The Long Gray Goodbye: A Seth Halliday Novel Read online

  Praise for author Bobby Underwood

  LOVERS’ TIDE

  “Each of the stories is very well written - each one a portrait of a mysterious love that transcends all boundaries. This is a very good anthology - a good read late at night, or on the airplane, or anytime! — Kurt Johnson, Amazon Reviewer

  GROVER’S CREEK

  “Grover’s Creek is like comfort food for the soul. It leaves the reader longing for the simple pleasures of a bygone era. I highly recommend it for those who enjoy nostalgia and the romance of the past.” — Wanda L. Pyle, Author of Windborne, and The Stone House Legacy

  THE TURQUOISE SHROUD

  “The Turquoise Shroud launches the reader at high velocity down a twisting, turning road of adventure, intrigue, murder and romance that will keep you breathlessly on the edge of your seat until the explosive conclusion. Move over Travis McGee, Seth Halliday is in the driver's seat now!” — Doug Little, Goodreads Reviewer

  “This may be the breakout series for this prolific writer. Seth Halliday is a sympathetic but likable character with just the right amount of flaw. The descriptions are masterfully crafted to place the reader in the heart of the action.” — Wanda L. Pyle, Author of Windborne, and The Stone House Legacy

  “I won this book in the Goodreads FirstReads competition. It is very hard to put down and when you do it’s not long before you are back to the book. I would definitely recommend this book to readers who are fans of crime books.” — Sophie Narey, Goodreads Reviewer

  “The Turquoise Shroud grabs your attention in the first paragraph of chapter one and doesn’t let go until the end. I enjoyed reading this intriguing mystery as it unfolded.” — Sandra Jackson, Author of Promised Soul

  THE TRAIL TO SANTA ROSA

  “It was a wonderful story and the genre/setting was almost secondary to me as the story arc is character driven. It was exceptionally well written and wonderfully descriptive at times with the author Bobby Underwood really getting to the soul of his characters.” — Danni, Goodreads Reviewer

  THE SAPPHIRE SEA

  “Though I really liked the first (The Velvet Sea) and third (The Gentle Tide) books of the series, I did find this to be the most powerful book to date!…Matt is in a race against time to save those he loves, and the entire bio-organic population of the Earth. But this fight will cost him more than he could possibly imagine, and take him down roads he never knew existed!” — Kurt Johnson, Amazon Reviewer

  WHERE FLAMINGOS FLY

  “Primarily set in post World War II Miami, the story is rich with atmosphere and geographic detail of the era. For all those who are lover’s of the noir genre of 1940's & 50's movies, 'Where Flamingo's Fly' is an exciting tale of murder and romance that also reads like a great screenplay.” — Doug Little, Amazon Reviewer

  “It’s a fun book, both a stroll down memory lane to an earlier time, and a salute to the gang busters of yesteryear…if you like noir fiction, then give this book a chance, you’ll be richly rewarded for doing so.” — Kurt Johnson, Amazon Reviewer

  AFTER CLOSING TIME

  “It's a nice book to read on a quiet night, when everyone else in the house is asleep and workaday world is so far away. I liked Night Run the best, but all three stories were great.” — Kurt Johnson, Amazon Reviewer

  As with all works of fiction, the characters in this story live only in the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Some real locations were used for atmosphere only, and while they exist, the people do not. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author. I assert the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

  For a good friend, who got lost and never made it back home

  The Long Gray Goodbye

  by

  Bobby Underwood

  A Rainy Farewell

  She glanced out the window at the rain, quietly enjoying the warmth and shelter the café offered from the storm. The glass had fogged from the cold on one side and her warm breath on the other. She took another sip of her warm cocoa, unwinding here after her final session as she always did. She found great satisfaction in her work, which she viewed as art. Even though the sessions often left her emotionally drained, they gave her self-worth, knowing she was giving something special to people. Her talent was a gift from God, she felt.

  A light rain had begun to come down earlier this afternoon and was now falling in torrents. As she looked outside from her warm and cozy corner table, buildings and shops along Paris streets took on a dreamlike quality through the haze. In the distance the famed Eiffel Tower appeared as a misty mirage. The storm had turned the color of the world a translucent gray. Even in a storm, she thought to herself, Paris took on a romantic glow.

  She set her cup down onto the red and white checkered tablecloth. The young French girl with a turned-up nose, and legs sculpted by some great artist in heaven hurried over to refill it. The girl smiled and she returned the friendly gesture. It wasn't often that native Parisians were courteous and welcoming to Americans. She would miss Paris. She’d had deep misgivings about returning to Greece permanently, but her spontaneous trip last weekend had been a time for reflection that helped her look at things clearly. She realized she had become too deeply entangled here.

