Shanghai Road

Chapter One
Allie Espinoza
Monday
7:00 p.m.
 

When the idiots over at Granley Insurance offered to pay me a whopper of a sum to investigate Max Munson—a man who’d been on their fraud radar for some time—I hesitated only long enough to catch my breath. In the past days, I’d been scoping out Max Munson’s home to see when he turned every light off and on in his three-story Victorian home. Upon completing three additional nights of surveillance in the getup I planned to wear, I would officially begin my role as a healthcare aide inside Munson’s premises.
 

I’d spent the last ten years eking out a less-than-legit living—mmm, no, more like microscopically marginally legit. So, my working a proper investigative job for an insurance company? For the moolah Granley Insurance was offering me, I’d do the job naked with a porcupine under each arm if they wanted me to.
 

I bagged up my gear and glanced at the sky, then wiped August’s sweat from my neck. I coiled my rope, checked my harness, night vision goggles, and other possibly handy items I’d need during my reconnaissance of Munson’s home then put them into the front seat.
 

My dad, Christian, would have been proud if he’d still been alive. I’d buried him five years ago, after the cancer and chemo were done with him. After the memorial, there was a profound silence that enveloped me, and the only sound I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. I pressed the urn, filled with his ashes, against my forehead, and the coldness sent shivers down my spine as tears streamed down my face.
 

Christian, my adoptive father, was a devoted and genuinely good man. He took me off the streets and home-schooled me in a well-rounded education—science, the fine arts, classic literature, religion, mathematics, languages, and history, to name a few.
 

Not to mention the finer points of cat burglary.
 

Becoming a private investigator was a natural fit after what he taught me, allowing me to live life on my own terms. After having spent my early years in the pits of foster care, then life on the street followed by living and caring for Dad until his end, I felt good working as a PI.
 

The insurance company hired me right off.
 

I saw no reason to share with them the details of my illegal achievements in education.
 

Munson was my patient. With his exact description, peculiarities, and a grasp of my responsibilities as a caregiver, this assignment of gathering evidence would be sweeter than a piece of cake. That Granley paid for each cent I paid to fit Munson’s appreciation of Goth women, well, thank the Lord, because Goth wasn’t me. Nor would I have to stress about the usual dangers. Cat burglary was undeniably profitable—putting food on the table and providing nice clothes—but burglary wasn’t safe.
Thank the Lord a safe job had arrived.
***
Ben Johnson
Monday
7 a.m.
Most cities shine with multicolored lights at night, glittering in the dark, like lures to midnight fish. The only night colors in Whiskey River were red, green, orange, and white—stoplights and speed limit signs.
 

I found myself yawning. Being new to the night shift at Whiskey River PD. Recruits and grunts were used to waking up early in the military and police academy. After I got to Whiskey River I realized there’d never be enough coffee in this hemisphere to keep me alert on nights. The change of day shift to night shift after four days off was brutal, and the four-day break felt like a tease before going back on nights.

 

The good part was I got to chill with my kids for these four days. And when they slept, I’d work out.
I patrolled solo in the dark. Backup was never less than a mile away, since nighttime in Whiskey River wasn’t seething with murderers. But property and domestic crimes? Whiskey River was no joke on those, so deputies and detectives always rolled deep for backup. We each patrolled wearing Kevlar, because answering a dispute—no matter how small—could end up in a firefight.
 

I tugged at my vest. No matter how well-adjusted, the vest was uncomfortable, pressing down against my Sam Browne duty belt. Body heat held in by the getup meant summer misery. And running with the gear took practice. Running with eighty-five pounds of battle rattle in Afghanistan’s deserts was one thing—wearing a thirty-pound vest and belt during a foot chase in the dark was another.
 

Dispatch radioed with a call to a home on C Street, a domestic dispute. I requested backup and pulled up without lights. Detective Tristan Phillips was close by at the PD, and arrived about a minute later, and we took away the abuser—a young wealthy woman—to the police department and processed and booked her.
 

Not much fuss, but we called an ambulance for the man whose mental state was worse than his bruises. The hospital would deal with Social Services. Our part was done.
 

