Chapter 1

I was just back from Las Vegas where I had celebrated my 50th birthday with some of the girls ... I guess I should say women. Instead of losing money at cards for once, I had actually won some for a change, and treated myself and the women I took with me to extra time at Caesar’s Palace, and later indulgent spa time at the new MGM Grand Hotel and Casino.

The first thing I did on getting home to the old homestead in Alabama was to check the answering machine. The one I use is an old continuous loop tape recorder, old not obsolete, or if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Two hours of record time and then it starts recording over itself. As it was playing back the recent messages, I was sipping on some fine twenty five year old Johnny Walker bonded Black Label Scotch and grilling a inch thick bloody aged T Bone steak in the air fryer, and preparing the brockley and French fries to go in the fryer next.

Most of the calls, as you would expect, were from robo-dialers trying to sell me medical or car insurance, or wanting donations for some worthwhile charity, but there was one from Garry Wolf in there too. Yes, I remembered the name, even the voice, we had gone to law school together, and frankly I didn’t like him at the time. He was a former football hero and in our moot court trials him and his buddies ganged up together to give us other lesser beings that weren’t football heroes a hard time.

It wasn’t funny, but the particular instructor/trial judge running the moot court was from the same college fraternity and wouldn’t call them down. This went on for three miserable days, until I had had enough. I waited and caught him alone and told him if he pulled one of his low blows again I’d break both his legs after class. He might be the football player, but I was the exMarine I told him. As was predictable he swung on me as soon as I turned my back on him. Instead of trying to get away from the wild swing I bent forward slightly and stepped back inside his roundhouse swing. I then slammed a sharp elbow back into his gut with perfect timing, leaving him doubled over on the floor. I never looked back as I walked away from him puking his guts out on the tiled floor. From that day on we avoided each other studiously, ha, ha. What could he possibly want from me now all these years later I had to ask myself.

The message started; “Harry I know you don’t like me, but I need your help. Please call me at 205696669.” Fifteen minutes later he called again, and fifteen minutes later again, except this time he added it was “urgent”. I finally cut off the machine and called the number. Believe it or not most people today, other than me, have call forwarding today. He answered almost at once, but told me we couldn’t talk on the phone. We set up a time to meet at UAB’s Law Library the next day.

I was the rouge in school, the Marines, college, and law school, hell life too for that matter. Wolf on the other hand was the good little boy. All the right schools to graduate from, all the right fraternities to join, all the right clicks to be part of, all the right people to know. Mister well connected in other words. I had no doubt he had gotten a full partnership at his daddy’s, really granddaddy’s, old prestigious law firm. What could he possibly want from me, hell with me for that matter, I had to ask myself after I made the appointment. You know the one about curiosity killing the cat? Yes, that one!

You know the one about curiosity killing the cat?

9am saw me at the Ross Law Library sitting at one of the long oak tables near the row of heavy glass doors at the ground entrance. At a little after 10am I was getting up to leave when a bundled up person came through the double glass doors in a hurry and looked around wildly until her, honestly it could just as easily have been a long haired hippy boy, eyes locked on me and she started my way.

“Are you Harry Callahan, Sir,” she asked, when she was standing right in front of me. She had a beautiful voice that took away all my doubts that she was a boy, ha, ha.

“Well yes Mam I am.” I answered back simply.

“I’m Sharon Wolf, I clerk for Mister Wolf, well I did clerk for ... Mister Wolf ... Garry ... is dead, I just learned. He was run over in our own parking structure sometime early this morning the police said when they interviewed me this morning. They just found the body really. I’ve been working with Garry to put together the briefing he was going to give you. I knew about your meeting this morning so I grabbed the file and hopped the building’s courtesy bus over here to the law library when I heard he was dead. I haven’t even been into the office yet. I hoped I wasn’t too late for your meeting. I’m glad you waited Sir,” she finished a little out of breath.

