastor got up on the stage and started preaching, Colt struggled with a sense of inner conflict. He felt uncomfortable and awkward in the church and wanted to leave, yet there was something inside him that compelled him to stay. There was something strangely inviting about the little place where people came together on Sunday morning to hear God’s word.
As the sermon progressed, Colt listened, but didn’t really understand. He must have missed the context. The preacher was reading from somewhere in the Bible in a book called James. Colt made a note to look that up in the free hotel Bible when he got back to his room that night. As a detective, he always wanted to know the big picture.
Just over an hour after it all started, the guy with the guitar was back on stage for one last song. The congregation stood and Colt dutifully followed. As the music faded away, the crowd started filing out, smiling and shaking hands with each other as they left. Was this really Los Angeles? Colt wondered to himself. No one ever appeared genuinely happy in this town, yet these people were different.
“You ready to head over to the hospital?” Krissy asked after shaking another hand in the foyer.
“It’s why we came,” Colt said. “Might as well go.”
As predicted, the visiting hours didn’t officially begin until 10:00, but with a flash of her badge, Krissy was able to get the senior citizen volunteer at the information desk to overlook the fact that it was only 9:45. The old woman pointed down the hall toward a bank of elevators and indicated where they would find Creighton.
Together Colt and Krissy followed her directions and made it to the third floor. There they made a right and and followed the signs to room 3104. The door was open and the light was on, so Colt gently knocked as they entered.
Creighton was sitting up in his bed, staring at a Sunday morning political talk show, slowly picking at his breakfast. He appeared well-rested and healthy. Apparently the damage done by the pills was mitigated by the highly trained emergency responders. Just before he introduced himself, Colt realized that he had seen this man somewhere before. He couldn’t place it, but there was a familiarity about him that Colt recognized.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said as Krissy began asking questions. Colt stepped out into the hallway and made a quick phone call. Given that it was Sunday morning, it took a few minutes to convince Charlie to do him another favor, but once Colt explained it, his good friend was on board. He wouldn’t even have to leave his house. He could access the files at the office remotely and then e-mail Colt what he found.
Colt returned to the room to find Krissy jotting down a few notes as Creighton recounted what had obviously become a rehearsed story about him being tired of being alone. There was clearly something that Creighton was hiding and Colt was determined to figure it out.
As they stepped out of room 3104 and into the hallway, Colt’s phone indicated that an e-mail had arrived. He looked down at the screen and opened the message. “I knew it,” Colt said as he stared at the the picture Charlie had sent him.
---Results---
With Colt’s newfound information, he and Krissy are going to go back and confront Creighton again. When they get there which of the following scenarios should they encounter? (See voting buttons to the right at the top of the page.)
A) Creighton has left the hospital against medical advice - 34%
B) Creighton has gone into cardiac arrest and Colt and Krissy are turned away - 16%
C) Colt finds another piece of evidence linking Creighton to Samantha - 50%
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 6 (Wednesday)
The iPhone came to life at 3:30 a.m. Colt blindly reached for it on the night stand, his fingers finding everything but the phone. Once it was in hand and shut off, he pulled the pesky device up to his face so he could make out the time. As soon as he realized how early it was, he was reminded of the plan for the day.
Within fifteen minutes he was showered, shaved, and dressed in trendy jeans, his faux bowling shoes and an untucked long-sleeved button down shirt. Another few minutes and his hair was gelled into position and he was out the door. He had absolutely no intention of staying in L.A. one second longer than necessary, so he decided to leave his luggage behind. He would be back in Santa Barbara by nightfall.
The drive from the Hotel Oceana to the police station was dark, marked only by the whimsical fog that had painted the landscape with blurry hues of yellow beneath each streetlight. It was eerily pleasant, almost surreal as he made his way down Cabrillo Boulevard toward the station where Krissy was waiting.
Colt, always one for punctuality, pulled his car into the parking lot at 3:58 by the clock on the dash. He glanced around and didn’t see Krissy or her car, but two minutes later, she emerged from behind the building, illuminated by the pale lights of the parking lot. She was dressed in casual slacks, stylish boots, and a black leather jacket. She looked every bit the professional while also maintaining a hint of flirty. Her hair was pulled neatly into a pony tail and a subtle coat of make up accentuated her face.
Without even thinking, Colt hopped out of the driver's seat and ran around behind the car to open the door for Krissy. “Good morning, Detective Malone,” Colt said as she stepped in.
