Absolute Justice

  ABSOLUTE JUSTICE

  By

  Larry W. Pitts

  Copyright © 2014 by Larry W. Pitts

  Published by

  Yawn’s Publishing

  198 North Street

  Canton, Georgia 30114

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916315

  ISBN: 978-1-940395-43-2 Hardcover

  978-1-940395-44-9 Paperback

  978-1-940395-45-6 eBook

  For my daughter Jordan.

  Everything is for you.

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  Robert Frost

  “The Road Not Taken”

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  My office is on the second floor above a Vietnamese restaurant on Broad Street. Next to the restaurant, a nondescript door directs your attention upstairs and advertises, Nick Price, Private Investigations. Bonded, licensed, insured, and available twenty-four hours a day. Upstairs on the pebbled-glass door of my office is a list of investigative services—divorce, child custody, missing relatives, and surveillance. Ethical, reliable, and strictly confidential. On my website is a more detailed advertisement of investigations: domestic infidelity, GPS tracking, insurance fraud, workers’ compensation, security consulting, accident investigations, and wrongful deaths. Judging by the boastful list of services, it was easy to imagine teams of agents working diligently on your behalf—but in reality, there was only a lone-wolf investigator working from a hole-in-the-wall office in the low-rent section of downtown Atlanta.

  It was four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and since no one was beating down the door for my services, I was sitting at my desk thinking about calling it quits for the day. My girlfriend, Naija Patel, an OB-GYN who along with three other physicians shared a practice at The Atlanta Obstetrics Center, had one of her wine tasting soirees tonight with her highbrow friends; so I had the night to myself. As I sat at my desk, I was making my plans for the evening. My apartment was only blocks away. I had walked to work this morning, not expecting a wave of clients. I could leave the office, stop by the pizza place down the street, pick up a double pepperoni, and be home in thirty minutes. The Braves were playing the Giants on TV tonight and there was a six pack of Heineken in the fridge calling my name. A nearly perfect evening: pizza, beer, and baseball. After thinking about it another five seconds, I decided to call it quits. I got up, shrugged on my suit jacket and grabbed my fedora. I was ready to leave when the door swung open, and this woman walked in as if she owned the place. She stopped just inside the door and looked at me. She was a knockout, with shoulder-length auburn hair, huge, pale brown eyes, and heart-shaped voluptuous lips, painted red. She wore a white, low-cut blouse and a short light tan skirt that showed off her long legs. No stockings. Red high heels. She had the kind of looks that could make any man stand up and take notice. The day was looking up.

  “Are you Nick Price?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And you’re a private investigator?”

  I shot her a sly grin and motioned behind her. “That’s what it says on the door.”

  She wheeled around and looked at the door as if she’d never seen it before. Then she turned back around, mimicked my grin, and said, “So you like to play.”

  “One has to amuse oneself when the situation arises.”

  A small smile played across her lips as if she had just thought of something funny. “I thought private eyes only existed in books and movies.”

  “I’m the real thing,” I said.

  She glanced around my small office, sizing me up to make sure I was the real thing. She looked at me a moment. Today I was wearing a dark gray suit, a white shirt with pale blue stripes, and a red and blue striped tie. I still had on my charcoal Borsalino fedora. I hoped she liked what she saw. I knew I liked what I saw.

  “You look like you just stepped out of a 1940s movie,” she said.

  I love the nostalgic look from the late 1940s and 50s, and my fedora, with its wide brim that tilted down above the eyes, emanated the persona of a classic private detective. If it makes me look as if I just stepped from a 1940s movie, all the better. I like to stand out in a crowd.

  “I dress for the part,” I said. “Except I’m in color.”

  We stood there a second looking at each other. Then I asked, “Can I help you with something, or did you come in here to make disparaging remarks about my attire?”

  “I didn’t say anything disparaging about the way you dress,” she said. That small, flirtatious smile spread across her lips again. “I like the way you dress. It makes you look mysterious.”

  She had a soft, sensual voice that no matter what she said hinted at
sex.

  “I’m all about mystery and intrigue,” I said. Now it was my turn to flash a flirtatious smile. I can turn on the charm when necessary.