Sharon was young, very young going by her voice, maybe 18... 19 years old I guessed off hand, maybe even younger, about five foot six, maybe a hundred twenty pounds at a guess. A long dark reddish brown mop of hair parted down the middle and hanging over both sides of her face and both shoulders, a nice sharp narrow straight nose, expressive mouth with thin lips, and sky blue eyes peeking out from behind one of the largest pair of eyeglasses I had ever seen, and if I wasn’t mistaken they were just plain cut glass. She was wearing one of those ugly all-in-one pantsuit things that were popular at that time. It was a God awful mustard yellow color, what a buddy of mine once called “Puke Yellow”, that made it look even worse. Of course you could have also said they were mechanic’s coveralls too. Anyway they did a perfect job of concealing from the world any figure she might have had, and she was also wearing plain brown flat heeled Mary Jane’s on her small feet I notice. All together she was the perfect library mouse for the Firm I guessed. Of course knowing Wolf’s proclivities for women, any women, I doubted she was a virgin any more.

“I’m sorry to hear that Garry is dead ... can I call you Sharon, Miss Wolf?” I asked.

“Of course Mister Callahan.” Sharon returned.

“Just Harry, Sharon, just Harry. I used to say my father was Mister Callahan, ha, ha. Then I became my father.” I laughed at my own joke, a sure sign of senility one of my girls had recently told me.

“Seriously Mist...” I interrupted her.

“Was Garry a relation Sharon?” I had to ask.

“He was my Uncle, my father is ... was his younger brother. Now on to business Harry ... Oh well, the first order of business is your retainer for this meeting. $1,000.00 dollars now, and there’s another $10,000.00 I’m authorized to pay you upon your completion of the assigned task, if the task is acceptable to you. The first $1,000.00 is only for listening to the briefing and not disclosing the information I give you to anyone else. I am positive Garry would have wanted you to continue with the assignment Harry if he was alive.” She handed me a cashier’s check in that amount drawn on Chase Bank of NYC.

“Sign here for the check please Harry,” she then presented me with a carbon receipt after I signed her receipt book.

“Next is the Firm’s standard Non-Disclosure-Agreement not to discuss this information with anyone else. I’m sure you’re aware of the penalties for violation of same.” she continued.

“One question Sharon, am I working for the Firm, or Garry?” I had to ask.

“I’m not sure there’s a difference Mister Callahan. Why do you ask?” Sharon asked.

“I don’t want to alarm you Sharon, but your boss, your uncle, was just killed ... murdered in your Firm’s private parking garage. I assume it requires a swipe card to get in right. That implies, to me at least, that somebody from the Firm did it. If I’m working for Garry, even though he’s dead, I cannot be called off by the Firm. On the other hand if I’m now working for the Firm I ethically and legally would have to cease my investigation if ordered by the Firm.

“A point well taken, Mister Callahan. We’ll strike out Firm and write in G. Wolf, initial and sign both, I’ll do the same.” She said, handing me my copy.

“This is a copy of all we could dig up on our, the Firm’s part anyway, on some one hundred divorces the Firm has handled in the last twenty years Harry. Divorce was not Garry’s specialty with the Firm. Garry only expressed an interest in our divorce department when one of his former long time girlfriends recently asked for his help in her divorce, and he recommended our Firm to her. He personally turned her over to the Firm’s divorce department. He later, very recently really, discovered what had really been done to her and took it up with the other Partners. He was very unhappy with whatever was said at that closed meeting of the Partners. At that time he had me start researching the Firm’s records and the court records for similar incidents.” Sharon told me.

“I found a disturbing pattern in our records. Many extremely wealthy women, women who had either been our clients before this, or were referred to us, the Firm, by other clients were involved. All of them had one thing in common it seemed, all of them were seeking to divorce their husbands. In most of these cases our records showed that the wife, I must add here, the faithful long suffering wife, had actual concrete proof that the philandering husband had been unfaithful to her. He had not only mentally abused her, in some cases he had actually physically abused her as well. All of it was well documented in our files when I looked.” Sharon paused for a moment to shift her papers, then went on.

“In all these cases the Firm’s representatives advised the wife to seek counseling. Both psychological and marriage counseling...” I broke in at that point.