  Part of her ached for the restful beauty of Mykonos. It was the most beautiful place she'd ever been, Mykonos. Some preferred Santorini, she knew, but she preferred Mykonos. Whereas Santorini had donkeys wandering the streets, in Mykonos you were more likely to have to sidestep a big friendly seagull because you were right on the ocean. That was another reason she preferred Mykonos; the sea was a living thing in Mykonos, always close by wherever you walked or ate. In Santorini you were above the sea, and though the view was breathtaking, she did not feel as much a part of the sea as she did in Mykonos. And the beaches! Santorini had some of the most unusual beaches in the world, but Mykonos had the better beaches; lovely and accessible. Santorini to her was a showpiece for Greece, its beauty astonishing. But Mykonos had that same beauty up closer. Santorini was to admire, Mykonos was for living!

  As she warmed her hands against the warm cup she gazed out the window once more. She could make out the hazy outline of scattered tourists and locals out-and-about this wet afternoon. None of them gave any indication of being pleased about the change in weather. Many of them were holding umbrellas which they kept having to reposition as the direction of the wind changed. One round little man wearing a Bowler hat -- no doubt a Brit -- was having a quite Chaplin-esque battle with his umbrella. Watching his gallant struggle made her laugh as she took another sip of her warm drink.

  The soft cool sound of the jazz instrumental playing next door where she held her sessions created a late-night atmosphere inside the café. Not yet late enough to be dark, the storm had enveloped the romantic City of Lights like a gray blanket. It might as well have been midnight.

  More people began seeking shelter inside the quaint café. As the quiet and peace she sought after her session disappeared, she became restless. She reached behind her and slid the soft gray trench coat off the back of the chair. It had been a gift. One more reason she must return to Mykonos, she thought to herself. She had gotten too close this time. She felt deep affection for the person who had given it to her. She knew she was fortunate to have the coat on an afternoon like this. The lining was heavy and warm, and it would help keep her dry while she walked home. Having read the weather forecast, she had picked up one of
those little compact umbrellas at a Paris thrift shop. It was old and drab but sturdy, and it had no holes. Functional if not eye-pleasing.

  She left all the tip she could afford for the long-legged Parisian girl and waved to her as she walked to the door. The girl waved back, and quickly dashed over to give her hand a provocative squeeze as she placed a folded piece of paper in it. She smiled brightly as she walked away, her soft shapely hips impossible not to admire as they swayed just a bit more than necessary.

  Only when she glanced at the note did she realize why the girl had been so nice. She smiled to herself, her cheeks flushing. The girl had been sexually attracted to her, leaving her phone number, name, and the hour at which she could be picked up from work. A pair of soft lips had been drawn smiling underneath the words. It was at once flattering and unnerving. Not her life choice, for certain, but still oddly pleasing to know that such a lush and lovely girl had found her desirable. She mouthed a "Thank You" to the girl as she glanced back, and the waitress smiled. She decided to enjoy the feeling and accept the proposition as a compliment.

  A little bell tinkled as she opened and then shut the café door behind her. She stood beneath the awning assessing the weather. The rainstorm was louder than she'd expected, the café having insulated her from the noise. She listened to the rain bouncing against the cloth roof of the canopy above her. It pounded the metal of small French cars swishing through water-filled streets. Rain was falling from the gray sky faster than the Paris water ducts could accept it. The wind was blowing and swirling in every direction. She didn't look forward to the walk across the bridge tonight as she usually did, but it was the only way home. Cabs were too expensive, and she needed to save money. Money was especially important now that she had decided to return to Mykonos.

  She sighed, opened the umbrella and began walking toward the bridge. Cars had turned on their lights but it did little good. One dark sedan slowed as she reached the halfway point across the bridge. The sedan waited until a smaller car had passed before gently rolling up alongside her. The bridge was all but deserted now after the driver let the other car pass. The heavy rainfall would make it difficult if not impossible for anyone passing to make out the driver as he offered her a lift. She watched with hopefulness tempered by apprehension as the car came to a stop and the window slowly retracted.

  "Do you need a lift?"

  "Maybe."

  She smiled from beneath her umbrella. He was a big man, stocky. He smiled back and when he did, she knew she was in serious trouble. Her moment of recognition and realization came too late. He moved swiftly for a big man. She saw the long blade coming toward her. She screamed and retreated in terror, slipping on the wet pavement, her umbrella clattering against the railing as it left her hand. He came in low, thrusting the knife into the soft flesh of her belly with such force that it lifted her off her feet and knocked the breath out of her.

  While she gasped for air, reaching instinctively but feebly for the knife sticking out of her, he grabbed her legs and with little effort lifted her high into the air. She tried desperately to twist away, but his grip was bear-like. He held her suspended for a moment as she flailed wildly at his head and thick neck. He reached up with a sickening casualness and pulled out the knife. She remained trapped by one of his massive arms in mid-air as he reached into her coat pocket.

  As the air in her lungs returned, she tried to scream, but it was too late. With one fluid, effortless heave, she found herself plunging toward the water below. The side of her head struck the stern of a passing boat with a sickening crack and her world went momentarily black. When it came back into focus in the ice-cold water, she ached for the mercy of that brief oblivion. Powerless to stop her momentum from the drop, her big brown eyes looked in horror upon the spinning metal propellers inches from her face. The rain pounded the river with an almost jazz-like rhythm, drowning out the terrified screams of her long gray goodbye.