  She looked around the office again and said, “When I came in a moment ago it looked like you were getting ready to leave.”

  “I have an appointment,” I said. If you want to count my plans of watching baseball and drinking beer as an appointment. In reality, I had nowhere to go and nothing to do when I got there. But that wasn’t any of her business.

  “You can’t be that busy,” she said, glancing around my office again. “You don’t even have a secretary.”

  “I don’t need one,” I said. “I keep all my appointments on my phone.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, and raised one eyebrow as if it were a question mark.

  Apparently, she liked to banter. I decided to play along and see where it would lead. I took off my hat and sat it on the edge of my desk. Then I walked around the desk and sat down in my swivel chair. I motioned to one of the client chairs opposite the desk. She sat down and crossed her long legs. I looked at them. She had nice legs. When I looked back up at her, she was smiling at me. She had a nice smile to go with the nice legs. She was the total package.

  I asked her, “How did you find me? Did someone I know recommend me?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  I flashed the sly grin again. “I need it for my Marketing department.”

  Again the eyebrow rose. “Marketing department, really? Where do you keep it? In your phone too?”

  I grinned. “Here in my desk. Third drawer on the left.”

  She didn’t say anything. Whatever role she was playing, she played it beautifully. I could tell she was a woman who knew how to play people to get what she wanted. And she was good at it. She would eventually get around to the reason she was here, but only on her own terms.

  She stared at me a second, then said, “To be honest, I found you on the Internet. I saw your picture on your home page and was intrigued. You look like a private detective. You have a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  Right. That’s me. Mr. Intrigue, master of the art of mystery. That is, when I’m not sitting at my desk with my feet propped up, bored out of my skull.

  I motioned at the hat on the desk. “It’s the hat,” I said. “Men don’t wear hats like they used to.”

  She said, “The picture on your website doesn’t do you justice.”

  “I’m better in person,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think a man that wears a hat looks sexy.”

  There was nothing to add to that so I remained quiet.

  Then she asked, “Are you a good detective?”

  “I’m good at everything I do,” I said.

  “I may want to hire you,” she said, “if we get along. I don’t do business with people I don’t like.”

  “I don’t work with people I don’t like either.”

  “You’ll like me,” she said.

  I liked her sitting in my client chair with her legs staring at me. The best legs I’d seen all week, and I do a lot of comparison shopping. Plus there was a nice body attached to the legs. But that didn’t mean anything. With those looks and that sensual voice, she could make any man her prisoner. Then after she got what she wanted, she would chew them up, spit out the bones, and go looking for the next meal. But I wasn’t on the menu.

  I asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Julia Garrett.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Julia.” To clear the air, I asked, “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an actress,” she said proudly. Then she continued, “I’ve been in television commercials and had a few non-speaking roles in movies filmed here in town. Plus, I’ve done modeling for magazines.”

  “I bet you’re good at it,” I said.

  She gave me the flirtatious look again, but didn’t say anything.

  Time to get down to why she was here. “So, how can I help you?” I asked.

  She remained silent a moment, as if she were thinking about something.

  Finally, she said, “I need your help.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m not here about myself,” she said. She paused a moment.

  I remained silent. Waiting.

  Then she continued, “It’s my husband. His name is Jason Garrett.”

  She said it as if I should recognize the name. I didn’t.

  “That name doesn’t mean anything to you?” she asked.

  “Should it?”

  “I would think a man in your position would know the names of others in the law profession.”

  “I’m not in the law profession. I’m a private detective.”

  She flashed me an irritated glance, and then said, “My husband is a very prominent attorney.”

  “Never heard of him,” I said. My dynamic personality came shining through again.

  A wave of uncertainty washed over her face. “Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea,” she said.

  I looked at her a second. The flirtatious act she had been putting on had vanished. I wasn’t sure why she’d done it in the first place. Maybe to size me up, or was it just to get attention? Nevertheless, I saw a worried woman in those huge brown eyes.

  I said, “I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

  She stared at me a moment and then looked down at her hands in her lap. The earlier smile had disappeared. Then she said, “My husband is missing. He’s been missing for over a week.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  She flashed me the annoyed look again. “Of course, I did.”

