Drone: An Eli Quinn Mystery Read online

  DRONE

  An Eli Quinn Mystery

  By Robert Roy Britt

  Copyright © 2016 by Robert Roy Britt

  RobertRoyBritt.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion of it may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, which is highly encouraged. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Published by Ink • Spot

  P.O. Box 74693

  Phoenix, Arizona 85087

  InkSpotBooks.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover by Trent Design

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events are imaginary or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, companies or events is totally coincidental.

  Praise for the Eli Quinn Mystery Series

  FIRST KILL (Book 3)

  ★★★★★ “Jam-packed with thrilling fight scenes, witty banter, and well-worn characters, FIRST KILL is an excellent addition to the private detective genre with a likeable hero and a lovable sidekick.”

  — IndieReader

  ★★★★★ “Methodical, yet fast-paced thriller… FIRST KILL solidifies Quinn as a deeply developed hero with great potential for future installations.”

  — Self-Publishing Review

  “Britt offers a sharp, hearty narrative… Another worthy outing for the quick-witted, ever evolving private eye.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “An exciting thriller … full of intrigue, sex, and even some humor.”

  — Bestsellersworld.com

  “A well-plotted story full of twists and turns with a cast of attention-grabbing characters and dialogue that throws sparks all over the place.”

  — Silvia Villalobos, author of Stranger or Friend

  DRONE (Book 2)

  “A brisk detective novel sequel that packs a punch.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  ★★★★★ “Quinn’s second case reads as if it were written by a master reaching the height of his craft. With its witty banter, cast of colorful secondary characters, and promising detective agency, DRONE sidles into the genre with aplomb. … Characterizations are top notch, the plot is believably paced with ratcheting tension, and the prose is highly polished. … Quinn’s personality gives him an everyman feel that makes him easy to connect with. Unlike more intellectual literary detectives, Quinn is relatable and fun to root for.”

  — Foreword Clarion Reviews

  ★★★★★ “Fast-paced with a few thought-provoking twists, DRONE is reminiscent of a noir detective story with a 21st century flair.”

  — IndieReader

  “Immediately absorbing and thoroughly entertaining.”

  — Bestsellerworld.com

  “Robert Roy Britt’s writing is engaging and captivating—written both with a mature slant and just a little camp. Britt takes on a well-trod genre and introduces a distinct yet fitting addition to its hall of fame. Both brilliant and humble, hard-nosed and gentle, Eli Quinn’s mettle is thoroughly tested in curious and entertaining ways. It’s hard to make an original detective, but Britt is more than up to the challenge. He does a wonderful job of telling this twisting tale with excellent pace.”

  — Self-Publishing Review

  “A delightful read, a page turner.”

  “You will not be able to put it down.”

  “Britt has a keen feel for dialogue.”

  — Amazon Readers

  CLOSURE (Book 1)

  “Quinn’s narrative often sports the hardened cynicism of a seasoned veteran … Solo nearly steals the story; he can intimidate with a single bark and a follow-up growl.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “Fascinating plot.”

  “Great characters.”

  “A great read.”

  — Amazon Readers

  MURDER MOUNTAIN (Short Prequel)

  “An excellent quick mystery.”

  “An engaging tale of pursuit.”

  “Britt writes tight prose.”

  — Amazon Readers

  For Nadine. Always.

  Chapter 1

  I sat waiting for a client in my new office, just north of the corner of Pleasant Way and Easy Street. Trouble was, I didn’t have any clients. I’d had just one case so far. It wasn’t pleasant, and it wasn’t easy. There were a couple broken noses and a nasty, unnatural bend to an elbow. But none of the damage was to me, and I’d solved the case.

  Solo was curled up in the corner, snoring. Pandora streamed Van Morrison’s Russian Roulette from my iPhone to a Bluetooth speaker.

