Cream of the Crop 11/Cream of the Crop 11-2.iso/extra/p5.zip/P5.TXT

Text File | 1995-12-08 | 16KB | 347 lines

                Harrison Lloyd Mystery Series

                       LETTER PERFECT



                                            Derrick Sanzhiel


LETTER PERFECT
Copyright  1995, Derek Sanzhiel

Published by Cedar Bay Press, L.L.C.

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction and is not
intended to represent realities. No part of this current
work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and
recording, or by any information storage or retrieval
system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976
Copyright Act or in writing by the publisher. Requests for
such permissions should be addressed to:

CEDAR BAY PRESS, L.L.C.
PO Box 751, Beaverton, OR 97075

FIRST EDITION (PAPERBACK) 1995

Prepared and manufactured by CEDAR BAY PRESS in the United
Federation of the Takelman-Kalapuyan (Tualatin) Nation.


                     To Dejha-Moon (AZA)
                  where ever you are . . .





                       LETTER PERFECT

                             by
                      Derrick Sanzhiel



     Her name is Marlene Madison, and she sits nervously
perched on the edge of the leather-backed chair.  She is a
couple of years past thirty, with short dark hair and very
white skin that held a brittle translucence like opaque
finely blown glass.  A pair of red glasses gives her oval
face a studious, intense appearance.  The flaps of her
tailored woolen coat fall open across her delicately jointed
knees.  I can see the hem of a medium length blue skirt and
nicely tapering legs in dark nylons.
     The matter before me concerns her relationship with
David Livingston, a young and ruthless bank vice-president,
who had vanished from Lake Oswego Federal Deposit three
months ago to the day when a huge amount of the bank's money
also left.  All efforts to find him had failed but the bank
still pays me a healthy retainer, so I agreed to talk to the
person on the other side of the desk.
     She is small-breasted and narrow-shouldered, but
attractive enough.  She is the kind of girl who would cry
miserably on her wedding night.  Yet, there is also a
strangely muted sensuality about her, a hidden-below-the-
surface kind of thing. So that while you had the thought of
her weeping after the consummation of marriage, you felt she
would probably become an active sexual predator in no time
at all.
     There are small, expensive black pearls in the lobes of
her ears.  On the third finger of her left hand is a diamond-
encrusted ring that would have cost upward of a couple
thousand dollars, if the diamonds were genuine that is.  I
offer her a cup of coffee, but she shook her head.  Maybe
she is Mormon I thought.  I got up and refilled my own cup
from the pot, added a shot of whiskey and sat again.   I
watch her chew sheepishly on the pale iridescent lipstick on
her mouth.  "I do not quite know how to begin,"  she has a
touch of a Virginia accent in her articulation.  Her
eyelashes flick very rapidly like the wings of butterflies.
     "I understand, take your time," I said as I look up at
the clock that hung on the wall behind her.
     She cleared her throat softly and looked down at the
small black leather purse she is holding in her lap.  I wait
for her to make up her mind.
     Marlene Madison finished composing her thoughts and
said, "I have come about my former fiancee, David
Livingston."  She gazes up at me then beyond me.  "He's
missing, you see."  She makes a vague helpless gesture with
her hands.  "No one seems to know what happened to him."
She lowers her eyes and tightens her fingers around her
leather purse.  "We . . . we were to be married six months
ago," she sobbed.
     Why me, I thought, not one of these clients, not now.
I want another drink.  I said, "Miss Madison . . ."
     "I know what your thinking," she said before I could
get the rest of it out.  She continues to sweetly explain
how she was the girl Livingston went with consistently at
one time, until he jilted her for her best friend, Kate
Beverly; it was reported in the local newspaper on the
social-society page about the time the Livingston-Madison
marriage was called off.  She went on to say Livingston is
back in town and between the sheets with Kate Beverly once
more.  Marlene Madison also said she could produce some
vital evidence on the whereabouts of Livingston.  She
insists that I meet her at her apartment building out in
Lake Oswego later this afternoon.
     The downtown office at 10th and Alder is as hot as any
typical sunny afternoon in August.  But the garage is cool.
I climb into my Corvette and set out on the drive to Lake
Oswego.
     The junglized lobby of Miss Madison's luxury apartment
building is screaming the lavish waste at the expense of the
poignant needs of the impoverished.  While waiting near the
centralized waterfall, I wonder what the `vital evidence'
Miss Madison promised to give me about the missing
embezzler.  Then, I began to think of the many other things
that I do not understand.  Like, the number of job
outplacement firms in the U.S. in 1980: 50.  Number in 1993:
250.  Latest endangered species: White males. Where is the
bar in this joint? So who has all the money for such opulent
surroundings?  Less than 5 percent of the voting public;
that's who.  And that 5 percent doesn't really vote; they
buy their politicians and laws on a wholesale level.  As I
sat here, I had a distinct feeling that I wasn't living in
the America I was born in: One nation for the corporation,
by the corporation, and of the corporation.  Maybe nobody
else is seeing this, I thought.
     The big banks get a no-risk loan policy to lend money
to foreign corporations.  And if the foreign corporation
refuses to pay back the loan the bank writes it off on their
taxes.  The void is left to the rest of us schmoes to fill
with our hard earned dollars.


