The Repairman- The Complete Box Set Read online

  And, no, even though I right wrongs, I’m no superhero.

  I’m just a guy who’s not afraid to use all the tools at hand, and with my background, I’ve got lots of tools to work with.

  I learned early that you don’t have to play by somebody else’s rules—in fact you can’t if you want to stay alive if you play against those who have no rules, no morals, no mores, no conscience. So I don’t much give a damn how I get it done, which is normally just fine with my clients. Some of them even pay handsomely for decisive indiscretions.

  I try to work only for those in the right.

  Who determines what or who’s right, and what or who’s wrong?

  Mike Reardon, that’s who.

  The law would dislike my methods, as I don’t go by their book or fight by Queensbury rules. If the law could, they would catch up with me. So far, they haven’t. Not that I’m in deep cover. It’s just they haven’t been able to pin any of my indiscretions on me. Even in this time of electronic surveillance—video cameras in every crevice and on every corner, facial recognition software that's somewhat hard to fool, satellites that can read the printing on a golf ball, and taps on half the phones and all the emails in the world—I’m able to remain unseen, unknown, and anonymous. Or, even if seen or heard, unrecognizable. Technology has made life tough for those who want to stay beneath the radar, as it’s gone far beyond radar, but if used properly, it can make invisibility easier than ever. So I do my best to use it, rather than try and avoid it. Disguise has always been an art; now it’s an art and a science. Using Hollywood facial reconstruction tricks to stick your ears out, widen your nose and cheeks, and cant your eyebrows can play hell with facial recognition software.

  Most cops, in my opinion, are a little fed up with the system, and as my work seems to lead to the apprehension or demise of some very bad guys, it could just be that lots of cops don’t try too hard to make me a bad guy as well. In fact, many seem to be a little jealous of the fact that I have no code book or pile of statutes to guide my actions. And I’ve made friends with cops in several states, and work to keep them…in fact have been called by them a couple of times to do what they can't, or won't. In that case I work gratis. Not that any of them would admit to asking my help.

  Although I don’t have a home in the conventional sense, I do have mini-storage units in several cities. At an average of sixty dollars a month, you can have lots of little homes in lots of places. And when you don’t receive mail or utility bills, or have a landline phone, and keep a dozen throwaway cell phones, you’re hard to locate.

  My work has been against bad guys both large and small…dope dealers, terrorists, thieves, corrupt politicians, at least one mass murderer, and yes, husbands and wives who are merely child abductors, most of their own sons or daughters in violation of court orders. But only if they’re bad, bad guys. I hate getting involved in family disputes.

  I shouldn’t say the law has never caught up with me. I did do a tough week in a court-martial court for violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I was exonerated from the murder of a half-dozen Iraqi civilians, who I believed to be hostiles. That affair led to my "general" discharge from the Corps. I was found guilty of disobeying an order…an action I would do again today had I the opportunity to repeat my offense. A general discharge is a step below an honorable discharge, when the discharge is marked by a considerable departure in "duty performance" and "conduct expected of military members." Had the male members of the Iraqi family who’d just stoned two of their daughters to death not been armed and firing at me, my court-martial would have resulted in a much different ending. I’d still be busting rocks.

  As it was, the result is that I’m out of the service. I’m a loose canon on the streets of my country, but still a Marine as far as I’m concerned, at least at heart, a service which I still love no matter how badly I was treated.

  Shit happens.

  I walked out of that military courtroom wearing my Class-A olive uniform, with Sam-Browne belt, and a chest full of ribbons that includes my gold parachute-jumpers wings, a half dozen marksmanship awards, and two Marine Corps Expeditionary Medals; and those of which I am most proud, my two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, a Legion of Merit, and a Navy Distinguished Service Medal. Those I was allowed to keep, much to my surprise. I guess they couldn’t justify giving them to me, then taking them away.

  All that, however, brought me to my current career as a repairman.