  I sat in my new Aeron chair with my running shoes up on a refurbished oak desk. I just needed a John Wayne hat. Well, and some boots. Along the left wall was a brown leather couch with a coffee table made of Indonesian hardwood. None of the furniture in my new office matched, but it had rustic charm.

  Bells rang as the front door flew open. Solo didn’t bark, so I knew who it was. Plus, I was expecting her.

  Samantha Marcos blew in, bright and fresh, like a promise. Solo sprang to his feet and tried to sprint, slipped on the brand new wood floors but finally got to her. Sam rewarded the 110-pound German shepherd with some serious scratching behind the ears, letting him lick her face.

  “What’s with the bells?” Sam tucked some of her straight black hair behind one ear.

  “Don’t want to be surprised,” I said. “Bad guys, you know.”

  Sam laughed lightly. It was, as always, a delightful laugh that rearranged my insides.

  “You watched too many Westerns,” she said. “Place is looking good. I saw the sign out front.”

  Eli Quinn, Private Investigator.

  “Fancy. And I see you got your license.” She pointed at the framed Private Investigation Agency license on the wall behind me.

  I nodded.

  “And the dollar?” She pointed to the smaller framed item next to the license.

  “The one Delores Bernstein gave me.”

  “Your first fee.”

  “My only fee.”

  “There will be more,” Sam said.

  “You think?”

  “I know. We just need to do some marketing for you. The cases will come.”

  “Lots of bad things happening here in Pleasant,” I said.

  “Probably more than we know.”

  I shrugged. Then I thought of Jess. I did that sometimes when I was happiest. Jess had been gone for more than a year now. She didn’t haunt me as much lately, but she checked in now and then, as if unsure what she thought about Sam and me. Or maybe she just needed to share the moment. Or maybe I needed to share it with her.

  I turned the music off. The air conditioner, perched in the front window, worked hard, its rattle and hum filling the silence. Sam and I were OK with silence.

  Sam put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She wore simple leather sandals and a white V-neck tee, casual yet somehow elegant on her five-foot-six frame. Sam had athletic strength, olive skin that lay smooth over her muscles, which looked capable without bulging.

  I crossed my arms and stared at her, sighed loudly, then looked away and stood up. Solo, sensing the tension, went back to his corner and curled up, kept one eye on us.

  “Let’s go, Quinn.” Sam nodded at the door. “The senator is about to speak. I have to report on it. You need to get out there and shake some hands.”

  “Whoopie,” I said.

  ***

  The mid-morning heat in Pleasant, Arizona already bordered on unbearable. The forec
ast called for 108 degrees this afternoon. It felt like most of those degrees had already arrived.

  I walked south with Sam on the shady east side of Pleasant Way on Old West wooden sidewalks, reconstructed to be much like what had been there a century before. We crossed Easy Street and passed in front of Funky Furniture. An eclectic mix of wood and iron tables and chairs spilled out into the parking lot.

  State Senator Jackie Brand, a widely loved and loathed Independent, was in Pleasant to launch an initiative to end Maricopa County Sheriff Horace Otto’s program targeting illegal immigrants. Otto locked them up on a former cattle ranch down in Mesa, where they endured days and days under hot tin roofs, no air conditioning, awaiting trial and likely deportation. It was all well documented. Sheriff Otto made a point of inviting reporters in to get a lot of pictures and video, boasting of his roundup as if the immigrants were in fact cattle.

  Senator Brand announced the event weeks in advance. She chose Pleasant because the town was friendly to her message. Pleasant’s population, more diverse than the state in general, had voted overwhelmingly for Brand in the last statewide election.

  We passed Lulu’s Grind. I wanted to duck in for a coffee. Lulu made the best coffee in Pleasant, maybe the best coffee in the whole country. I stayed with Sam.

  At Happy Lane we stepped into the town’s central traffic circle with its original cobblestones. The circle was closed off. A small podium was set up in the middle, in front of Ringo, the ancient, muscle-bound saguaro cactus involved in a legendary shootout in 1881.

