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    The Clearwater Diaries
    The Clearwater Diaries
    The Clearwater Diaries
    Ebook249 pages4 hours

    The Clearwater Diaries

    By Al Rennie

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    About this ebook

    Clearwater Diaries is the continuing story of Joe "Doc" Holiday & Mia and the life they enjoy in Clearwater Beach, Florida. Many of the characters found in Clearwater Journals carry over into this story. Joe owes Fred Cooper - the retired cop who extricated him from serious criminal charges - a big favor. When Coop's brother-in-law goes missing, he calls on Doc to help him find the guy. Doc isn't convinced that the brother-in-law is worth the effort but agrees to lend a hand. When Danny, the grandson of Doc's friend Ida May Thornberry is found shot in the parking garage of the Mandalay Towers - and there is a connection to Coop's missing brother-in-law - Doc goes all in.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAl Rennie
    Release dateNov 11, 2011
    ISBN9781465997791
    The Clearwater Diaries
    Author

    Al Rennie

    I was born and raised in Toronto. I attended Upper Canada College before taking a degree at Queen's University. I have worked as a lifeguard for the Toronto Harbour Police, a youth worker for the Toronto YMCA, and an English teacher in Lakefield. I am married with two great daughters and an extended foster family. My interests include Maple Leaf hockey - this is our year - New England Patriot football and writing.

    Read more from Al Rennie

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      Book preview

      The Clearwater Diaries - Al Rennie

      The Clearwater Diaries

      By Al Rennie

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © 2011 by Al Rennie

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Cover Credit: Rita Toews—probably the most caring and talented cover creator ever!

      Formatting Credit: L.K. Campbell—as always—just great!

      Dedication

      For my wife—Marsha

      How does she do it?

      Again!

      A few Reader Responses to Clearwater Journals after it appeared on Free e-books.

      (Rated Number Two on their Top Ten List of all genres) more than 11000 hits in eight weeks

      What a riveting story with bouts of wry humor. Again Please.—Bruce

      Excellent read with more twists and turns than a road through the mountains. Enjoyed every minute! —Kingstonbears

      A really well written book. Loved it a bunch. Hope he does another soon. Maybe a series??? —Wa6ype

      A truly fun read, great sense of humor and a good plot. I recommend this author with pleasure. —Evelyn

      Excellent writing, fast paced, liked it a lot. —Toerien

      Gripping story, believable characters. Would definitely recommend. Very well written. Thoroughly enjoyed it. —Rachel Caldicott

      Put my life on hold until I finished it. Great read! You live the character’s emotions and you can’t be sure of the outcome until the last page.—Charles Hough

      A plot that kept me attached to the screen for hours on end, characters seamlessly flow—a beautifully written book. —Nasir Shir Mohammadi

      Could not put it down—Alta De Lang

      Prologue

      Paradise was just on the other side of the massive, wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling, window that gleamed in the early Clearwater Beach evening. Soft, embracing hues of crimson and mauve and gold—the vast horizon of the Gulf of Mexico—waited as the faded warm sun prepared to set on another late November day.

      Hell was on this side of that same glass panel. The old guy, who smelled slightly of garlic, was thrusting ineffectually. Despite the air-conditioned comfort of the modern condominium, he was dripping with sweat and gasping for breath. His heart was thumping like a frightened bunny rabbit. He was awkwardly sprawled on top of the girl’s tanned, buff, young body muttering his usual sexual obscenities in an effort to reach his climax. His fat florid face was buried in the soft white eider down pillow propped up behind her right shoulder. He was almost there—huffing and puffing even more loudly now.

      The girl, Michelle Sousa, had been in this business now for a few years. She believed that somewhere in his ugly mind, the old man was saying—I think I can. I think I can. But then, he couldn’t.

      As he grunted and almost painfully rolled away from her to lie on his side of the moist King sized bed, he mumbled a weak apology. That was a first—the apology—not the poor performance. Michelle believed that perhaps she should say something to make him feel better—bolster his temporarily sagging confidence.

      Take one of those little blue pills next time Dougie, and you’ll be able to do me like a wild young stallion, she said without any real enthusiasm. Oh um—another day at the office!