“Ahh, the heater is already on. That feels nice,” Krissy said rubbing her hands together in front of the warm air. The weather was in the low forties and, given the fog, things were damp outside. Colt trotted back to his side, eager to rejoin the warmth and get the day started.
“We should miss any traffic at this hour,” he said.
“Especially since it’s Sunday,” Krissy added. Colt shifted the transmission into drive and depressed the gas pedal gently. The car rolled out into the street, turned left and headed toward the freeway.
The two-hour drive passed quickly, marked by pleasant conversation between Colt and Krissy, mostly about their career paths. Colt told of how he didn’t really care what he did, as long as he did it well. One day when he was in his early twenties a friend told him about a P.I. firm that was hiring, so he gave it a shot and ended up as the boss of his own place four years later.
Krissy recounted her days growing up as the daughter of a cop. She had never really given any other job much thought. “It’s a good career for now,” she said, but I don’t see myself doing it forever.
“What else do you see?”
“You really want to know?” she asked. Colt nodded, so she continued. “I wouldn’t mind being a mom someday. That would be full time enough for me.”
“That’s not a bad goal,” Colt said. “Might want to aim for wife first, but mom would be a good second.” Krissy laughed lightly and blushed at her own forwardness.
It was just shy of six a.m. when they pulled into the Greater Los Angeles Area. “My guess is they won’t be wanting visitors at the hospital at this time of morning,” Colt said. “How ‘bout some breakfast?” Krissy quickly agreed to his suggestion and Colt pulled off the freeway and into an IHOP parking lot. “Are pancakes okay?”
They stayed at the restaurant for about an hour before Krissy said, “Okay, maybe we tried a little too hard to miss the traffic.”
“We do seem to be a bit early,” Colt agreed. “But I prefer to be early than late, although I’m guessing visiting hours at the hospital start around 10:00.”
“Since we have some time to kill, why don’t we find a church and stop by? It is Sunday morning and I doubt there are any movies playing right now,” Krissy suggested.
“Do you usually go to church?” Colt asked.
“Most of the time,” she replied. “But the job eats up my weekends a lot. What about you?”
“Went when I was a kid at Easter. Other than that, can’t say I’ve been much.”
“Give me that fancy phone of yours. I’ll find us a place that has an 8:00 service. That way we can be at the hospital by 10:00,” Krissy said. Colt reached in his pocket and tossed the phone to her open hand. She poked her finger around the screen for a few minutes before announcing that she had found a place close to the hospital that would work.
“Am I dressed okay?” Colt asked.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll probably never see any of these people again,” Krissy said.
Within fifteen minutes he was showered, shaved, and dressed in trendy jeans, his faux bowling shoes and an untucked long-sleeved button down shirt. Another few minutes and his hair was gelled into position and he was out the door. He had absolutely no intention of staying in L.A. one second longer than necessary, so he decided to leave his luggage behind. He would be back in Santa Barbara by nightfall.
The drive from the Hotel Oceana to the police station was dark, marked only by the whimsical fog that had painted the landscape with blurry hues of yellow beneath each streetlight. It was eerily pleasant, almost surreal as he made his way down Cabrillo Boulevard toward the station where Krissy was waiting.
Colt, always one for punctuality, pulled his car into the parking lot at 3:58 by the clock on the dash. He glanced around and didn’t see Krissy or her car, but two minutes later, she emerged from behind the building, illuminated by the pale lights of the parking lot. She was dressed in casual slacks, stylish boots, and a black leather jacket. She looked every bit the professional while also maintaining a hint of flirty. Her hair was pulled neatly into a pony tail and a subtle coat of make up accentuated her face.
Without even thinking, Colt hopped out of the driver's seat and ran around behind the car to open the door for Krissy. “Good morning, Detective Malone,” Colt said as she stepped in.
“Ahh, the heater is already on. That feels nice,” Krissy said rubbing her hands together in front of the warm air. The weather was in the low forties and, given the fog, things were damp outside. Colt trotted back to his side, eager to rejoin the warmth and get the day started.
“We should miss any traffic at this hour,” he said.
“Especially since it’s Sunday,” Krissy added. Colt shifted the transmission into drive and depressed the gas pedal gently. The car rolled out into the street, turned left and headed toward the freeway.
The two-hour drive passed quickly, marked by pleasant conversation between Colt and Krissy, mostly about their career paths. Colt told of how he didn’t really care what he did, as long as he did it well. One day when he was in his early twenties a friend told him about a P.I. firm that was hiring, so he gave it a shot and ended up as the boss of his own place four years later.