  Barricades kept the small crowd out in the traffic circle, a good twenty feet from the podium. Out of habit, I did a quick count, the way I’d learned to do as a reporter. Tally a batch of twenty, extrapolate it across the crowd. About one-forty or one-fifty, I figured. The TV vans were parked around the circle, satellite antennas poking into the sky. A TV helicopter hovered well up and to the south.

  I left Sam as she weaved through the crowd to get to the front, near the barriers. She had a reporter’s notebook in hand, would take notes the old fashioned way. The video crew from The Arizona Republic caught up to her. Colleagues of Sam. Former colleagues of mine. They would record the speech and upload it in full to AZCentral.com, so Sam had no reason to record the audio.

  Sometimes I wondered if reporters were even needed nowadays. Everything was streamed, tweeted, periscoped, shared, liked, hated and fully critiqued before a journalist could sit down to write. It was one part of reporting I didn’t miss—chasing the tail of social media, trying to remain relevant.

  I stayed back, tagging along only because Sam Marcos asked me to. Meet and greet, start cultivating future clients. I like people well enough, but I’m not the Rotary-club type.

  “If you’re going to be a dick,” Sam had said, “you have to stop being a dick.” Sam was not afraid of words.

  Jackie Brand approached the dark green podium—a well-worn, portable plywood contraption with a lectern mounted on it—and climbed the two steps. Crisp blue suit several shades lighter than the sky. The crowd clapped politely. Ringo the cactus towered behind her.

  Several posse members ringed the crowd in the back. One sheriff’s deputy was always in Pleasant, paid by the town on a contract basis. The dozen volunteers of the posse—all men, mostly in their sixties and retired from other law enforcement jobs—backed up the deputy and handled routine duties like crowd control and school crossings. Posse members were limited in how much they were to engage with a violent or potentially dangerous incident. They were highly skilled B-team for the sheriff’s department, a support group, all working for free.

  I spotted the regular deputy of the morning, one I knew well. Saw another deputy—no, sergeant, the stripes indicated—I’d never seen before, a large blond-haired weightlifter type. Crew cut. Ray-Bans. Arms crossed in a standoffish FBI posture. He’d be in charge, given his rank.

  I found my friend Jack Beachum and moved over behind him. Beachum was in his early seventies. Still fit. Short, straight tan-colored hair that matched his posse uniform.

  “Stick ’em up, Beach,” I said.

  Jack Beachum didn’t move. “You’re gonna get yourself shot, you don’t be careful.”

  “I’d have knocked the gun out of your hand before you turned around.”

  “I’m still plenty quick,” Beach said. He turned slowly and made a gun shape with his thumb and finger, pulled the trigger.

  “I see you’re out in force today,” I said. “I thought you guys don’t like Jackie Brand.”

  “Some of us don’t,” Beach said. “Me, I think she’s a maverick, and I like mavericks. Plus she’s right about this roundup thing. Ain’t moral.”

  “You being defiant against your own boss?”

  “I’m being human,” Beach said. “Besides, I’m volunteer. I take orders, but I don’t have to take shit. And I don’t have to agree with the boss.”

  “Ha,” I said. “You just keep being you, Beach. That’s what you’re good at.”

  “Thanks, Sundance.”

  Jackie Brand began speaking. The crowd quieted and tuned in. I tuned out. I agreed with most of what the state senator stood for, but I was the choir to her preaching today. Plus there were other things to notice, and I was a noticer of things.

  The setup was odd. Brand was isolated, with just one of her aides, who was off the podium and a few feet behind her. The barricades kept the crowd well back. The two deputies and several posse members were behind the crowd. None of it meant anything. Just things I noticed.

  “Looks like nobody’s expecting any trouble,” I said in a low voice.

  “Friendly town we got here,” Beach said. “Lasko there,” he nodded toward the big blond-haired aviator-sunglass-wearing, muscle-bound sheriff’s sergeant, “said stay to the back, be unobtrusive, let civil liberty have its day. Some BS like that. Anyway, he and his boys swept the town earlier. Entrance is blocked until the speech is done. Nobody’s expecting trouble.”

