dontravis.com
blog post #485
Thanks to my readers for giving me a pass last Thursday, and thanks to Mark Wildyr for guest posting that day. Can’t say that I’ve recovered from the death of my older son Clai as yet,, but at least I’m functioning… sort of. I preparing this coming blog post on Tuesday night because my son’s “cremains” are arriving tomorrow, and I’m sure that will occasion something emotional, although I have no idea what that will be Nonetheless, wanted to get the post set up just in case.
Dreamspinner
Prtess has advised of a publication date for the seventh BJ Vinson mystery of
April 2021. They likely gave me the exact day, but it eludes me at the moment.
At any rate, I wanted to show you the cover and give you some more of the book
Those who read my earlier blogs on the book will recall that BJ and his
companion Paul have been drawn into the investigation of the death of a
handsome young man who was found naked and strangled on Albuquerue’s West Mesa.
It appears the youth was a novice call boy who made a date with the wrong
individual.
In
the scene that follows, BJ is questioning Ma Flanagan, the longtime owner and
operator of an old fashioned telephone service. Ma knew BJ’s parents, which
makes her a little hard to handle.
****
THE
CUTIE-PIE MURDERS
Ma Flanagan gave me a motherly
look through her rimless granny glasses, and for a moment I thought she was going
to say “tsk-tsk.” We sat in the tiny office of her small house on Roma NW. So far
as I knew, she’d lived there for most of her seventy years.
“Now, BJ, you know I can’t divulge
such information. My business is built on confidentiality… as is yours, I’m sure.
My goodness, I can’t get over how much you look like your mother. She was a beautiful
soul, as well as an attractive woman.”
“That she was, Ma.” Ernestine Flanagan
insisted everyone call her Ma. “But the owner of the account I’m asking about is
dead. Brutally murdered, and I’m trying to find out who killed him.”
“Like those two delightful APD
detectives I talked to. They made an attractive couple.”
“You do realize they’re a professional
couple, not a romantic one.”
“Are they married? To other people,
I mean?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“Well, you just wait. They’ll wake up to the
fact they’re compatible… quite compatible.”
“Maybe, but I need—”
“Yes, I know. You always were such
an impatient young man. Always in a hurry. Take it from someone who knows, one day
you’ll discover how much you missed in your rush through life.”
“Yes, ma’am, I probably will.”
Like the time I’m wasting now. “But at the moment, I’m trying to catch a killer.
Someone who’s murdered three young men and deprived them of the rest of their lives.”
A hand flew to her chest. “Three?
Oh my goodness. That’s why the nice detective couple asked if I had accounts for
those other two names.”
“Did you?”
She hesitated a beat before revealing
how sharp she really was. “No, just for young Mr. Zapata. I had nothing for Mr.
Greene or Mr. Hubbard.”
“So explain to me how Mr. Zapata’s
account worked. Let’s say I wanted to leave a message for him. Would I need to give
you my name?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Most people
identify themselves, but not all. Some merely leave a message for Mr. Zapata to
return a call to a certain phone number. So my operators take down the number and
leave a message on the client’s personal voicemail or forward a text to Mr. Zapata’s
telephone.”
“Is it always a request for a phone
number?”
“Sometimes it’s to confirm a meeting
time and place.”
“So I could merely call and leave
a certain hour and a specific address.”
She nodded her head without dislodging
a single strand of gray hair held in a bun by a huge tortoiseshell comb. “Exactly.”
“But would I have to leave my name
and phone number?”
“Most do, but sometimes prior arrangements
have been made, and the pertinent information is all that is given.” She smiled
and shook her head. “And I can see your father in you too. Robert was as handsome
as Frances was beautiful. You have good genes, BJ.”
“Thank you. Do you—”
“What a tragedy. How long have
they been gone now?”
“January 2003. Do—”
“Nine years now. Seems like yesterday
I heard the news about their automobile accident.”
“Ma, I’m taking up too much of
your valuable time. I have a couple more questions and then—”
“Oh pshaw. My operators handle
most of the calls. Did you know I have a male operator now? Can you believe it?
First time in forty years, but you can’t discriminate, you know. Name’s Robert,
like your father. Such a nice young man.”
My skin crawled, but I kept at
it, refusing to believe Ernestine Flanagan was going dotty. This was her way of
evading my questions.
“Ernestine, cut out the old lady
act, and let’s get down to business.”
“Why, Burleigh J. Vinson, I can’t
believe you were so rude to me.” The words were prim, but there was a smile hiding
in the pastel-blue eyes. “Your mother would give you a smack on the back of the
hand.”
“You may do so in her stead, but,
Ma, this is serious. Someone is murdering handsome young men after—” I fought for
an acceptable word. “—debauching them.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? What
do you want to know?”
“Are there recordings of the calls?”
“Goodness, no!” She apparently
rethought her vehement answer. “It’s not like in the old days, BJ. Now you can call
me on my cell and leave me a message. When I opened this business, there was no
such convenience. And when it came along, I had to adjust my way of doing things
to stay in business. Most of my clients are medics or medical services who need
a human to discern what is an emergency and what is not.” She paused again. “In
order to survive, I had to accept other customers. I’m certain some of my clients
arrange trysts, for example.”
“Why not use email or Skype or
something similar?”
“Do you know what I believe it
comes down to?”
I shook my head.
“The authorities are watching for
that sort of thing on the internet because it’s become so prevalent. My clients
want to be a bit more discreet.”
“Okay, you don’t record the calls.
Do you log them?”
“Oh yes. Otherwise I couldn’t bill
my clients. You see, they get a certain amount of traffic for a blanket fee, but—”
I held up a hand. “I understand.
May I have a copy of the log for Mateo Zapata’s account? And the three text messages?”
I saw her internal battle and added, “The police already have them.”
She surrendered gracefully. “Do
you want a copy of the calls and texts that came in after the young man died?”
My eyes widened involuntarily.
“Absolutely. How many were there?”
“If memory serves, three more phone
calls and one text message. I see no reason why you shouldn’t have the information.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Providing you can tell me who engaged your services.”
She probably thought she had me
over a barrel, but I fooled her. “The family engaged me, Ma. They want me to help
APD catch their son’s killer. And I’ve okayed this with Homicide and the two detectives
you mentioned.”
I knew how much I’d been played
when she picked up a slender file folder from her desk and handed it over. “Here
are your copies.”
I
hope this piques your interest in the book. I had fun writing it.
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Don