  If your daughter has fallen in with the wrong element or has taken up with a commune; if your business manager has absconded with your life savings; if your son has begun stealing to satisfy his habit and pay his dealer whom you want dealt with; or if your captain has disappeared with your yacht or airplane, then those situations call for my particular bag of tricks and tools. Many times those seemingly inane assignments lead to some very bad guys, which pleases me no end, as I’m tired of bad guys getting placated by the courts. I’m the guy who should have been called when Barney Madoff was first paying investor one with investor two’s money. I live for just those kinds of scumbags. I believe in capital punishment, and don’t always wait for the approval of the capitol. Being judge, jury, and executioner saves the country lots of money and my fellow citizens can sleep a little easier and, so far, I’ve lost no sleep over my actions.

  All I ask is to be paid for what I do, depending upon your ability, and not to be lied to or set up for a fall. That would get me very irritated and possibly your lip fattened if you’re male, or your lovely little backside reddened with my hard hand applied should you be female…as inappropriate and politically incorrect as that may be. Political correctness has never been my strong suit.

  There’s a badger in the soul of every man. The trick is to loose him by and with intent, not by mere reaction…although at times reaction is all you have time for. At times restraint is tough, but it’s part of staying under the radar.

  As you’ll discover, political correctness is as far from my psyche as the sun from this California beach I’m admiring, but even at ninety three million miles, it still influences the young ladies to wear very skimpy bikinis. At the moment I’m glad that particular attire is not politically incorrect. However, it should be against the law for twenty somethings to play volley ball, their flawless skin protected by little more than strings and Coppertone, as it creates substantial disturbance of my peace, and a hell of a distraction.

  But it does entertain while one waits patiently on a beachside bench.

  Unfortunately, the lady who’s just contacted me, via email routed through a number of servers around the globe, is most likely unable to pay me a red cent, even though willing to promise every dime she makes for the rest of her life in order to reclaim her child. This is the worst kind of job and I seldom bite, as it’s almost impossible to determine who’s the best parent—if either one is—in a custody dispute. Not that I’m qualified to judge. Did the father abscond with the kids because he was afraid of what the wife was doing, how she was influencing them, or worse, mistreating them? Or is he a self-righteous a-hole, or far, far worse, a pedophile? I hate parent abductions, and this is one. They never seem to end with me totally satisfied that I’ve done the right thing.

  Had she not been referred to me by an old Marine buddy, Skip Allan, who saved my sweet ass more than once—one of the few who knew how to contact me—I wouldn’t be sitting here near a fish restaurant and bar on the pier in Ventura, California, contemplating ignoring this missive via hyperspace. But I can’t seem to ignore a plea for help, and refuse to ignore one from a guy I owe. I think it a severe character flaw and one that is likely to eventually get me toes up.

  I’m fortunate to have a buddy who left the corps and became an Internet Provider. He can route messages to me through a hundred small black boxes in as many cities around the world. Thus, I remain under the radar. He can also move what small sums of money I earn in ways that defy explanation.

  It's one of those perfect California beach Spring day
s with the offshore islands looking as if you could reach out and touch them—the gulls are floating lazily, the sanderlings busy burying beaks in the sand for worms, and running back and forth with the lazy surf.

  She said she’d be wearing a red bikini cover up one's approaching. Damn, she did not say she was a couple of points up the scale from a Victoria’s Secret model?

  2

  "Mr. Reardon?" she asks, pausing in front of the bench, one leg slightly bent, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, chin down, eyes raised to my height, lips pouted. And me taking way too much notice of the whole delectable package.

  "Guilty" I respond, and she starts to sit next to me. "But please call me Mike."

  "Mike, then. Please call me Carol."