     Finally, the woman I am supposed to meet sweeps into
the lobby through the street door.  "I am so sorry to have
kept you waiting," she says.  "I was just at Kate Beverly's
apartment--one of her cocktail parties."
     "That's nice," I smiled.  She had time to change too:
She wears a wine colored double-breasted shaped jacket
barely hiding a white satin-smooth appliqué tank top with a
scoop neckline revealing firm and perky bosoms.
     "Well, let's go to my apartment," she says.  "I have
one piece of the evidence up there and a brand new piece I
discovered over at Kate's apartment."
     I follow the curvaceous hips dressed in a wine-colored
slim-line skirt of worsted wool gabardine.  Her long legs
terminating into stylish dark burgundy kidskin leather with
two-and-a-half-inch stacked heels. She made a tasty dish of
a woman.  Her apartment is two floors up and the balcony has
a magnificent view of the waterfall located in the center of
the lobby.  Inside more stuff that looks very expensive.
     "Ok," I said.  "What did you want to show me regarding
David Livingston?"
     "First, I found this old statement from my credit card
company behind that desk," she points to an expensive Louis-
the-something imported from France.  ". . . when I moved the
desk away from the wall to run an electric cord to that book
shelf." She points to the book shelf with the grace of a
game-show hostess.
     I look over the bill to notice airplane tickets and a
short vacation south of the boarder.  Then I look back at
Madison in hopes of an explanation.
     "Don't you see?" She looks at me then the bill.  "It
wasn't I who went to Mexico after the bank lost its money."
     "Interesting," said I.  "Do you mind if I turn this
document over to the DA?"
     "No, but there is more," she sinisterly smirked.  "Kate
Beverly . . . "she pauses to light up an expensive
cigarette. "I'm certain, can tell you where David is."  She
said that in one breath before expelling the smoke from her
tar coated lungs.  "During the party, I went into her
bedroom to fix my make-up, and I found the first page of a
letter written to her by David."  She pauses again to take a
long drag into her body and all of the sudden I am feeling
better about my own health.  Sure, maybe I don't have as
much money as Madison but at least I have a cleaner bill of
health.
     "I am ashamed to admit I read it," she fawns an emotion
of guilt that gets her nowhere.  ". . . a lot of silly
sentiment and not much information."  Suddenly she smiles
and looks as if she notices me.  "Can I offer you a drink?"
     I thought of ordering something expensive at first but
drew a momentary blank list of names.  "Nola Madi Gras?"
     "Think in terms of well-drinks," she scorns without
blinking.  "I'm not a damn bartender."
     I tell the bitch to fetch a gin and tonic.
     Marlene continues during her brief stop at the well:
"That first page, however, ended in the middle of a
sentence, and it seemed interesting.  I'm sure if you find
the second page."  She hands me an eight-ounce glass; three-
quarters full.
     I hand Miss Madison a sheet of paper that I found in
Livingston's apartment.  "Is this Livingston's handwriting?"
     Marlene stares fixedly at the paper.  She shakes her
head and begins fumbling in her purse and knocks out a very
long letter opener.  Then she searches through the drawers
of that Louis-the-something desk, coming up with a pair of
glasses.  She puts them on, studies the paper again.  I took
a sip of what I figure was a lot of tonic and a touch of
gin.  I was wrong.  The gin is straight.  Maybe the tonic is
locked in the ice cubes.
     "Yes, this is Dave's writing.  No doubt about it." She
hands the paper back my way while guzzling a drink the color
of fine whiskey.
     "Ok, I'll go have a talk with Kate Beverly," I declare.
"I want you to sit tight here in your apartment.  I may need
to ask you a few more questions," I demand.  I would have
wasted time to finish my drink but Marlene seems rather
chilled in my presence.  I check my notebook to check Kate's
address.  Once that small matter was taken care of I was out
of there.
     Kate Beverly lives in another luxurious apartment
complex two blocks down on the same street as Marlene's
place.  The Corvette looks comfortable between the BMW and
the Jag so I decide to walk the distance. Lake Oswego is
right on the banks of the mighty Willamette river and in the
late afternoon the temperature is comfortable.  As I draw
closer to Kate's place, I began to notice a plethora of
metro cop cars and an ambulance in front of the main
entrance of the complex.
     As I reach the gold handled doors my old friend Peter
Gloss, detective, homicide, and his entourage file out of
the building.
     "Harrison!" Peter drew down his sunglasses to the end
of his nose.  "Why is it when I find a dead body you are
somehow connected?"
     "Who is it?"
     "David Livingston: unidentified sharp object inserted
in back of the skull." His glasses slid back up the nose.
"The name mean anything to you?"
     "So you're solving my cases now?"
     "Turnabouts are a play I'll relish," Peter chuckles
over the gurney carrying a black bag to the ambulance.  "You
want to go up and check the place out?"
     "No . . . how's Kate Beverly handling it?"  Peter
shrugs as if he hadn't a clue.  "Was there a party going on
when the body was discovered?"
     "As you might expect, the party blew out when someone
found the body in one of the smaller bedrooms." Peter flips
through a few notes then continued: "Ms. Beverly is
surprisingly cool and swears she's innocent."
     "She's telling the truth," I revealed.
     "Something you'd like to tell me, Harry?"
     "Sure, grab one of the boys and let's talk a short
walk," I suggest.  Peter signals with his left hand toward
one of the nearby men in blue who quickly steps into my
conga line.  We stroll two blocks up and the minutes are
filled with casual chatter.  We weave our way through the
lobby of Kelly's apartment and up to the second floor and
then knock on 3-C.
     "Miss Madison," I begin, "I suspect that the story
you've been telling me about the credit card statement is
partially true as is the second half of the story about the
letter.  I think you met David, while he was writing that
letter, at the party this afternoon and killed him out of
jealousy."
     "Why, how could you say something like that?" She bats
her eyelashes in annoyance.
     "When you returned from Kate Beverly's party, you were
neither wearing your glasses nor carrying them in your
purse.  It would have been impossible, therefore, for you to
read the letter you claim to have read in Kate's bedroom.
Aside from that, you may be carrying the murder weapon in
your purse, like a long oriental letter opener."
     "But you strike me as a smart private investigator,"
she coolly coos, "certainly you could look into the matter
further."
     "Lady, what you need is the assistance of the Metro
police and it just so happens that my pal here is a very
interesting and compassionate man who would be just right to
look over your case."  With that said I take three steps
right and then enters Detective Peter Gloss with cuffs at
the ready.