      After a minute or so of heavy recuperative breathing, Douglas Beezac rolled his hairy sweating bulk onto its side and gazed at her naked, young hairless body. He sighed quietly and put a thick square gnarly hand on her warm soft thigh. He stroked her gently and then gradually insinuated his rough hand between her silky tanned legs. Michelle kept her eyes closed. She knew that he would be carefully watching her face waiting for her to show any sign of the disgust that she felt. She was good though—passive and good. He would not see anything this time. The one time he did see what she felt, he got angry and slapped her butt—hard. She had almost cried but had gritted her teeth and denied him that little chunk of satisfaction. But, if everything worked out, the way somebody important wanted it to, this would be the last tumble she would have to endure with this foul smelling old man. Three days was just too much. And a marriage proposal—what a joke! The message they had given to her was clear—co-operate and keep the condo for free for the next three months or be gator food tomorrow. There was no heavy moral dilemma here for her. She was going to co-operate. She was going to live.

      I gotta go baby girl. The wife will be waiting for me. Well, sort of—the guy snorted. I can’t be gone any longer. Three days—a fuckin first. Get it? he asked as he gruffly chuckled at his own bad joke. She might even call the cops—if she could.

      Michelle Sousa slowly rolled her head to the side and idly watched him as he pulled away from her and bent over to pick up his absurd golf clothes. He started to get dressed. He was gross—fat, hairy and crude. There was no doubt about it though; he had paid her well. She knew her role here, and she was happy it was ending today.

      But there would be others, nicer ones maybe, younger—maybe even good looking—who would be willing to pay just as much—maybe more. Then the condo would be hers for good. Even without the gator food tomorrow threat, it had been okay with her when she had been given her instructions by those two guys. She wouldn’t have to bother with this old tub of lard again. There had been no joy in it for her—ever.

      When he was ready, he turned back to look at her. She hadn’t moved. That was part of the drama he liked so much. He bent over the bed supporting part of his weight with his right hand flat on the forgiving mattress. He kissed her gently on the forehead, and then, with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand squeezed her nipple until she winced. She had learned to wince quickly. He laughed his short, sharp yap and then turned and waddled from the room.

      She waited. A few seconds later, just as soon as she heard the lock of heavy condo door snap closed, she did exactly as she had been told. She quickly rolled to the phone on the little night table beside the big bed. They had told her to memorize this phone number. But Michelle knew that she wasn’t very good with figures. And sometimes she forgot things. The big guy had insisted she repeat the number three times before he left and got really pissed at her when she made a mistake the first time. She didn’t want to deal with that guy ever again, so she had finally written the number down after they left. She was afraid to trust her memory. She took the folded lined piece of paper with the phone number on it out of the drawer. She hastily dialed the cell number. Her call was answered after two rings.

      He’s on his way.

      In the shadows of the parking lot located at ground level beneath the mega building, two large, heavily muscled men hid in waiting. The bigger of the men, Lew Stainer, was in charge of this operation. He was a habitual steroid and HGH user who looked like he’d been pumping iron longer than Mr. Olympia. He was Miami born and bred and couldn’t wait to get back there. He quickly snapped closed the tiny Blackberry cell phone and whispered the message to the guy that he had been teamed up with for this job—a total peckerwood—originally from somewhere in southern Alabama. The dumb guy’s name was Sammy Tolla.

      He’s coming down now, Lew whispered hoarsely.

      I tell ya Lew, I think I heard something over by the side of the garage.

      Lew had already concluded that Sammy was about as bright as three-day-old cow manure. Lew was also fairly certain that he would trust the Easter Bunny before he would trust this guy. Maybe, this Sammy, was on some kind of long lasting drug trip—hallucinating. There had been no noise.

      And I toll you, Sammy, shut the fuck up. Put on those rubber gloves I gave ya. You know what to do? We mess this one up, and we are truly yesterday’s fuckin newspaper.

      The elevator was one of those new jobs. It didn’t make any noise and traveled at just under the speed of light. The two brushed aluminum doors whooshed open quietly and a fat man wearing the gaudy colored clothing that some golfers seemed to prefer, stepped into the gloom of the early evening garage. He walked with the heavy trudge of a grizzly bear coming out of hibernation. He was moving directly towards them slowly twirling his car key fob around his right index finger that looked like a fat purple sausage. The old guy was also humming an off key tune that was close to My Funny Valentine. But then, that had been the plan. Not the keys or the humming, but the moving towards them part. The guy passed by Sammy without noticing him. For his part, Sammy was crouched down and hiding behind a shining silver Mercedes SL 600 Roadster. Everything was still on time and going according to the plan.