Krissy recounted her days growing up as the daughter of a cop. She had never really given any other job much thought. “It’s a good career for now,” she said, but I don’t see myself doing it forever.
“What else do you see?”
“You really want to know?” she asked. Colt nodded, so she continued. “I wouldn’t mind being a mom someday. That would be full time enough for me.”
“That’s not a bad goal,” Colt said. “Might want to aim for wife first, but mom would be a good second.” Krissy laughed lightly and blushed at her own forwardness.
It was just shy of six a.m. when they pulled into the Greater Los Angeles Area. “My guess is they won’t be wanting visitors at the hospital at this time of morning,” Colt said. “How ‘bout some breakfast?” Krissy quickly agreed to his suggestion and Colt pulled off the freeway and into an IHOP parking lot. “Are pancakes okay?”
They stayed at the restaurant for about an hour before Krissy said, “Okay, maybe we tried a little too hard to miss the traffic.”
“We do seem to be a bit early,” Colt agreed. “But I prefer to be early than late, although I’m guessing visiting hours at the hospital start around 10:00.”
“Since we have some time to kill, why don’t we find a church and stop by? It is Sunday morning and I doubt there are any movies playing right now,” Krissy suggested.
“Do you usually go to church?” Colt asked.
“Most of the time,” she replied. “But the job eats up my weekends a lot. What about you?”
“Went when I was a kid at Easter. Other than that, can’t say I’ve been much.”
“Give me that fancy phone of yours. I’ll find us a place that has an 8:00 service. That way we can be at the hospital by 10:00,” Krissy said. Colt reached in his pocket and tossed the phone to her open hand. She poked her finger around the screen for a few minutes before announcing that she had found a place close to the hospital that would work.
“Am I dressed okay?” Colt asked.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll probably never see any of these people again,” Krissy said.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 6 (Tuesday)
Colt dropped Krissy off at the police station and decided that he had better find a place to crash for the night that was close by. The hotel he had stayed at the previous night was just outside of Santa Maria, a good 50 minute drive north of Santa Barbara on the 101. Since he had checked out that morning anyway, there was no reason to make the drive back up. Besides, there were plenty of great hotels in Santa Barbara.
The harbor area had been a pleasant experience, so Colt decided to head back that way. He really didn’t know the town very well, so a little exploratory drive would be nice. Given that the holiday rush was probably subsiding, he gambled that he wouldn’t have any trouble finding a room. As he cruised the beach-side streets he lowered the top of the BMW and breathed in the late afternoon air.
He passed a grassy greenbelt along the road where a lone percussionist was playing his heart out on a set of bongos. As the man beat out the rhythm, a young child danced around, aimlessly weaving in and out of the row of palm trees that lined the street. A handful of tourists mingled down the sidewalk, many stopping to listen, no doubt enjoying the last few minutes of their own vacations before heading home to rejoin real life.
Colt had to glance down at his watch to be reminded of what day of the week it was. He had been out of L.A. for just over 24 hours, but it seemed as if a whole new world was emerging in front of him. It was Saturday afternoon, the second day of the new year, perhaps a very new year.
He continued down Cabrillo Boulevard on his seaside cruise until a sign with the word “Hotel” on it caught his eye. He pulled up in front of a white, two story, Spanish-style building and looked more closely at the sign. If the views from the balconies of Hotel Oceano were any indication of what the inside of the building must be like, Colt would be willing to give it a try. As with most beach towns, parking was a challenge, but Colt was fortunate to find a spot on the street only a short walk from the hotel. He pressed the button to raise the top back up and stepped out of the car. With his sparse luggage in hand, he walked up to the front desk and moments later walked away with a key-card for an ocean view room.
It was nearly 4:30 when Colt tossed his bag on the king sized bed. There was plenty of time for a quick run, some dinner, an hour of T.V. and an early bedtime. As long as no crime victims were hiding in the bushes along his route, it promised to be a fairly routine evening.
With his Nikes laced snugly to his feet and his iPhone in hand Colt trotted down the sidewalk adjacent to the sandy beach across the street from the hotel. He dodged in and out of the tourists who still lingered, breathing in the fresh air. Air like this was a real treat for a city boy and it felt refreshing. The weather was settling into the low 60s by this time of day and promised to drop even more, but it was perfect conditions for running. The sun would be setting out over the Pacific within the hour, and Colt refused to miss it. After about three miles, he turned around and retraced his steps toward the hotel. Glancing over his left shoulder, he watched as the giant orange ball of sun bid farewell to another day and slipped beneath the rolling waves of the sea.
