Romeo's Tell (A disappearance mystery turned international thriller) Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by William Neubauer

  Romeo's Tell

  First Kindle Edition

  September 2012

  Control # 13042401

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

  All rights reserved.

  With the exception of brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  To the father of my father’s son

  And his wonderful wife

  Contents Navigation

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Now

  Thursday, May 3, 2012

  Upstate New York

  Davy Mannix could really shred. Remarkable really, given the fourteen-year-old had only been playing guitar for about six months. He was moving the instrument wildly as he wailed away, the axe's belly often facing the floor. These were moves he’d done dozens of times over the past several months. But today would be different. Today, something more astonishing than the sound of shredding would come from his guitar.

  Actually, Davy would be the first to tell you that it wasn’t really his guitar. As Davy would explain it, the guitar belonged to his mom. Well, it was really his aunt’s guitar—the aunt he had never known. Although, to be technically correct, the guitar belonged to “some guy his aunt was engaged to.” In any event, it somehow wound up in Davy’s mom’s basement in East Syracuse, where it sat inside its old beat-up case for “like twenty years,” until Davy discovered it. So now, it was “kind of his.”

  It was an old Epiphone Casino, a thin-line, hollow body, dual pickup classic—beautifully crafted with a sunburst finish. Right now, he was playing it without amplification. It wasn’t as loud without an amp as a full hollow-body, flat-top guitar would be, but the two narrow f-holes provided enough sound for practicing. And this guitar was much closer to the Fender Strat he really wanted.

  Davy was in the middle of a particularly intense riff when he moved and shook the guitar in just the right way, for just the right amount of time, at just the right angle. With silent flight and unlikely purchase, a small, folded, ancient piece of brown paper slipped from its decades-long confinement through one of the guitar’s f-holes and flittered its way aimlessly to the floor.

  When he was done shredding, Davy took a moment to marvel over his beastly guitar skills then placed the instrument on his unmade bed and picked up the recently escaped piece of paper. Though neatly folded, it was roughly torn around the edges. Davy flicked it across the room to the trash bin with nary a second thought.

  The paper fluttered, partially unfolding during the journey to its ultimate oblivion. Just as it disappeared behind the rim of the wastebasket, Davy caught a glimpse of what looked like writing somewhere inside the folds. His curiosity piqued, he stepped over to the wastebasket to retrieve the persistent parchment—a seemingly trivial decision, made in a meaningless moment. With profound consequences.

  For a few seconds, Davy questioned the merits of extracting the dubious paper from the midst of the molten bubble gum, creamy Suzy Q wrappers, and generally repulsive contents of his trash bin. But curiosity won out and he went for it.

  The day-old sweet cream that had gotten onto one corner of the retrieved paper tempted him, but only briefly. He brushed off the spoiled sweetness and unfolded the paper.

  Davy puzzled over what he read, but confusion was soon replaced by shock when he realized the gravity of the message on the ragged scrap of brown paper. A rush of intense cold ran through his body, despite the tendency of boys his age to maintain a rather blasé attitude regarding events that took place decades before they were born.

  Davy abruptly abandoned his practice session and went without delay to find his mother, Jane.

  Things were about to change for Jane Mannix and for a number of people she used to know.

  Chapter 2

  Then (Twenty-six years earlier)

  August 23, 1985

  Chad Swan hadn't taken the first sip of the icy Bud Light that sat before him on the polished hardwood bar in downtown Ithaca. And there was a reason for that.

  A history of problems with the drink ran in the family—on his father’s side. About a year earlier, when Chad first detected the tendency in himself, he’d taken to ordering only one beer, or occasional margarita, whenever he was out on the town. Then he’d either decide to drink it, or not. Right now, he was thinking not.

  His mission tonight wasn’t to party, anyway. He was simply at Uncle Marvin's Alehouse to return the hat that temporarily resided on his head. Normally, Chad wouldn’t be sporting the big Stetson at all. Not his thing, really. Just the easiest way to hold onto it until his friend Morgan arrived to take it off his hands—or rather, his head.

  It was the first Friday night of the ’85–‘86 school year and Marv’s was awash with students—both the Cornell and South Hill varieties—intent on consuming every last ounce of hooch they were entitled to under current law. The drinking age in New York State would be changing from 19 to 21 before the semester was out.

  A dry-erase board behind the bar counted down the “100 Days till 21.” None of the numbers were crossed out yet, but
at midnight, the number 100 would be. Chad supposed that the change in the law would be devastating to the old Alehouse’s business; it was good to see that Marv and the rest of the crew were trying to make the best of it.