“That is not too unusual in divorce cases today Sharon. Many of the Domestic Relations Judges today won’t grant a divorce until there is a legitimate effort at reconciliation. No Court encourages divorces, even in the so called “No Fault” divorces with no children or property to divide they encourage reconciliation. The best you can expect in these types of cases is a trial separation, and then a final divorce decree after a reasonable cooling off period.” I played devil’s advocate here.

“True Harry, but even when our client saw the Court appointed and approved counselors. Even after the trial separation was granted and had run its course. They, the Firm, not the Court, actually forced the wife, our own client, to see another group of psychologists and psychiatrists of their own. It was the same group of psychologist and psychiatrist each time Harry, the Hathaway Group.” She paused to find a page in her notes.

“There are actually sworn affidavits in the case files here, from our client’s friends and relatives on the witness list, that state that known members of our Firm physically kidnapped our own client from her own home. There are even recordings of a few of the 911 calls reporting these kidnappings in progress, but there is no record that local law enforcement ever actually acted on, or followed up on, any of these reported kidnappings in progress.

“And how would you know any of that?” I questioned her.

“Because we have ... well I have an amateur hacker and police groupie friend who makes it a point to monitor and record all police chatter. True some of these reports were from different areas and different police departments, but there’s this whole network of other enthusiasts out there and my friend checked it out with them.” Sharon informed me proudly.

“And they found out what?” I asked, intrigued now.

“They found out that no calls went out on those nights, at those times Harry. No 10-33 emergencies, no 10-16 domestic problem, no 415 disturbances, and certainly no 207 kidnappings. The dispatchers were completely quiet. That was something that we, Garry and me, both found highly suspicious Mister Callahan. Somebody was actually controlling the 911 Emergency dispatcher department.” She paused at that point to see if I had any questions, before going on.

“Each time after a week’s stay at the Hathaway Group’s mysterious walled remote retreat in upper state New York, our client reappeared and proceeded to have a miraculous change of heart, and a very public reconciliation was had with the husband. At that point our client formally withdrew the divorce complaint to live happily ever after...” I broke in at that point with my own brilliant observation.

“Oh, I think I see where you’re going with all this now Sharon. You’re talking about extremely wealthy women aren’t you. All your clients just happen to be “Trust Fund Babies’’ right? They have so-called “Spendthrift Trusts” don’t they Sharon? Trusts that your Firm just happens to handle right?” I blurted out my brilliant guess ... deduction, based upon my dealings with the owner of one such trust a few years ago. Even Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, would have had to have had more facts to arrive at my conclusion, ha, ha, but it worked for me at the moment.

I guess I used deductive reasoning, and jumped to a conclusion, I do have my moments. For the record here Sherlock himself used inductive reasoning that allowed him to extrapolate from the information observed in order to arrive at his conclusions about events that had not been observed by him. The blank slate approach, take nothing for granted, but then I ain’t Sherlock.

“Yes, exactly Harry, the definition from Nolo’s Plain-English Law Dictionary of a “Spendthrift Clause”, is it’s a provision in a trust that restricts a beneficiary’s ability to transfer rights to future payments of income, or capital under the trust, to a third party, even a spouse. In these cases the husband.” Sharon went on.

“Hey, I’m a Black’s law dictionary guy myself, but in other words she’s only a “cash cow” for hubby, as long as he’s married to her, and she’s alive and in good condition. So Garry thought the Firm was cooperating with the husbands to loot the trusts didn’t he Sharon.” I finished.

“Yes, Harry, Garry and me both thought that at least one of the Partners is involved.” Sharon said.

“Oh contra Sharon, I’m afraid that it’s all the Partners, Sharon, or we’re going to have to presume it’s all the Partners anyway. They, probably just one, only killed Garry because somebody in the Firm panicked, and made a mistake. After all they evidently have a pretty perfectly foolproof brainwashing machine set up. Why kill if you have that on hand to take care of any minor nuisances like you or Garry that pop up from time to time, ha, ha.” I laughed, but I was really worried about where this was all going at this point.