Tomorrow promised to be a long day and a relaxing evening with KFC and a TV was waiting for Colt inside his well-appointed hotel room.
The harbor area had been a pleasant experience, so Colt decided to head back that way. He really didn’t know the town very well, so a little exploratory drive would be nice. Given that the holiday rush was probably subsiding, he gambled that he wouldn’t have any trouble finding a room. As he cruised the beach-side streets he lowered the top of the BMW and breathed in the late afternoon air.
He passed a grassy greenbelt along the road where a lone percussionist was playing his heart out on a set of bongos. As the man beat out the rhythm, a young child danced around, aimlessly weaving in and out of the row of palm trees that lined the street. A handful of tourists mingled down the sidewalk, many stopping to listen, no doubt enjoying the last few minutes of their own vacations before heading home to rejoin real life.
Colt had to glance down at his watch to be reminded of what day of the week it was. He had been out of L.A. for just over 24 hours, but it seemed as if a whole new world was emerging in front of him. It was Saturday afternoon, the second day of the new year, perhaps a very new year.
He continued down Cabrillo Boulevard on his seaside cruise until a sign with the word “Hotel” on it caught his eye. He pulled up in front of a white, two story, Spanish-style building and looked more closely at the sign. If the views from the balconies of Hotel Oceano were any indication of what the inside of the building must be like, Colt would be willing to give it a try. As with most beach towns, parking was a challenge, but Colt was fortunate to find a spot on the street only a short walk from the hotel. He pressed the button to raise the top back up and stepped out of the car. With his sparse luggage in hand, he walked up to the front desk and moments later walked away with a key-card for an ocean view room.
It was nearly 4:30 when Colt tossed his bag on the king sized bed. There was plenty of time for a quick run, some dinner, an hour of T.V. and an early bedtime. As long as no crime victims were hiding in the bushes along his route, it promised to be a fairly routine evening.
With his Nikes laced snugly to his feet and his iPhone in hand Colt trotted down the sidewalk adjacent to the sandy beach across the street from the hotel. He dodged in and out of the tourists who still lingered, breathing in the fresh air. Air like this was a real treat for a city boy and it felt refreshing. The weather was settling into the low 60s by this time of day and promised to drop even more, but it was perfect conditions for running. The sun would be setting out over the Pacific within the hour, and Colt refused to miss it. After about three miles, he turned around and retraced his steps toward the hotel. Glancing over his left shoulder, he watched as the giant orange ball of sun bid farewell to another day and slipped beneath the rolling waves of the sea.
Tomorrow promised to be a long day and a relaxing evening with KFC and a TV was waiting for Colt inside his well-appointed hotel room.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Colt Crawford - Chapter 6 (Monday)
As Colt drove the car down Shoreline Drive toward the harbor, his assessment of the situation wavered between awkward, comfortable and, nothing-but-business. His mind churned, pondering what this all meant while simultaneously trying to maintain a coherent conversation with Krissy. The realization struck him just before they arrived at the marina that he didn’t have to be involved in the case at all. No one had hired him, no job description mandated that he solve this crime. This was a strictly voluntary effort on his part. Since he had no legal or financial obligation with the investigation, the business factor was eliminated. So what was left? Awkward or comfortable? It didn’t have to be awkward either, but it was. If he let it get too comfortable, it could go right back to awkward in a big hurry.
Colt wished he could read Krissy’s mind. Was she feeling uncomfortable? She had probably ridden in cars with guys a hundred times as part of her job. It was only for Colt that this was a new experience.
Making a right turn onto Harbor Way he marveled at the sight of the boats. The lines of empty masts rising high into the air created a scenic picture as the cool afternoon sun reflected off the shimmering water. As a lifelong land lubber, boats were somewhat mysterious to him. Scanning the vast display of tall masts, he once again became aware of the purpose for their visit to the marina. “Remind me of this guy’s details,” Colt said as he pulled the BMW into a parking spot on the eastern edge of the lot.
Looking down at the paper in her hand, Krissy went over the guy’s life in a nutshell. “Steven Mathis, age 35. Successful yacht broker with offices in Long Beach and here in Santa Barbara. Settled a tax debt of about 50 grand with the IRS for a fraction of that amount, but did some time as part of the deal. Two homes, one here and one in the L.A. area.