  As luck would have it, Chad happened to shift his focus from the countdown board to “The Great Mirror,” which ran the entire length of the bar, at just the right moment. He did a double-take on seeing the reflection of something beautiful nudging through the crowd behind him.

  Chad recognized the striking young woman working her way toward the bar; he remembered seeing the pretty blonde around campus a few times. Who could forget, really. He figured she was probably about a year younger, which would make her a junior. One thing he was sure of was that she was having trouble getting the bartender's attention—as hard as that may have been to believe. Chad motioned to the bartender, making sure to catch his eye and that he saw the blonde coed needed assistance.

  Seeing what Chad had done, the young lady smiled. “Thanks, Cowboy,” she said warmly, but loudly enough to be heard above the din.

  Chad rolled his eyes up to the brim of his visiting headwear, maligning the ten-gallon Stetson as the cause of this new, ill-fitting nickname. He then spun slowly around and met with the girl’s crystal blue eyes. The clarity there gave him pause, from which he made sure to quickly recover. “Happy to be of service, but it's actually not my hat—I'm just holding on to it for a friend.” Then he thought, but didn’t say, who was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.

  Before the young woman could respond, the bartender arrived. Chad started placing her drink order without knowing exactly what he was going to say, using a tone that prompted her to fill in the blanks. “Yeah, uh, for my friend—”

  “Jill,” the friendly blonde filled in.

  “Right, Jill. We need a—”

  “Two Buds, two Miller Lites, and a 7 & 7.”

  “Chad's eyes widened. “Planning a big night?”

  She laughed. “No, I'm here with my friends.” She motioned to a group of four attractive young ladies about twenty feet away. They all smiled when he looked in their direction. He tipped Morgan's hat and returned the smile.

  The bartender impatiently asked for confirmation. “That it?”

  Jill nodded and the barman was off to retrieve the drinks.

  As they waited, Chad felt the need to spark up a little conversation. Normally he was a pretty natural conversationalist, but for some reason he couldn't think of anything of value to say at the moment. Eventually, he settled on something he realized was vacant, bland, and ultimately . . . lame. “So, does Jill have a last name?”

  “Paulson, Jill Paulson,” she said, extending her hand with a smile even brighter than her standard one.

  Chad took Jill's hand, powerless to avoid noticing it was warm and smooth and as lovely as the rest of her. “Chad Swan. Pleased to meet you, Jill Paulson.”

  Jill broke the brief and ever-so-slightly awkward pause that followed. “I have a little confession to make.”

  “What, all the drinks are really for you?”

  She tilted her head and smiled. “No, it's just that I've seen your band, so I kind of know who you are. And I already knew that's the bass player’s hat, not yours.”

  Now this girl really had Chad's attention. Not only was she adorable without having that “over-the-top, I know you know I’m beautiful” air, she knew his band. The Alpine Light was not exactly a popular band. Not at all. A few zealous followers—that was about it.

  Chad's quick observations about Jill Paulson were spot on. She not only cast sunshine wherever she went, but was highly intelligent, with a memory her friends swore was photographic. But none of that really mattered at this particular moment. The conversation was about to abruptly turn in an unexpected direction.

  “Oh, shit!” the lithe beauty whispered as she gingerly slinked into the recently vacated barstool next to Chad's.

  It was Jill’s turn to glance a reflection in the barroom mirror, but not a welcome one and certainly not as pleasant as the one Chad had seen moments earlier. This time it was a fellow student by the name of Jason Brooks, an oversized, wanna-be jock from Jill’s hometown who would not take no for an answer in pursuing her—and her pants.

  Uncharacteristically, Jill had avoided Jason tonight by telling him she had to study. Jill didn’t like telling lies—even little white ones. But she just didn’t have the energy earlier that day to go a round or two or three—as often became necessary—to fend off Brooks.

  She chided herself, under her breath. “That's what you get for not being honest, Jill.”

  Jill's reaction upon seeing Brooks gave Chad cause for concern. Concern turned to certainty regarding the rapidly approaching hulk-like figure, when Chad heard it blabbering, “Had to study? What a crock of shit!”

  Chad figured Jill probably didn't deserve the verbal abuse, and part of him was compelled to try to do something about it. But another part, perhaps wiser, recognized this as one of those situations that screamed out, “Mind your own business, Chad.” Ultimately, discretion won out and he turned back around to his beer, thinking maybe he would drink it, after all.