  “And?”

  “They took the necessary information and filed their report,” she said. “But they haven’t made any progress. I don’t even think they’re looking for him anymore.”

  “And you want my help?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s been over a week and I haven’t heard anything. Not from him or the police. I’m worried. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed and her lips turned into a frown. She looked as if she were deciding what to do next. I bet she calculated every expression she made, analyzed every word before she said it, an actress that was practicing her lines. She had played the sultry femme fatale and was now choosing her next role. Maybe now it was the concerned and frantic housewife searching for her missing husband. She looked like she was about to cry. I bet she could cry, too, with real tears, any time the mood struck.

  I asked, “Would there be any reason for him to up and leave without a word?”

  “No,” she said, without looking up at me.

  “Has he ever gone missing in the past?”

  “No.”

  “Taken off without telling anybody?”

  “No,” she said, and finally looked up at me. “He’s never done any of those things. He’s very structured. So much so that he is predictable.”

  “Does he have any enemies?”

  “No” she said. “He’s a corporate attorney. It’s not like he works with hardened criminals.”

  “Does he have any bad habits? Gambling? Booze?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “He is a good man. He doesn’t gamble. He hardly even drinks at cocktail parties.”

  “Any problems at home?”

  This got her attention. She gave me the irritated look again. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you and your husband get along?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We have a wonderful marriage.”

  “Any recent arguments?”

  “No,” she said flatly. “We’re very happy.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Any children?”

  “No,” she said. “We both decided we don’t want children, at least not in the immediate future.”

  There was no subtle way to ask the next question, so I simply dove in. “Is it possible there is another
woman in your husband’s life?”

  She shot me a brazen look that said I shouldn’t be asking such a personal question, especially to a renowned socialite of Atlanta. But I’ve always gone against the grain.

  After a second of harsh looks, she said, “No. We have a good marriage.” She motioned with her right hand at her body, and continued, “Look at me. I’m beautiful. I’m everything he needs in a woman. Jason would never cheat.”

  “How about you?” I asked. “Would you cheat?”

  Her face flushed and her lips pursed together in a straight line. Her eyes clawed into me like talons. Then she exploded. “That’s a terrible question. I will not sit here and answer such degrading questions.”

  I put my hands up, palms out, as if I were surrendering. I was certain the cops had asked her the same question, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Maybe she had anticipated the question and practiced her reaction in the mirror before coming to the office.

  I said in reply, “I have to ask these type questions. I’m sure the police have asked the same things.”

  She stared at me a second before she responded. “I’ve gone over all this with the police already.”

  I didn’t say anything. I looked at her a moment, waiting for an answer.

  “No,” she said finally. “I have never been unfaithful to my husband.”

  We were silent a moment to let the tension clear. Then I said, “So the police haven’t come up with any clues to your husband’s whereabouts?”

  “No,” she said. “I check with them every day, and they just blow me off. They tell me they’ll contact me if there are ‘further developments.’ I’m convinced they’re no longer looking for him.”

  “I’ll need a list of acquaintances, business partners and such,” I said.

  “I anticipated you would,” she said.

  She reached into her purse and handed me a neatly typed sheet of paper with names and phone numbers. Listed beside each name was their association with Jason Garrett: family member, family friend, or business associate.

  She looked me in the eyes for a moment and, as if on cue, a single tear appeared at the corner of her left eye. She dabbed it away with a tissue.

  “Will you help me find my husband?”

  When a person vanishes, the first step in the investigation is motive. Why would they suddenly disappear? Was their disappearance voluntary? Did the person suddenly decide he’d had enough and simply ran off? A lot of people do that. Just run. Either because they are fed up with their lives, or because of love. But if the disappearance was involuntary, that only meant one of two possibilities. Either they had been kidnapped, or something more sinister had happened to them. Since Jason Garrett’s disappearance seemed involuntary—and the fact that no ransom had surfaced—I feared the latter, that Jason Garrett’s disappearance had been because someone wanted him to vanish. But I didn’t say anything about that to Mrs. Garrett.