“That certainly gives him access to both ends of the crime. When did he get out?” Colt asked.
“He was released last August.”
“So a grudge could still be fresh in his mind,” Colt added as his trendy, yet casual bowling-inspired shoes hit the pavement. He shut the door and met Krissy at the trunk. Together they walked across the lot toward the yacht office. A sign was suspended above the door, dangling from two chains that were attached to a pole that protruded from the side of the building, giving some resemblance to a ship’s boom. “The Yachtery. Very clever,” Colt said glancing up at the artistically arranged sign.
The conversation with Steven Mathis was brief and his alibi was strong. He had been on a harbor cruise with a potential client the night Samantha had been abducted and his secretary was able to prove it by producing his calendar and a bill of sale for a very expensive yacht. “Feel free to contact the client,” Mathis said rather casually, “but he will confirm that I was on the water with him at 5:00 on New Year’s Day.”
Colt and Krissy thanked the man for his time and headed back to the car. “He seemed believable to me,” Krissy said. “I’ve done this a few times and I am usually right.”
“That must be nice,” Colt said.
“You get used to it,” Krissy said flashing a bright smile rimmed with only the slightest hint of lipstick. “Actually, I’m not ready to completely clear him yet. He may have been on the water on New Year’s Day, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t hire someone to go after Samantha.”
“I’m planning to head back to L.A. either tonight or early tomorrow to pay a visit to Creighton Ford,” Colt said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some connection between him and this Mathis guy.”
“I hate traffic, so let’s leave early. I’ll be ready at 4:00 a.m. You can pick me up at the P.D.,” Krissy said much to Colt’s surprise. It wasn’t so much her interest in making a trip to L.A. that surprised him, he had actually expected that, rather it was the “You can pick me up” part that got him. And she hated traffic.
Colt wished he could read Krissy’s mind. Was she feeling uncomfortable? She had probably ridden in cars with guys a hundred times as part of her job. It was only for Colt that this was a new experience.
Making a right turn onto Harbor Way he marveled at the sight of the boats. The lines of empty masts rising high into the air created a scenic picture as the cool afternoon sun reflected off the shimmering water. As a lifelong land lubber, boats were somewhat mysterious to him. Scanning the vast display of tall masts, he once again became aware of the purpose for their visit to the marina. “Remind me of this guy’s details,” Colt said as he pulled the BMW into a parking spot on the eastern edge of the lot.
Looking down at the paper in her hand, Krissy went over the guy’s life in a nutshell. “Steven Mathis, age 35. Successful yacht broker with offices in Long Beach and here in Santa Barbara. Settled a tax debt of about 50 grand with the IRS for a fraction of that amount, but did some time as part of the deal. Two homes, one here and one in the L.A. area.
“That certainly gives him access to both ends of the crime. When did he get out?” Colt asked.
“He was released last August.”
“So a grudge could still be fresh in his mind,” Colt added as his trendy, yet casual bowling-inspired shoes hit the pavement. He shut the door and met Krissy at the trunk. Together they walked across the lot toward the yacht office. A sign was suspended above the door, dangling from two chains that were attached to a pole that protruded from the side of the building, giving some resemblance to a ship’s boom. “The Yachtery. Very clever,” Colt said glancing up at the artistically arranged sign.
The conversation with Steven Mathis was brief and his alibi was strong. He had been on a harbor cruise with a potential client the night Samantha had been abducted and his secretary was able to prove it by producing his calendar and a bill of sale for a very expensive yacht. “Feel free to contact the client,” Mathis said rather casually, “but he will confirm that I was on the water with him at 5:00 on New Year’s Day.”
Colt and Krissy thanked the man for his time and headed back to the car. “He seemed believable to me,” Krissy said. “I’ve done this a few times and I am usually right.”
“That must be nice,” Colt said.
“You get used to it,” Krissy said flashing a bright smile rimmed with only the slightest hint of lipstick. “Actually, I’m not ready to completely clear him yet. He may have been on the water on New Year’s Day, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t hire someone to go after Samantha.”
“I’m planning to head back to L.A. either tonight or early tomorrow to pay a visit to Creighton Ford,” Colt said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some connection between him and this Mathis guy.”
“I hate traffic, so let’s leave early. I’ll be ready at 4:00 a.m. You can pick me up at the P.D.,” Krissy said much to Colt’s surprise. It wasn’t so much her interest in making a trip to L.A. that surprised him, he had actually expected that, rather it was the “You can pick me up” part that got him. And she hated traffic.
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