  But the laissez faire approach was short-lived. That nice cold beer was only halfway to Chad's lips when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Brooks roughly grabbing Jill by the wrist and pulling her from her barstool. This time there wasn’t much thinking involved. Instincts took over.

  Chad Swan had never excelled at traditional sports. And he was really only a journeyman as a guitar player. His skill was with math and computers. But his gift—his true gift—was his balance. He had studied the martial arts from the age of nine, after his interest had been set ablaze by a judo exhibition during the first of ten summers he spent with his uncle in Tokyo. Chad’s kuzushi—the push-and-pull, unbalancing magic of judo—was strong, as was his skill at avoiding having to use it.

  In one motion, Chad stood up, turned, and gently positioned himself between Jill and Brooks. At five-eleven, Chad had to look up a bit to meet Brooks in the eyes.

  “Who the hell are you? Roy Rogers?” Brooks demanded.

  The damned hat again, Chad thought, as he extended his hand and a assertive but friendly, “Chad Swan, pleased to meet you.” Chad considered addressing the big guy as “Gaston” or maybe “Bluto,” but decided against it.

  The big man released Jill’s wrist—primary objective accomplished—grabbed Chad’s hand and squeezed hard, giving up more intel than he realized. Brooks had strength, but it was all physical. His strategy when things didn’t go his way was to employ brute force, particularly after a few drinks.

  The awkward handshake lasted until Chad offered an exit. “Wow, that’s some powerful grip you have there.”

  “Pfft.” Brooks blew Chad off and turned back to Jill, ready to lash into her. She had remained where she was, rather than putting some distance between herself and Brooks, only because she did not want to leave Chad in the lurch.

  “I have an idea,” Chad interjected before Brooks had a chance to speak, further irritating the big man. “How about you sit down with me and have a cup of coffee while I finish my beer and we let Jill here go hang out with her friends?” He gestured to the four other cute ladies, who were now smiling nervously in their direction.

  Brooks’s blubbery face hardened with anger. Chad realized he might have pushed just a little too hard and that the hulk was about to pop a few buttons.

  Instincts kicked in again as Chad subconsciously identified three likely scenarios that might ensue in the event Brooks lost it and went all physical. Either of the first two involved Brooks taking a try at Chad. Neither of those would be a big problem. The third, and hopefully least likely scenario, involved Brooks going for Jill. If Brooks made that choice, there wouldn’t be time for finesse—someone, most likely Brooks, was going to get hurt. Of course, there was still the hope that Bluto would just stay cool. But that hope was soon dashed.

  With the blunting effect of alcoho
l dampening his naturally limited capacity for self-control, it didn’t take long for the big man’s anger to reach critical mass. Within a few seconds, he made his move.

  An eye-blink later, Chad had completed his evaluation—Ah, scenario two, that’ll work—and initiated his counter.

  Brooks knew he was going to smash Chad’s face wide open. There would be pieces of his Roy Rogers smirk all over the bar and hopefully all over Jill’s nice white shirt too. Why isn’t this guy moving? I’m just going to murder him.

  But to Brooks’s disbelief, when his fist arrived at its target, Chad’s face wasn’t there. What is that? Right hand? Left hand? Both hands? And what are his feet doing?

  Instead of a fight, Brooks found himself in some impossible high-speed dance, where he was somehow leading, but not going where he intended.

  Two seconds later, Brooks was sitting in Chad’s barstool. Chad had a grip on Brooks’s right hand and wrist in a way that forced his elbow to the verge of hyper-extension—and his left arm was jammed against the bar. Essentially, Brooks couldn’t move.

  Then, through heavy haze, Brooks heard Chad saying, “Good idea. Take my seat. How about that cup of coffee? Bartender, cup of coffee for my friend here, please.”

  Brooks was very still for several seconds before quietly confirming, “Coffee sounds good.”

  Chapter 3

  After finishing his one beer and setting Brooks up with another cup of coffee, Chad decided to give up on Morgan and head out of Uncle Marvin’s. As the front door was closing behind him, he saw Morgan rushing toward him on the sidewalk.

  “Well. It’s about time.”

  “Sorry, Chad. Practice ran late.”

  Chad smiled, knowing late was a lifestyle feature when it came to his best friend.

  “Thanks, Man,” Morgan said as Chad happily placed the Stetson on Morgan’s head.

  In addition to the Alpine Light, Morgan played bass guitar for a country band, Country Fried Revival. CFR had a gig the next day at the county fair and Morgan really wanted to wear his big Stetson, which he had left at Chad’s place a few days before.

  Morgan checked his watch. “I gotta get going.”