      The old golfer was closing in on his new Cadillac Escalade. As instructed, Lew was wearing the tight thin rubber gloves and one ecru queen sized panty hose leg pulled down over his face. Lew waited until the fat guy—his name was Douglas Beezac—was almost up to where Lew was hiding and then jumped out in front him. The old fart quit humming real fast and grabbed for his chest just as Lew stuck the blue metal barrel of a snub nosed Colt 22 revolver—a favorite of mob hit-men—into the old guy’s suddenly contorted red face. The gun was for effect. No way did Lew want the attention a gunshot in a garage would bring. Beezac’s eyes bulged slightly, and he seemed to choke for a second—then shake. That wasn’t in the plan.

      From behind him, Sammy, who was wearing the other panty hose leg over his face, moved away from the Mercedes and quickly closed the gap on the fat old guy who seemed to be doing some kind of jerky dance step in front of a confused looking Lew. The guy was lurching around and holding his chest and wondering if he was dying and what the barrel of a gun was doing in his face when Sammy wound up and cold-cocked him with his trusty old Louisville Slugger. And then nothing mattered anymore. The fat guy flew forward—a line drive into Lew’s huge muscular arms like he was some kind of a human cannonball.

      After he had retrieved the keys from where Beezac had dropped them, Sammy scooted by Lew who was propping the gaudily dressed dork up and clicked open the trunk of a big black Caddy SUV. Lew quickly and effortlessly dragged the unconscious lump to the open back of the Slade and dumped him in. Sammy dropped his baseball bat in on top of the unconscious guy and had just slammed the rear door when both he and Lew heard a strange choking kind of noise. The weird sound was coming from somewhere over along the side of the garage. Lew quickly grabbed the SUV keys from Sammy and jumped into the driver’s seat of the big Caddy. It roared to life. Sammy, the stupid peckerwood, took off on the run. He was moving quickly in the direction of the gagging noise with his own little blued Smith and Wesson 22 caliber semi-automatic in his right hand leading the way.

      I told you I heard something Lew. I think there’s a kid or someone over here, he yelled back to his partner. Yeah, there he goes—over there. See im?

      Lew had dropped the Caddy’s power window and pulled the big luxury vehicle out of its parking space. How about turning down the fuckin volume there Sammy—and get in the goddam car okay?

      Sammy fired two quick shots at the fleeing object. The crack of the 22 caliber shots reverberated noisily throughout the basement parking lot.

      Attract some more attention why don’t you Sammy? Lew shouted angrily. Jesus, are you a moron or something?

      I think I got the little shit, Sammy yelled excitedly as he turned and ran back towards the Cadillac. He jumped into the passenger seat as Lew pulled up beside him.

      Why don’t you run an ad in the paper too you dumb shit? Lew muttered shaking his head in disbelief. Let’s get out of here.

      As the Caddy approached the closed security gate, Lew jabbed the small black remote electronic key that was clipped to the sun visor. The large metal door silently rolled up and out of the way. Lew punched the Escalade as soon as he was clear of the condo building. He silently swore to himself that no matter what came out of this, it was the last time that he would ever work with this dummy, Sammy Tolla. He was almost right—almost.

      Chapter 1

      Friday November 18, 2011—Mr. Popular!

      Joe Holiday, is that you—the young guy from Canada who worked with my old pal, Stu Langdon, for a short time a few months ago?

      I don’t know about the young guy part of your question anymore, but yeah, I’m your huckleberry, I replied with a smile. I had always wanted to try that line—Val Kilmer’s Doc Holiday to Micheal Biehn’s—Johnny Ringo.

      You shot anyone lately? followed by a goofy Mr. Crab laugh.

      I smiled. Coop sounded just like Spongebob Squarepants’ boss, Mr. Crab, when he laughed. Not that I can remember. Is this the newly retired Detective Sergeant Fred Cooper, lately of the Tampa Bay Police Force? I saw your picture in the Tribune two weeks or so ago. You have looked better Coop.

      I thought I looked pretty damn good for an old guy. The picture they used was taken at my sister’s first wedding somewhere around twenty years ago.

      That explains it. Like good wine, you’ve improved with age. Listen, Fred I hate to cut you off, but I was just on my way out the door with Mia. We do a long walk on the beach each evening that it isn’t raining. It’s part of her rehab program.

      I’ll be quick then. Did you marry the girl?

      No. As my old grandma used to say—Why buy the cow when you can get the milk over the fence? I think it was something like that anyway. But we’re really happy here. We made a deal with, Mrs. Reilly, the lady who owns the place. For the time being at least, she is staying with her family up north. Life has been pretty good for me since I saw you last.

