Malachi, Ruse Master by Pamela Schloesser Canepa

Author:Pamela Schloesser Canepa [Canepa, Pamela Schloesser]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-22T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Smokescreen Ruse

The hair dye was obnoxious. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I suppose this was part of my transformation; sticking out could help me fit in for this new job. Reaching into the closet, I grabbed a hat and tried to hide it. Tonight I would do a late night surveillance on Clinton. I had already called Jack to check in with the parents. No, he wasn’t home, Mrs. Rusche had informed Jack; didn’t he know that’s why she hired him in the first place?

“I may know where he is,” I told Jack.

“Well, hurry, before he moves on to somewhere else.”

Hurry, I did. The glasses remained in my glove compartment. I didn’t know if I would end up the night acting or surveilling this young man. I had to be prepared for both.

I went as fast as my car could take me to the house where I saw him earlier. His fancy car was not parked out front. At a loss, I remained there for a short while, observing. Nothing much happened. The other young man came out at one point to take out the trash. I made notes, but they revealed nothing. It was a waste of paper. This kid lived a normal life, and he seemed to have quite a happy family life, unlike our friend, Clinton.

After driving past Clinton’s home to ensure he wasn’t there, an aimless drive around town did not produce the wayward Clinton. If he had a drug habit, it did not involve his friend on Peyton Drive. He didn’t appear to be very close with his own family. Was that why he stayed out so late? Where was he? I can’t say I combed every single street, but I drove past every single night club I knew of in town, just in case he might also have access to a fake ID. His car was not to be found. I went into one of the night clubs, just in case he met up at another friend’s house first. There was plenty of bumping and grinding on the dance floor and sad karaoke in another room. Plenty of sad drunks, too, to be out this late on a weeknight. But no Clinton. I drove a little more but gave up at 3 a.m., tired and out of ideas. This would not be an easy job. Clinton Rusche was quite an enigma.

Hazy sleep crept in on me while I lay back on the couch. The basement door had been left open as I came in in a stupor, blurry-eyed and unthinking.

In what felt like only minutes later, I awoke with a startle, hearing screaming and shouting next door. I could have drifted back off to sleep, but awareness hit me. It was Don and his wife. I quietly tiptoed up the stairs. Henry hadn’t been there last night; he was on a long distance job and should be back any time, but I knew these things could take longer than expected. My concern was not making the neighbors aware that I was listening, watching, observing.

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