  One

  The orange and purple hues of early morning were wrestling gallantly with the stormy gray sky when I saw the girl plummeting to her death in a very light rain off the coast of Ecuador. It was one of those fleeting South American showers that roll across the sky as orange overcomes gray, and then blue overcomes orange for another lovely day. I could hear the faint whine of a single-engine plane above but couldn't see it because of the drifting storm clouds.

  There is a certain body language parachuters have during free fall that is filled with purpose, not fear. They don't wear dresses when they jump and they don't miss land by a good mile. The closer the dark silhouette got to the sea the more disturbing the image became. I could see legs flailing wildly in the desperate hope they might somehow stop her descent. Her silence lent poignancy to the terror she must have felt; it meant she was all screamed out and could no longer give voice to her fear. She had gotten close enough to the ground during the second or two since I’d spotted her that I could make out her long blonde hair standing straight up from the rush of air.

  Caroline climbed up on deck wearing one of my big long-sleeved dress shirts from days gone by. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes and she looked adorable.

  "What are you looking at, Seth?"

  As she turned her head in the direction I’d been staring I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to me so that her back was to the falling girl. I didn't want her to witness the girl's death.

  "Well, if that's the way you feel," she said, laughing, "maybe we should go back down below."

  I kissed her as the girl hit the water. The ocean must have felt like concrete from that height and at her rate of descent but she was too far away for any sound to reach us.

  I caressed Caroline's heart-shaped behind beneath the dress shirt. It was still warm from the bed and very soft. I didn't have to see it to know how white and beautiful it was because I had been covering it, and her, with kisses since we’d married.

  The last several weeks had been a wonderful honeymoon for us, cruising along the coastline of Central America after leaving Cozumel. We had stopped long enough in Belize to sample the food and get a taste for the people and their culture. Belize is the only country in the region to have English as its official language, even though many people speak Spanish. While we were there we took a day excursion to Caracol, a huge Mayan archaeological site. This thrilled Caroline, whose dream it had once been to unearth artifacts from civilizations long gone. Her dream had ended in a nightmare, one dark frightening night in Cozumel long ago.

  Once the Belizean Coast Guard were satisfied that we weren't smuggling drugs through their long Barrier Reef we had moored on the Guatemalan coast and latched onto a bus tour of the famed Tikal ruins in the rainforest. The city was much larger than I'd imagined, knowing little of this history. Caroline got excited when she was able to recall a few historical details that our guide had not shared with our little group of tourists. There was no sadness that she could only remember bits and pieces, only joy that she had remembered any of it at all. Caroline was always writing things down on a little square note pad before she could forget them again, and stuffing them in her jean’s pockets.

  We spent a fair bit of Yankee dollars to get to Antiqua in the central highlands but the loveliness we found in the late afternoon during a walk-through made it worthwhile. Caroline especially loved the streets made from stones and the old wooden flower carts bringing beauty to our leisurely stroll. We both commented on the white, orange and yellows of the houses. The people of Antigua were friendly and smiling all the while, and there exists a special feel to the town because of its many churches. It was nearly dusk when Caroline and I found ourselves looking down a long street at a huge archway painted in a soft yellow with white trim. It was called the Santa Catalina Arch. Jutting up from the center of the arch stood a small domed spire with an exquisite clock embedded at its center. The spire looked like a mini-Taj Mahal. It was capped by a cross which took on a majestic aura because of the lush green mountains and the swirling gray clouds behind it
in the distance.

  Back on the boat after a wonderful day in Antigua, we had made love most of the night, of and on. The following morning I raised anchor somewhat late and for the next few days we remained at sea to enjoy our honeymoon in privacy, just us and the gorgeous vista. We should have been ashamed that we were letting the chance to explore Nicaragua, Honduras and Costa Rica by, but we were having such a wonderful time being happy that we rarely gave it a thought.

  We listened to local stations on a transistor radio and I set a coarse close enough to shore to remain in contact with humanity, but not so close that we couldn't shed our clothes and make love on deck during the day without fear of being seen. Some nights we slept on deck under the stars and made the gently rocking boat rock just a little more.

  Harry had left his books on board and with ample time to lay around and read, Caroline found herself hooked on Tony Hillerman by the time we had reached Panama. I had been reading Donald Hamilton’s Matt Helm novels.

  As we approached Panama I noticed Caroline's eyes sparkle at the tall hotels and resorts and my heart was moved to do the unthinkable: we docked at a marina where we could restock and replenish Sweet Caroline. Wishing only to make her happy, I suggested we leave the boat moored in harbor while we found the swankiest hotel we could locate, perhaps one with a jacuzzi. Caroline threw herself at me and nearly melted in my arms. She'd been hoping but hadn't wanted to suggest it.

  I was so jaded by Miami and the drug trade, the Escobars and Vargases of this world, I sometimes forgot that despite Caroline's horrific peek into the depravity man was capable of, she was still open and wonderful. She was a flower stepped upon which had sprung back, reaching for the sun.