      Has she recovered?

      Yes and no. She’s been out of hospital two months now. IHOP was great with her. They allowed her to work as little as she wanted and as much as she could. I looked over my shoulder. Mia was standing there impatiently in her blue cut offs and white sleeveless T-shirt—watching me. Fred, I’m sorry man—Mia still has that short fuse thing working for her. We were supposed to leave five minutes ago. If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the floor right now. I’ve really got to go.

      Here’s my number. Give me a call when you get back from your walk. I won’t take much of your time. I promise.

      At the end of our brief conversation, Fred’s tone had an edge to it that told me he wasn’t happy about getting brushed off, but he didn’t have to deal with Mia—I did. I repeated the seven-digit phone number twice for the short, quick walk to the kitchen table where I wrote it down on the cover of my crossword puzzle book. Mia was still watching me and doing her warm-up stretches impatiently. How can it be that I managed to find the one woman in the entire universe who is able get ready, to go anywhere, at any time, faster than the male of the species? Some guys have all the luck.

      That was Fred Cooper, I said quietly as I scuffed into my black rubber Teva Mush flip-flops. I wondered how long she had been standing there, and how much she had heard. I hoped like hell that she had missed the milk over the fence reference.

      What was that cow crack about that you made when you were talking to Mr. Cooper? And what was that other stuff about me and a short fuse?

      I laughed. Then I looked closer into Mia the mighty midget’s piercing blue eyes. She isn’t really a midget or a dwarf even. But sometimes, when I’m kidding with her and feeling a little daring, I tell her that she is vertically challenged. Her height of just slightly over or is it under five feet—she claims five feet two and three quarter inches. I say—right—on your tiptoes and a Tampa telephone book. Whatever it is, it won’t get her into the Guinness Book of World Records. But her short temper might. If I ever dared to call her Mia the Midget to her face, my family—such as it is—would have to fly in from Canada for my funeral. I’m not that brave. Actually, Mia is an incredibly beautiful petite size treasure with striking blue eyes that can see right through me. She possesses a street-wise intelligence and at times, a biting sense of humor that I love. She also has the body and, until a few months ago, the agility of a high school cheerleader. We’ve been sort of in love with each other for the past half a year or so.

      Mia, the cow thing—it’s an expression. Kind of like a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. And I think I was telling him that we were short on fuses. Sometimes I’ve found that lying to Mia is the best policy—and safest.

      I know what an expression is Mr. Smart Ass. And you just stepped over your B.S. quotient with that lame—short on fuses explanation. Come on; tell me what you said. I won’t bite, she again demanded—but this time with a trace of a smile. I knew that I was back on safe ground again.

      It’s something my grandmother always—well not always—but sometimes used to say. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk over the fence? That’s what I said. Are you ready to go?

      I’ve been waiting for you—remember?

      Oh yeah, right—sorry.

      We walked around the corner and headed the short distance up Mandalay to cross down toward Pier 60 and the firmer sand nearer the surf line. Even though it was November and the off season, the buskers, artists and artisans were just setting up their outdoor acts or displays for whatever tourists there were. I looked for my favorite Tampa Bay area artist—Helen West and her husband. They did well selling and framing prints of Helen’s original art, but I guess they had taken the night off. Come to think about it, I hadn’t seen them for a little while now. Henna tattoos were all the rage this year. Since Mia had returned home from the hospital, as part of her rehabilitation program, we have made a concerted effort to gradually increase the distance that we walk together each night. For almost twelve weeks, Mia had been in the care of a medical staff—first at the Tampa General Hospital and then, when she was on more certain ground, a rehab place that was highly recommended—and very expensive. In the first few days after she was viciously attacked, the various professional people attending to her had not even been certain that she was going to survive. During the few weeks after she crossed the survival threshold, she underwent two significant surgeries—one for a shattered occipital bone—and one for re-constructive internal work. She had been told that she could never have a baby. That had been a hard one for her to work through. And sometime in the next two months, no later than the end of January, we’ve been told, she is going to face what we hope will be the last visit to the hospital’s operating theatre.

      This trauma happened to Mia about five months ago. A sadistic bully had assaulted her in the weeks after she had learned that, ten years or so ago, I had been a rising young police detective with the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force. Mia had believed that the local cops had quit trying to find out who was responsible for murdering her younger sister, Vickie. That murder had happened three years earlier, so she was probably right. She had asked me to try to help her

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