  "Let’s walk," I say, rising. It’s much more difficult to use a hyperbolic microphone on a moving target, particularly if it’s moving among a lot of yelling kids on the beach, squawking gulls, or squeaking bicycles and strollers on the beach front walkway. One thing M-2—Marine Intelligence—taught me, and that was the capability of someone wanting to drop in on a conversation. Yes, I’m paranoid. I don’t know this lady, although at first glance, I’d like to know her better. Then again, a coral snake is beautiful, in its deadly way.

  We stroll out onto the beach, dodging squawking seabirds, walking south away from most who hang out near the pier, and are soon dodging kelp strewn on the beach from the last spring storm.

  She glances over at me. "Skip says you’re very good at what you do?"

  "I can jitterbug with the best of them, play a mean harmonica, spit shine my shoes and brass, but other than that I kind of just stumble along."

  This time she gives me a long stare, then adds "And he says you’re tough as hell?"

  "Like cheap sirloin, but even the cheapest can be chewed up. Skip’s a wussy, so how would he know tough."

  "Skip’s the toughest guy I know. You don’t instill confidence."

  That makes me smile. "Not my job. However, Skip used to be the toughest guy you knew. I get my work done, whatever it takes, but it seldom takes tough. It usually takes don’t-give-a-damn. And oft times clients don’t like what it takes."

  "I like whatever it takes to get the job done. I want my daughter."

  Her eyes, gleaming as if tearing up, cut around the beach, she seems to be searching for a place to start, so I ask, "I understand your kid has been abducted, and you’d like help getting her back?"

  She sets her jaw before continuing. "Exactly. She’s only five, and doesn’t understand the falling out her father and I have had."

  "Does he have legal custody?"

  "We have shared custody, but the first time he had her for the weekend, two weeks ago, he didn’t show back up when he was supposed to bring her home."

  She stops and looks up at me, liquid gold eyes fill with tears, this time to the point of rolling down her smooth cheeks.

  But I encourage her. "Let’s keep ambling along here. So, you’ve contacted the police?"

  "And the FBI, and gone on every missing child website I can find, and called his family here in California and in Las Vegas. The police have refused to put out an Amber alert as he has joint custody...until I get a court order or warrant or something...."

  "Vegas?"

  "Yes, his family is in the gaming business in Vegas. In a modest way, if you can call a two-acre gaming floor modest. Modest compared to Trump or Wynn."

  "Skip said your last name is Janson?"

  "Skip’s a good guy." She’s unbuttoning the cover up, a little disconcerting. "Do you mind? I’d like to take advantage of the sun."

  I shrug, however my mouth is going dry, and I wouldn’t complain no matter. She could easily be the Victoria’s Secret model I mentioned earlier. The bikini consists of less material than my hanky. The solid red bottoms are cut low enough to reveal that she's well groomed. And yes, it’s sunny, but the cool ocean breeze has her nipples straining against the red polka-dot top, obviously made of some stretchy material. If she’s playing me, she’s doing a spectacularly stupendous job. She is not flawless; when the high collar of the cover-up is removed, a small mole on the left side of her neck, just above the collarbone, is revealed. It would be heart-shaped, but it’s upside down, so it’s a spade. It would be considered a blemish on some; on her I decide it’s a beauty mark.

  She continues rolling the cover-up and slipping it into her rather large canvas tote bag. "It is Janson, but that’s my maiden name I’ve taken back. My married name was Zamudio."

  "So, Mexican?"

  "Spanish they say, but they’re here from Hermosillo, Mexico. They do have relatives in Spain, and are of light complexion with sandy hair."

  "I was afraid we might be dealing with the bent nose boys from Vegas…not that that particularly bothers me."

  She’s silent for a moment, cutting her eyes away which indicates my supposition is probably correct, then glances up and I realize her eyes are not brown, but golden. Her skin is flawless except for a half dozen freckles under each eye, and her teeth are perfect, probably a twenty grand cap job, but perfect. Which brings rise to the question of money….

  "You look like a lady who’d be hard to leave. So who left who?"