At seven a.m., the end of the shift, we briefed Sergeant Diana Sing and finished our reports, and the time came to go home. I lived on the other side of the bridge in Whiskey River, but I liked driving through Olde Towne, the richer historic section. I could skip the stoplights and cruise around to check out high-dollar Christmas lights, maybe spot signs of mischief.
 

Perhaps the most exciting town ever.
 

Sarcasm noted.
 

Drugs, domestic abuse, and property crimes topped the list. The occasional shooting, the rare hostage situation.
 

A seamless shift from Sunday night to Monday morning had passed, and I was happy to take a different route on streets full of old Victorian homes, enjoying the landscapes and watching as people left for work, when I noticed a young woman walking the sidewalk. She had short purple hair with a jagged cut, and she was dressed in tight-fitting leather pants. The word Weird was splashed across her white T-shirt and a black leather jacket was slung over her shoulder.

The girl was definitely goth.
 

A pretty Hispanic woman, makeup or not. Slim, no more than one hundred ten pounds. Goth wasn’t my thing, but I was sure she’d make some goth guy a great goth girlfriend.
 

Then she looked back. Not just a glance, but a look. Who pays attention to a cop car? No, seriously. People don’t stare at police cars. Not unless they’re speeding, or engaged in some other nefarious action.
 

I drove past her, and thirty seconds later I checked my rearview mirror. She was almost a block from where I’d passed her. What the heck? Fast walker.
 

Then I watched as the girl removed the purple hair—a wig. Straight black hair—her own—waterfalled its way over her shoulders to the middle of her back. She ran a hand through it, then checked the road.
 

Covering that kind of hair up is a shame.
When I looked up again, she had disappeared.
 

Maybe because of my time spent in the Middle East, I knew people often weren’t what they seemed. Who wears a wig when they have beautiful hair like hers? Women put their hair up to get it out of the way, but a wig? A purple wig, with goth makeup?
 

This woman could have gone goth without the wig.
I tapped a finger on my steering wheel. Sure, I could be mistaken—she might’ve wanted purple hair without cutting or coloring hers. Understandable, but for the volatile Middle East.
 

Something was off with this picture. Instinct told me to check. I pulled a U-turn, noted the street sign, and pulled alongside the car I guessed she’d entered.
 

She was nowhere in or near the car.
 

I put my lights and brakes on, stepped from the cruiser, then shone my flashlight and inspected several cars’ dark undercarriages. I checked the cars with care, one hand on the flashlight and the other on my service pistol.
I was off duty—day shift had already taken over—but I called the interesting tidbit in.
 

“Dispatch. This is 110.”
“Go ahead, 110.” The voice belonged to dispatcher Zoe Carter.
“12-28, 4th and Evelyn.” Twelve-twenty-eight was the code for suspicious person. This was the lamest call I’d ever made.
“Copy, 110. 12-28, go ahead.”
I took a deep breath.
“Adult female IC7, purple wig, exiting home. 12-28.” The code IC7 indicated unknown ethnicity, and though I guessed she was Hispanic, I couldn’t say for certain. Nor could I truly say she was exhibiting suspect behavior.
 

A significant pause over the hum of static ensued, and I figured Dispatch thought I’d lost my mind.
 

“12-5?” Zoe’s Whiskey River cop-speak for Say what?
“Suspicious activity at location. Suspect on foot … possibly evading.”
“Copy.”
 

A momentary burst of muffled coughing came through the speaker—what I took to be concealment of laughter.
 

I blew out a sigh after signing off. I had the next four days off. Couldn’t wait to return in four days, hoping my call-in had been forgotten, or else some sort of follow-up had occurred to prove my mind was balanced.
 

I pulled my cruiser into the garage, unlocked the door, and wandered to my room. I removed my Sam Browne, and fell face first into bed to gear up for my kids tonight. But the girl with black hair was my final thought. Should I cruise around in my Mustang for the next few days to find her?
 

Not long after, sleep shuttered my eyes and closed the door to my brain.