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  THE TURN

  THE BLACKMORE AGENCY: BOOK 7

  Carolina Mac

  Copyright © 2018 by Carolina Mac

  THE TURN - 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-988850-53-5

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.

  ―C. S. Lewis.

  CHAPTER ONE

  September 3rd.

  Labor Day.

  Medical Building. Downtown Austin.

  SILENCE, total silence was what his mind craved. The ultimate escape from the noise and chaos of family life. All he needed was alone time to shake off the increasing number of demands Renee placed upon him, to relax and pursue his hobby and he’d be able to pull it together.

  The office of Maxwell Endicott, Dental Surgeon was closed for the long weekend. Closed and locked up tight until Tuesday morning.

  Max had made sure none of the cleaning staff had seen him cross the glassed-in lobby of the medical building on his way to the elevator. When he reached the fourth floor, he was equally as cautious, glancing to the left and then to the right before making a beeline to his suite.

  As he locked the door behind him, a low whistle escaped his lips. What a fun day this would be. He strode through the spotless waiting area, the magazines neatly stacked on the table the way he liked to see them—the dates checked weekly to insure no publication in his office was more than six months old. The reception desk vacant and clutter free—Hannah enjoying the weekend with her new husband. The phones turned off.

  Not bothering to start the coffee, Max hurried straight into his private office and turned on his computer. He entered his password—something no one would ever crack—maxillofacial. A grin spread across his face as he typed it in. Brilliant.

  His breathing picked up speed as he clicked on the dating site and sat back in his leather chair while the messages came up.

  “Let’s see how many pretty girls are lying to me today.”

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  THE AGENCY, his agency, was headquartered in an old renovated Victorian in Austin, in a not-too-desirable area of the city. The ancient house had a few quirks of its own, unidentified noises with no definable source, that he’d chosen to ignore, but overall the place was beginning to feel like home. Fate had landed Blaine here at this point in his life and he wasn’t moving. At least not today. Much too busy.

  Seven a.m. with Lexi, his big Newfoundlander running loose in the yard, Farrell still sleeping, Carm making comforting sounds in the kitchen, and a mug of Panama blend at his elbow, he was at long last getting a chance to examine the contents of the two boxes he’d discovered in the attic of the house where he’d been raised.

  The police report said he’d been in the car with his parents when they’d been killed, but he had no memory of the accident, or of anything before the accident. It was as if he woke up under the bleachers at the Odessa fairgrounds when he was fourteen and that was the day he was born.

  All the years growing up at Coulter-Ross, his adopted home, he’d never questioned the death of his biological parents—his mother, Emeline, a beautiful brunette, and his father, Ricardo, a slim Latino with black hair and the same black eyes Blaine recognized in himself—he’d blindly accepted their deaths as an accident until a few months before when an old friend of his father’s, Arlo Maznik, came forward and raised questions Blaine couldn’t answer.

  Sitting on the Persian carpet in his study, Blaine opened the lid of the first box. In fact, it was the second box of the three. The first box had been sorted through weeks before, filled with photographs of him and his family, and Lily, his personal assistant, had taken box number one to a woman who turned mind-boggling piles of old pictures into keepsake albums. He hoped to hell and back when Lil picked up the finished product it wasn’t strewn with ribbons or hearts or some damn thing.

  He lifted the flaps and started. Box number two was filled from bottom to top with paper. Pieces of musty smelling, dusty paper: his old report cards, pictures he’d drawn in kindergarten and elementary school, a growth chart that had been featured in several of the photographs, and all manner of paperwork his mother had felt compelled to squirrel away for her son. He stacked everything neatly back in the box and moved on.

  Box number three held different contents. A collection of business items that possibly had been selected by his father. After a quick sift through deeds, tax returns and expired warranties for appliances that no longer existed, nothing seemed more important than the phone number on a piece of stationery that had come from the U.S. Marshall’s Service.

  Why did my parents move to Abilene? Were we in witness protection? Mister Maznik wondered about that very thing. Was it possible?

  Before Blaine could put more thought into it, his cell rang and using the corner of his desk for support, he hauled himself up off the carpet. “Hey, Annie, all ready for the picnic?”

  “Almost, but Jesse is tired this morning. Would you mind helping me a bit before everybody gets here, sweetheart?”

  “Course not, Mom. I’ll get dressed and bring Carm over. We’ll both help you.”

  “Are you bringing Misty?”

  “Didn’t ask her. Thought I’d just have more of a relaxing drinking day with Jesse and the boys.”

  “Things not that good between you two?”

  “Stressful. She’s… umm… too much work, Mom. I need somebody that ain’t so much goddam work.”

  “I’ll find you somebody.”

  “Jesus in a handcart, Mom, please don’t do that.”

  Annie giggled and hung up.

  Coulter-Ross Ranch.