“I hadn’t thought of it quite that way Harry, but your right. If they get me ... well us now, tee, he, he, they just change our minds, tee, he, he, he, he, hiccup.” she giggled a little hysterically, and then hiccuped, putting both hands over her mouth. A little edge of hysteria showing itself at realizing what could possibly happen to her I guess.

“I don’t think it’s a good ideal for you to go back to the office Sharon. For that matter I don’t think you should even go home. They have to be looking for you by now.” I advised her.

“But I’ve got a mother and father and sisters, and ... and ... other people that’ll be worried about me. Besides where else would I go? Where else could I go? What will I do Mister Callahan?” Sharon all but wailed, looking out from under all that hair and large glasses with her hurt and lost puppy dog eyes at me.

“You have to assume that they, the Firm at least, are looking for you right now Sharon.” I told her honestly.

“Oh, it’s like that old movie, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”, with Kevin McCarthy and Dana Wynter. They can’t find us so they’ll snatch up everybody we know and love and ... and ... reprogram them. Can’t I call them ... warn them Harry.” she was almost to cry I could tell.

“You can call them all and tell them you’re going on vacation to New York City, or Chicago, or something, but don’t tell them about me at all. I mean think about it Sharon, if you told them this tale would you even believe it?” I asked her seriously. Would you the reader have believed me back then if I had told you this wild story?

So in the end she called everybody on her cell phone, and told them all that since Uncle Garry was dead she was taking her accumulated company paid vacation time now and going to New York City. Of course instead we left the library and rented a small four bedroom house on the other side of the city, from an acquaintance of mine in the real estate business for cash, and a large cash deposit to cover any damage we caused.

Tommy T, or Tom Townsten, my Relator friend, kept leering at Sharon the whole time I was making the arrangements, and signing papers with him. Tommy agreed finally to have all the utilities turned on by the end of the day and leave the keys in the mailbox. His parting words to me were, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do Good Buddy”, then in a stage whisper behind his hand, but loud enough for young Sharon to clearly hear, “I wish I had the money to set up a chippy like that in a lovenest like you Harry, we ain’t getting any younger you know.” Sharon heard it and blushed a bright scarlet red at his knowing leer at her, but thank God she didn’t say anything back.

And for the record here I might have done Garry a disservice about his motives for hiring Sharon, I later learned. Sharon turned out to be, now follow this closely, Garry’s youngest brother’s, youngest daughter, by his newest young third wife, Sharon explained to me later. His brother, her father, was now severely disabled from a bad car accident, and Garry had hired his niece as an intern law clerk to help pay her college expenses, and help out with the family’s expenses. Garry might have had a jock mentality, but evidently he did have a heart where family was concerned. Who knew? Well I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt anyway, now that he was dead.

Next we went on FaceBook and bought a local used, but fairly late model Toyota Celica for Sharon to use, with current tags that we agreed to get changed over to our name as soon as possible. We met the seller at the local large WalMart parking lot for the exchange of keys and title, better known as the Pink Slip exchange, for cold hard cash. True to his word the tag had the proper stickers for three more months on it. I figured we could drive it for a while before the Revenue Department started hunting for it too hard. Sharon drove the new car back later that night to my home after we went shopping for her a new wardrobe at the same big super WalMart we were at.

Since she clearly couldn’t go back home under these circumstances, I suggested she buy all the things she would need for a long stay at the new place. She immediately told me she didn’t have any money, even her credit card was maxed out and overdrawn she almost wailed. I told her using her credit card wouldn’t be a good ideal anyway. So I, always the Perfect Gentleman, or I guess in this case Knight Errant, always in search of chivalrous adventure, seeing a fair damsel in distress offered to pay for everything. She, the fair damsel in distress, without even blinking her baby blues, asked me how much could she spend. Me, the wide eyed innocent male in this case, without even thinking, said those four magic words that I’m sure little girls and grown women dream of when they’re asleep at night in their beds and having pleasant dreams. “Money is no object, Sharon”.” Sharon became very happy.

I also got rid of the danger her cell phone had become by removing the battery and buying her a new prepaid to start using at this time. By removing the battery from her old cell phone I made sure it couldn’t ping any local cell towers and tattle our present location. The reason I didn’t destroy it outright was we might be able, at some future time, to use it’s ping GPS to set up a trap for these people. I was careful to explain this to young Sharon.