  "Thank you." For the first time she flashes a smile at me. She’s beautiful without it, and even more beautiful with it. Then she turns serious again. "He left me. I have no idea why."

  "How come he skipped with the kid?"

  She tears up again, and both golden eyes well and the tears stream across those freckles in abundance. "I have no idea, I thought we were happy and he left me, I thought he was happy with the shared custody, but obviously not."

  I stop her and turn. "Let’s head back."

  "Okay." She has fished a tissue out of her bag and dabs at her eyes.

  "I said you look like a woman who’d be hard to leave--"

  "Thanks, Mike. You probably have to beat the ladies off yourself. Six foot…what…four or five, and three or four percent body fat. I’ll bet you have beautiful hair, if you’d ditch the military cut. Prime of your life…what are you, forty or so?"

  "The Marine cut stays, but thanks. Good guess as to age, a little older actually, but you’re close on all counts, except I’m only six two and a half. But back to the subject…you also look like a woman who might be hit on by every guy passing...particularly by those in a Mercedes or Maserati. You weren’t caught with some ol’ boys hand in your cookie jar?"

  She keeps her eyes on the walkway, and sounds hurt. "That’s a rude thing to say, Mike."

  "You may be asking me to do some rude things, Mrs. Zamudio, so I have to have the truth."

  "Janson, please. You can read the transcripts of the divorce if you’d like."

  "Tells me nothing. This is a no-fault state."

  "No, no one had their hand, or anything else, in my cookie jar."

  I’m not convinced, but she does look me straight in the eye with her answer.

  We discuss payment, and of course, as I suspected, she claims to be destitute thanks to a pre-nuptial agreement that left her with three grand a month plus a grand in child support, and she claims to be getting neither…at least since pop ran off with the kid and her payments were due a week ago. She takes my email address, one routed via a service in India that resends all email to my buddy the internet service provider, who re-routs it to my actual email address which changes monthly by prearrangement with my buddy, so she can email me a picture of Sherry, her daughter, and all the info she can gather on her husband and his family. She does hand me a small file with a limited amount of info, including her contact list and that of her old man and his family in Vegas.

  I tell her we’ll work out payment of some kind, and she gives me a coy look as she shakes hands, holding on a little too long. Getting the feeling her idea of payment may be what any red-blooded American man might want from her, I watch her walk away fishing out the wrap and putting it back on as she heads for the raised parking structure where she left her
car.

  As she walks away I'm reconsidering my long held rule of not messing with clients.

  I’ve left my Harley Sportster in a half-parking space left by some space-hog in a red Escalade who tried to take up two spaces, and notice a big black SUV, a Tahoe I think, with tinted windows double parked across the lot—not parked but idling and waiting if the exhaust is any indication, with the passenger window half down and a lens protruding therefrom. Why am I not surprised as the lens retreats and the window goes up and the SUV heads out of the lot just before I reach my bike. I was right to be concerned about the hyperbolic mike.

  Firing the bike up I idle a couple of hundred yards in the opposite way the SUV left, back down to the exit of the parking structure, and watch as she finally emerges in a silver Mercedes 500. I wonder if it’s in her name, as it’s hardly a ride for a destitute ex-wife. Anyway, she leaves safely, seemingly without someone following.

  Somehow I think there’s more to this whole gig than merely a by-parent child abduction.

  As I fire up the Harley and head south on Harbor Boulevard along the Pacific, I check the rearview a time or two and see that a black SUV of late model, which left the garage close behind me, is pacing me a car or two behind. There’s a parking lot for beach goers, and I wheel into it, passing the pay booth with a motion that I’m flipping a U-turn. When I come back out on Harbor, I go back to the north, and when I stop at the first stop sign, check the rearview. As suspected, the SUV is five cars back. I turn onto California Avenue which leads into the little downtown area of Ventura, roll up the road a couple of blocks, then turn into a three story parking garage, move up to the second level, park, and head for the stairwell.