  BY the time Carmelita finished making the enchiladas for the picnic, and then giving the newly renovated kitchen—her personal queendom—a thorough cleaning afterwards, it was almost noon by the time Blaine got her out of the house.

  Carm was the mother of his deceased ex-girlfriend, and Blaine had stayed with the woman, who had no other family, for a while after Fabiana’s death. He couldn’t bear to leave her alone and they became attached to each other. Circumstances changed, and he ended up buying Carm’s old Victorian relic, renovating it and turning a number of rooms into office space for the agency.

  Carmelita Flores was close to fifty and carried a few more pounds than she wanted to, but still a lovely dark-haired Hispanic beauty. She only spoke Spanish, but that had fueled Blaine’s resolve to master his father’s language. He had never figured out why he wasn’t taught Spanish as a child. One more mystery from his past.

  Blaine walked into Annie’s massive ranch kitchen carrying two pans of enchiladas while Carm carried a third. “Where do you want these, Mom?”

  “On the is
land is fine, sugar.” She turned to Carm with a smile, “Gracias.”

  Carm smiled back and gave Annie a hug, then she turned to Jesse and asked what was really on her mind, “Donde esta el bebe?”

  Jesse grinned. “She’s in the nursery in her playpen. I’ll show you.” Jesse led the way down the hallway to the bedroom wing and Carm followed.

  Jesse Quantrall, a tall, dark-complexioned cowboy was Blaine’s partner in the agency, as well as in life. He lived with Annie, Blaine’s adopted mother and although only a few years older, he was the only father figure Blaine had.

  “Where’s Farrell?” asked Blaine as he opened cases of beer and packed the cans into coolers of ice. “He should be here by now. He left the house early this morning.”

  “Maybe he went to pick Mary up for the picnic,” said Annie.

  Blaine twisted his arm and glanced at the Cartier on his tattooed wrist. “Been hours. Wouldn’t take that long.”

  “Don’t know, honey, he hasn’t called. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  Jesse returned to the kitchen wearing a big grin—his baby daughter always had that effect on him—and helped himself to a Lone Star. “Gonna have a cold one and a smoke on the porch.” He gave Blaine the eye. “Any takers?”

  “I’m there, boss. Let me grab a Corona.” He winked at Annie. “That’s if my Mom thought to buy any for me.”

  “As if I’d forget.”

  Jesse relaxed into one of the wicker chairs on the long wooden porch that ran the length of the stone and timber edifice. “I want to talk about taking a bigger role in the agency than I have been doing.”

  “You feeling up to it?” asked Blaine.

  “I think so. My stress level is way down since I’m back with Annie and things are going smoothly for us.”

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you and Mom put your marriage back together. Nothing I wished for more.”

  “Thanks, Blacky. The kids seem happy too. Charity is loving it here with Jacks and Lucy, and with Sarah looking after all three of them, it lightens my load a lot.”

  “Are all your brothers coming to the picnic?”

  “Uh huh. They should be here soon.” Jesse’s eyes narrowed. “There could be one slight problem for you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I think I heard it mentioned that Bobby was bringing your ex as his date.”

  “Carson? Holy fucking hell. Wonder if I can deal?”

  “I thought you might have brought Misty with you, and that would have made things a little easier. Are you two back together?”

  Blaine shook his head. “Nope. Can’t seem to put it together with her. Too many differences—huge ones.”

  Jesse chuckled. “You need somebody, kid. You’re a young, good-looking guy living in a pressure cooker. You should have a girlfriend—somebody to relax with and take the edge off.”

  “Can’t seem to find anybody interesting enough. They start out pretty, and I think I’ll like them, and then I either doze off listening to them, or they turn out like Misty—a little bit crazy—and take a lot of work to maintain.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. High maintenance ain’t that much fun.”

  Annie came through the door with a beer in her hand. “And what would you know about high maintenance, Mister?”

  Jesse patted his knee and Annie sat down. “Not a damn thing, Ace. You gotta be about the lowest maintenance woman on the planet.”

  “Hey, Farrell’s here now.” Annie pointed to the red Silverado stopped at the gate. He parked in front of the six-bay garage and loped towards the porch.

  “Hey, family, where’s my beer?”

  “In the cooler.” Blaine pointed at the red chest next to his right hand. “Where in hell have you been all morning? You left the house right after breakfast. And where is Miss Mary?”

  “Wait until I get a beer. It’s a long story.”

  “Oh oh,” said Annie.

  AROUND THREE, guests began arriving. Blaine and Farrell had solidified their positions on the porch, and with a three-hour head start on beer consumption, they were in party mode… and then some.

  “Here comes Bobby Quantrall with Miss Carson,” said Farrell. “Would ya look at those cut-offs. Kill me now. Jesus, is she ever a fuckin babe.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Blaine. “I was so hot for her, the junkers turned the hose on me.”

  Farrell snorted. “I can look now that I’m unattached. Maybe I’ll make a try for her when Bobby ain’t looking. I’m way higher on the stud scale than him.”