  I saw a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye, something moving swiftly over the two-story storefronts, coming in from the southwest, a sound between a whoosh and a hum that you’d barely notice if you didn’t see the thing. In the time it took me to register it as a drone the size of a large pizza box, the blur bore down on Jackie Brand. Before anyone could point and shout, the drone slammed into the podium and exploded. Pieces of plywood flew in all directions. The senator flew back and fell to the ground.

  Chapter 2

  My ears rang from the blast. State Senator Jackie Brand lay motionless on her back near the remains of the plywood podium, her smart blue suit splattered with blood. The posse converged. I couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt.

  People scattered every which way, ducking and running but unsure where to go. Some screamed, others covered their heads with their arms, looking up. The chaos took on a pattern and the spectators ended up on the sidewalks surrounding the town center. Posse members huddled around Jackie Brand and her aide, who was several feet away, sitting up but also bloodied. Two TV crews along with the cameraman from The Arizona Republic tried to decide whether to film the crowd or the senator, shouting at each other and pointing. Like fish in a school, they shuffled together toward Brand. Two posse members stepped in to keep them at a distance. Another knelt next to her.

  Sam Marcos hadn’t run. She stood near the barricade still, watching the action and taking notes. She turned, spotted me and ran over.

  “Drone,” I said.

  “Yep.” She looked skyward. “Posse needs to get these people out of here.” She waved one hand toward the crowd.

  I looked around, could not see Beach. But I knew where he’d be. I sprinted to the center of the traffic circle, hurdled the traffic barriers.

  “Beach,” I shouted. “It was a drone. Could be more. Need to clear the area.”

  Jack Beachum emerged from the center of the group of posse members crowded around the senator. Instructed another to call an ambulance. The crowd had gone quiet. Be
ach spoke with a commanding voice. “Everyone clear out, now!” He made a shooing motion in several directions.

  The crowd rushed toward all four compass points along the streets that radiated from the circle. Within seconds the center of Pleasant was mostly deserted. Sam stood next to me. One of the posse members knelt by Jackie Brand, another next to her assistant. Lasko stood by his black and gold sheriff’s car. Stone-faced, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Oddly relaxed. Almost disinterested.

  The TV crews ignored the call to disperse. They’d filmed the crowd rushing out and now turned to point their cameras again at Jackie Brand.

  This must be how it feels after a shootout. I glanced at Ringo, the saguaro that’d been party to the town’s famous 1881 duel with Johnny Ringo and, some said, Doc Holliday. A scar covered a bullet said to be still embedded. Ringo had suffered no further damage today.

  Everything was still and silent. There was no dust settling, but the heat felt hotter than before. The sky seemed sharper and a darker shade of blue. Jackie Brand hadn’t moved. A siren wailed faintly in the distance. It would take a minute or two for the ambulance to enter Pleasant and make its way to the town center.

  I wasn’t sure why, but I knew it was over now. Lasko had seemed to know that, too. One drone. One target. Very little collateral damage other than a podium and the senator’s assistant.

  “No accident,” I said to Sam.

  “Assassination attempt,” she said.

  “Not just some nutjob.”

  “Maybe a nutjob. But one who plans meticulously.”

  “And knows how to pilot drones,” I said.

  “And build bombs.”

  “Very light bombs.”

  I had bought an off-the-shelf drone a couple years ago, a quadcopter with four plastic helicopter-like blades. Stable and easy to fly. Popular because a novice could fly the thing right out of the box. On command, it actually took off and hovered in place on its own. An onboard Wi-Fi connected it to an app on a smartphone, which served as the controller. It had a video camera that recorded everything in front of it. Simple and fun, but with the potential to be much more than an indoor toy that smacked into Christmas trees no matter where you tried to steer it.