Young Sharon took to shopping for women’s clothing like a fish to water. I don’t really know for sure, but my guess is it’s an instinctual female thing, something built into every woman’s genes by Mother Nature herself, a DNA thing. She soon seemed to be taking a perfect delight in trying on and modeling everything for my approval. All this was while I innocently sat out front and rested my weary tired old bones in a well padded chair while reading the local news from a newspaper someone had kindly left. Maybe this is a good time to describe my 50 year old present self. I’m six foot one, one hundred eighty pounds. I’m fit, have green eyes and wear wire rimmed glasses, and my once dark brown hair has some gray in it now. I also like to think I have a strong chin, sharp nose, and my face now shows character, ha, ha.

There were four female clerks in the women’s department section when we got there, three were young, well under 30 anyway, and one older woman, maybe my own age or a little older, say fifty something. After Sharon pranced around in skimpy clothes for a while, seeming to require my approval on everything, the older clerk finally wandered over and asked me point blank how old my granddaughter was. I had already noticed the looks I, well we, were getting from her. Why do people have such dirty minds you have to ask yourself sometimes, of course other times you know for sure, ha, ha.

Of course Sharon wasn’t helping matters any either. She had come into the women’s department in that bulky God awful ugly mustard yellow zipped up pantsuit thing that hid her body from view, and her long mop of hair hiding her face from view. Now she had somehow managed to bloom into a beautiful rose before our eyes and become a Disney fairy tale Princess. Somewhere back there in the dressing room she had miraculously managed to find hair combs and even red ribbons to put up her long silky hair in a cute coiled bouffant hairstyle atop her head. She had even managed to find and put on makeup to boot, her pouting lips were a luscious deep red now, and she had done something to her eyes and eyebrows too.

Her taste in style didn’t help matters either. She had started her short modeling career for me in short tight little wildly colored and patterned sundresses. You know the little spaghetti strap things that work so well to display a girl’s natural assets. These little numbers also managed to display her long shapely legs, narrow hips and waist, and an over abundance up top to her best advantage. You know the one about, “if you’ve got it, flaunt it”, well Sharon had it, and was definitely flaunting it. At a guess I’d say she was 44DD, 32, 40, real Playboy Bunny material hiding there in plain sight all that time in sack cloth and ashes.

OK, maybe her Daddy’s family was Mormon, or Amish, or Moslem, or some other equally sexually oppressive crazy religious cult thing I had read about in the National Inquirer. Of course I knew that Garry wasn’t, well he wasn’t when I knew him anyway, but then Garry’s dead now isn’t he. Maybe this was her first time to escape from her well guarded prison. Heck, maybe I should be counseling her to slow down, take life easy, Naw. Hell, maybe I was the serpent in the Garden of Eden that offered poor Eve the first Apple to tempt Adam with. Who knew?

Ok, ok, maybe I was just a lecherous old pervert corrupting the morals of our innocent youth, I thought to myself, as I sat and watched the enthusiastic floor show in progress. In the end I just said let Cinderella have her day before she has to face what’s coming next. You’re only as old as you feel Maurice Chevalier used to say, as he sang that song from the movie Gigi. “Thank heaven for little girls, they grow up in so many amazing ways”, the song went.

Ok, back to cold harsh reality, the older clerk was beginning to express her growing disapproval of what she was witnessing. Well what she thought she was witnessing anyway. I think the expression is “scandalized”. When I made like I didn’t hear the old lady’s remarks, and continued to read the newspaper ignoring her, she took it further. She actually went and got two old uniformed store security rent-a-cops who were busy on their radios to impress me I figured.

By this time young Sharon had gone from skimpy little sundresses onto tight fitting, taunt midriff exposing hiphugger jeans, and skimpy little halter tops. I admit that I was sort of looking forward to the shorts modeling, but I guess hot pants had gone out of style I thought with some disappointment. Of course the halter tops she was modeling for me at the moment were actually displaying an, even for me, an indecent amount of breast, boob, or tit, take your pick of descriptive noun.