  Blaine laughed. “You wish. Too bad about Mary, man. I thought you two were good for the long haul.”

  “She wanted that, but she’s a lot older than me. She’s ready to settle down, buy a house and all the rest of it. I was happy with her, my first steady girlfriend, but I ain’t ready for the house and family stuff. Uh uh.” Farrell shook his straw locks. “Nope. Not ready.”

  “Is that the reason you broke up?” asked Blaine.

  “Guess so. Can’t remember.”

  “Why can’t you remember? It was only this morning.”

  Farrell chugged another Lone Star. “Don’t want to.”

  Bobby crossed the compound with his arm around Carson’s slim waist and smiled at Blaine and Farrell. “Happy Labor Day, boys. Looks like you got a good start on your drinking.”

  “Damn good,” said Blaine. “Good afternoon, Miss Carson. Lovely to see you again.”

  Unsmiling, Carson nodded and hurried into the house.

  Farrell got to his feet, stumbled, grabbed one of the porch supports and straightened up. “Got a fantastic idea, bro. Just came into my head. Come on. We’re doing it.”

  “What are we doing?” Blaine could barely stand.

  “Going into Mom’s office and signing up for on-line dating.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday, September 4th.

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  LEXI woke Blaine with her whining. “What girl? What’s the matter?”

  Jeeze, have I ever had a worse headache?

  He squinted his eyes and tried to think. What was wrong with his dog. Did she have to go out? Nope, she wasn’t at the door of his room, she was lying on her bed right beside him. Then he heard it.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  His laptop on the dresser was receiving emails, and Lexi hated the sound the computer made. This early? It was barely morning. Shit, maybe it was something important from the Chief, or some clusterfuck happening at Powell Corp in San Antonio.

  He hauled his far-from-sober ass out of bed, grabbed the laptop off the dresser and headed downstairs to make coffee. The gods were with him and Jack had already brewed a pot. It sat half full on the warmer. Blaine filled a mug, added a splash of cream and settled in at the little table in the window alcove. No sun yet, but there might be soon. He opened the laptop, let it boot up and signed in. “Fuck,” he hollered out loud. “Farrell, what have you done to me?”

  FARRELL staggered downstairs an hour later wearing nothing but a pair of Harley boxer shorts, his long blond mop hanging in his face. He hugged Carm, filled a mug with coffee, brought the cream carton and the sugar bowl to the table and sat down opposite Blaine. He groaned as his tender shoulder touched the back of the chair. “Why are you working? It’s barely morning.”

  “Not exactly work. Do you know how many fuckin emails I got from the dating site?”

  Farrell shrugged. “Ten?”

  “Fuck ten,” hollered Blaine. “A hundred and sixty when I woke up and another two dozen since.”

  A big grin spread across Farrell’s face. “Can’t wait to look at mine.”

  “What the hell are we gonna do with all these girls?”

  “Take them out, buy them drinks and party till we puke.”

  “Shit.” Blaine went for more coffee and his cell rang. He leaned on the granite island and took the call from Chief Calhoun. “Yes, sir. Something?”

  “Yeah, something, son. I just sent
Mort downtown. There’s a Jane Doe behind one of the clubs and I want you to take it.”

  “Yep, can do. I’ll get dressed. Is Mort waiting for me?”

  “He is. He knows you like to run the scene before he moves the body.”

  “I’ll hurry.”

  “Why are we hurrying?” asked Farrell. “We ain’t even had breakfast.” Farrell took a big gulp of coffee. “Fuck it. My body don’t feel like hurrying.”

  Club District. Downtown Austin.

  THE MEDIA was on the job when Blaine and Farrell arrived. Vans with colorful call letters and antler antennas lined both sides of the block, reporters and cameramen paced back and forth outside the yellow tape trying to get something substantial for the news at noon or six o’clock.

  Blaine parked his truck behind the Medical Examiner’s van and as soon as he set foot on the street, the news gang zeroed in and started shouting questions at him.

  He hated being recognized and put on the spot, but he was head of Violent Crime and lately he’d been trying a little harder to keep his cool and say a few words to them now and then to keep the media maniacs out of his face. Maybe maturity was snapping at his twenty-two-year-old heels, but he doubted it.

  Blaine held up a hand and gave it a shot. “Morning, people. Trust you had a restful Labor Day. If you give me twenty minutes, I’ll know more than I know now.”

  He and Farrell ducked under the tape and walked the length of the alley between the buildings. This area of downtown Austin was known for its dance clubs and night life. A tourist mecca that drew a young crowd looking for a good time. And throngs of young adults with cash to spend attracted hordes of drug peddlers and assorted predators.

  Blaine knelt down beside the girl’s body. “What have we got, doc?”

  “Young,” said Doctor Mort Simon, the ME, “wouldn’t be surprised if her ID was fake. She doesn’t look twenty-two to me.”