Former Chief Warrant Officer Sam Blackman lost a leg in Iraq and emerged from the V.A. hospital in Asheville, NC, as a bitter civilian without a job or a future. But when he solved a series of local murders, Sam found new meaning for his life. Now he and his partner, Nakayla Robertson, are opening a detective agency. They have high hopes that the thriving mountain region will provide a steady stream of cases.

Their first client, a quirky elderly woman in a retirement community, makes a strange request. She wants Sam to right a wrong she committed more than 70 years ago. Her victim: F. Scott Fitzgerald. Her crime: stealing a manuscript. Sam's task seems simple enough: retrieve the woman's lockbox and deliver the manuscript to Fitzgerald's heirs.

But nothing is simple for Sam. The lockbox is sealed with a swastika, a symbol his client insists predates the Nazis and reflects a scene from The Great Gatsby. Then a security guard is killed and the lockbox disappears. Not only has this investigation triggered a murder, but Sam's final military case has followed him from Iraq and neither he nor anyone close to him is safe....

The Fitzgerald Ruse

By Mark de Castrique

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2009 Mark de Castrique
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59058-629-7

Chapter One

The night sky around Asheville can play tricks on the eye. Points of light might be stars, or they might be the sparkling illuminated windows of hundreds of houses dotting the ridge tops around the city.

Making the distinction between the two isn't so difficult, except for those evenings when valley mist hovers like a sheer veil between earth and heaven. Or when an extra glass of wine creates a misty veil in the brain, blurring not only the horizon but also objects closer at hand.

I focused on the sidewalk in front of me, taking each step with painstaking determination. Thunder sounded in the distance, signaling that the clear night sky would soon be changing. As the mountaineers say, "If you don't like the weather, wait fifteen minutes."

Few people shared my walk, an activity I'd undertaken to clear my head. That had been a mistake. Walking on an artificial leg was difficult enough without carrying the effects of three-quarters of a bottle of pinot noir.

My slight inebriation wasn't my fault. My business partner and girlfriend, Nakayla Robertson, hadn't held up her end of the festivities. We'd agreed to split everything fifty-fifty, but she claimed her single glass from the bottle had been enough. I, however, am not one to leave a task undone, polishing off both of our dinners and the wine.

And so I found myself struggling along Patton Avenue, headed toward our office on Pack Square with two goals in mind: first, not to stumble and look like a drunken derelict; and second, to pick up the lockbox in our office that we were holding for a client. Not just any client. Our first and only client and the reason for tonight's celebration.

I'm Sam Blackman, former Chief Warrant Officer, U.S. Army, and present and forever amputee. I'd lost a leg in Iraq, but found a life in the western North Carolina mountains. Now I'd planted both feet, although one was artificial, in my adopted community, and as a taxpaying business owner, I was on the way to becoming a model citizen.

"Good evening, Sam. How are you doing tonight?"

I looked diagonally across the intersection of Patton and Biltmore Avenue where a uniformed officer emerged from the shadows.

He gave a slight wave, and though I didn't recognize him, I wasn't surprised that he knew my name. I was a familiar face around the Asheville Police Department—as a colleague, not as an inmate. I straightened and concentrated on maintaining flawless balance as I crossed to the corner opposite him.

"Can't complain. Wouldn't do any good if I did."

He laughed. "I hear you. Well, take it easy." He turned away, heading down the block to the department.

Take it easy. Lugging the lockbox from the office to the parking deck would be anything but easy. I regretted telling Nakayla not to come with me. She'd parked her car near Tupelo Honey Café where we'd eaten, and when I'd declined a ride, she should have headed home. But Nakayla knew me too well, and there was a good chance she'd be waiting at the office. I'd be grateful to see her, even if it meant hearing her say "I told you so."

I slid my shiny new key into the dead bolt of the building's main entrance and was surprised to find it unlocked. Nakayla probably had come back to help me.

The security guard locked up every weeknight at seven and began rounds, which meant the tenants had to meet clients at the door for after-hours appointments. I expected that would happen frequently to Nakayla and me. Private investigators don't work bankers' hours, and clients often prefer to come under the cover of darkness.

I left the door as I'd found it, figuring we'd lock up on our way out. The hardwood floor creaked as I stepped along the hall to the elevator. The old structure had character, something you don't find in the cubicle and drop-ceiling world of office parks and glass skyscrapers.

I pushed the up button and the elevator opened. Nakayla was teasing me. She'd sent it back down, and I was surprised she wasn't inside poised to punch three.

Nearing our office, I saw the frosted glass of our door's window. No light shown through it. A dark crack marked the gap where the door stood ajar. I gently pushed it open in case Nakayla crouched behind, ready to leap out and scare me.

"Honey, I'm home!" I shouted.

Silence.

"Nakayla?" I stepped into the darkness. My prosthetic left foot caught on something soft and I tumbled forward. Flinging my arms out to break my fall, I collided with an end table and twisted onto my back. My head cracked against the floor, but instead of dazing me, the jolt drove the wine-induced haze out of my brain. I scrambled around, fear numbing my pain, and reached out for the obstacle that had tripped me.

My fingers grabbed locks of hair. In the dim glow, I could barely make out the body of a woman.

Chapter Two

A little more than twenty-four hours earlier, I'd been sipping champagne and christening the new business.

"To Blackman and Robertson." Nathan Armitage had raised his glass and smiled. "Or is it Robertson and Blackman?"

I shook my head. "Don't go there. I told her ladies first but she wouldn't listen." I tilted my glass of bubbly to Nakayla Robertson sitting on the sofa. She'd slipped off her shoes and tucked her slender feet against the brown leather cushion. A tag with the red word SALE dangled from the armrest under her elbow.

"Here's to a prosperous partnership of investigations," I said. "And to not being investigated ourselves."

"I'll drink to that." Nakayla took a sip and then tipped her glass toward Nathan. "So, have you got any hot referrals for us?"

The older man sat in one of two matching armchairs with his back to the wide window. He was in his mid-forties, about twelve or thirteen years older than me. Silver had begun to creep up the temples of his jet-black hair.

Behind him, Pack Square lay three stories below. Our new offices looked out over the core of Asheville's past and the hub of its present. The stone monolith commemorating Civil War governor Zebulon Vance dominated the historic square and the wall of Blue Ridge Mountains provided the city's backdrop beneath the pink clouds of an early September evening. Although the rent was more than our potential income could justify, the location in the renovated Adler Court Offices offered proximity to the Asheville Police Department and Buncombe County Courthouse, two necessities for any respectable private eye.

"Sorry," Nathan said with exaggerated smugness. "Armitage Security Services only works with licensed investigators."

"You think we invited you up here for champagne because Sam and I bought some furniture?" Nakayla turned to me. "No wonder the man's company doesn't do detective work."

"You got them?" Nathan's voice rose with excitement.

"Special delivery from Raleigh this morning." I held up two manila envelopes. "Both of us. They gave Nakayla full credit for her three years of insurance fraud investigative work."

"Terrific," Nathan said. "Chief Buchanan must have helped fast-track you through."

The Asheville Police Chief had written a strong recommendation to the Private Protective Services Board of North Carolina. Nathan, Nakayla, and I had solved the murder of one of Buchanan's detectives, and he and his entire force had been profuse in expressing their gratitude. Nathan Armitage had taken a pistol shot to the chest in the...