I rationalized all this to myself as I sat there that I wasn’t her father. Plus I wasn’t just about to have an open public discussion with young Sharon over her clothing choices in front of the old bitty and her gathered peanut gallery. I also had a gut feeling that saying something to young Sharon at this point would be wildly counterproductive at this time anyway, ha, ha. Anything I said would just cause more notice from the gathered citizen mob I reasoned.

Finally a fully outfitted County Deputy Sheriff walked up. She might have been a pretty County Mountie I noticed without all the tactical gear and other equipment hanging from her body everywhere I noted. After conferring with the larger peanut gallery that had managed to accumulate around the older clerk, she walked over and introduced herself to me.

“Sir, my name is Sheila Garret, Sergeant Sheila Garret, with the Walker County Sheriff’s Department. I’ll be honest with you Sir, the store called the City first, but the City just told them there were no Amber Alerts out on missing children so don’t bug them. That got the call bumped over to County Services, our dispatcher answered the call much the same as the City, but eventually it got bumped up to the County Sheriff himself, my boss. The Sheriff himself is running for reelection this year, as you may know, and some other people reminded him of that fact. After that it fell on me, because I am the only female officer on duty this afternoon, to respond to this call Sir. Could I please see some ID Sir, if you don’t mind.” She asked nicely.

“And if I do Officer? Mind that is?” I couldn’t resist pushing back a little.

“Then ... I’ll ... I’ll ... I’ll...” She started, but I took pity on an obviously hard working member of law enforcement and slowly stood, then reached for my billfold in my rear pocket.

“Just getting my wallet Officer,” I said, as I slowly pulled it out and she visibly relaxed. “That’s my current drivers license and my state BAR Association card, both up-to-date and current Officer.” I said, as I handed both to her out of the billfold.

“And the young lady in the dressing room the other clerks are helping pick out clothes, is she related to you Sir?” she asked, handing both back after she inspected them.

“That’s getting awful personal there Officer. Don’t you think you should be questioning the young lady herself instead of harassing a poor tired old man just innocently sitting here enjoying the floor show Officer.” I pushed her again. Of course Sharon picked that moment to come out of the back dressing room loaded down with a double load of sheer lingerie in her arms.

“Harry, we can’t make up our minds back in the dressing room which color goes best with my skin tone, hair color, and eyes. I like the emerald green best for contrast, but the topaz blue goes nicely with my eyes and it’s nice too. Oh, it also comes in pink and bright red too. Of course the other more experienced girls say to stick to basic black, it goes good with anything you wear. What do you think Harry?” Sharon innocently asked, as she displayed the little wisps of almost nothing against her clothed body in one of those tight fitting flower print sundresses from before.

“Maybe you should ask the Officer here Sharon Honey. I’m sure she can help you with your selection. Right Officer Shella.” I chuckled out loud as I read her name tag pined over her left breast.

“Madam is this man troubling you in any way?” Officer Shella asked young Sharon in a serious official voice.

“Harry? Trouble me? Oh my no, Officer, Harry has been the perfect Gentleman the whole time. A real Boy Scout in every way. He should get a merit badge for this, and I intend to personally reward him latter Officer. This is just the first time I’ve been allowed to pick out my own clothes. I’ve always known the world was out there from the TV, and internet, and other things, but I was never allowed to touch it before. I’m going to pick out some more little private girl things, girly things, and shoes, a girl’s got to have shoes. Oh, I so love shoes. Do you know I’ve never even owned a pair of high heels Officer?” Sharon explained to Officer Shella as she modeled the lingerie. True WalMart’s brand isn’t French Saint Laurent, but it’s still skimpy enough to get noticed.

“Then we are going out to dinner at a nice place the other girls recommend. A fancy high class place, and I’m going to have something the other girls call a Shirley Temple. Yes Officer Shella I’m over 21, so I can legally drink alcoholic beverages.” Sharon informed Officer Shella and then spun around and marched back to the dressing room with a noticeable sway to her shapely hips. She also added a noticeable bounce to her cute little derriere this time too, that’s French for bubble butt you know.