                          #   #   #


                    THE ACCIDENTAL ARTIST
                                              Derek Sanzhiel

     Private eye Harrison Lloyd is back in an all new
mystery adventure looking into the death of a well-known pop
artist.  Was it an accident or does the picture paint a
murder?

     Clues abound in The Accidental Artist and readers of
all ages can easily take part in this investigation.  Who
will discover the clues first?  You or Harrison Lloyd?






CBPBN:  1-57555-003-DS                               $2 (US)
                    The Executive Jungle

                                              Derek Sanzhiel
The first Harrison Lloyd Novella, The Executive Jungle and
here's what the critics say:

Wonderful work! Well-written, well-laid out and full of
suspense and "satisfaction".
What a "cop" story.
What a "Crime" adventure.
Great title once the reader hits floor 13!
Excellent suspense-you have painted an exotic picture that
is very much alive to the reader.
Funny sexual play with words.
The story absolutely speaks for itself and entices the
reader to stay with it untill the (un)certain end.
Derek writes with an easy flow crucial to work in this
genre.










CBPBN:  1-57555-001-DS                               $5 (US)
LETTER PERFECT
                                            Derrick Sanzhiel


     She is small-breasted and narrow-shouldered, but
attractive enough.  She is the kind of girl who would cry
miserably on her wedding night.  Yet, there is also a
strangely muted sensuality about her, a hidden-below-the-
surface kind of thing. So that while you had the thought of
her weeping after the consummation of marriage, you felt she
would probably become an active sexual predator in no time
at all.

Several vital clue seperates a high-society woman from life
in the fast lane or a life behind prison bars for murder.
Can you spot it before P.I. Harrison Lloyd puts one and two
together?

CBPBN:  1-57555-005-DS                               $2 (US)