LITMIR.BIZ

      Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt

      ©2019 by Linn Wyllie

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

      Published by Clovercroft Publishing, Franklin, Tennessee

      Edited by Gail Fallen

      Cover Design by Debbie Manning Sheppard

      Interior Design by Suzanne Lawing

      Printed in the United States of America

      ISBN: 978-1-948484-47-3

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      A considerable amount of research goes into a fictional story such as this, and I’d to thank some of the folks that helped put it all together.

      Nick Hall, Pilot Bank, for providing a wealth of information concerning currency identification, the evolution of Treasury bill series, and how to spot counterfeit bills;

      Samantha Dammer, Tampa Law Advocates, for help on various arcane elements of the law, especially mens rea as it relates to pre-crime;

      Michael Lynch, Mystery Inc. for his patient and enlightening conversations with me about the day-to-day operations of a Florida Investigative agency;

      Larry Carpenter, Clovercroft Publishing, and all the fine folks in his circle who held my hand during the editing, design and production of this first of the Jake Randall detective novels;

      And finally, all my family and friends who suffered through my endless rewrites, analyses and editing, and who just may be the inspiration for some of the colorful characters herein.

      Thanks to you all.

      Linn Wyllie

      PROLOGUE

      A revelation can come to a man in mysterious ways. I had one came to me one foggy morning alongside a canal on a lonely stretch of an Everglades highway. The narrow road is straight, long, and desolate, paralleled on either side by deep water canals.

      The red pickup truck was on its side fully submerged in the canal, the passenger side door embedded in the muddy bottom. Three rectangular yellow sheets dotted the grass and reeds along the bank. Sheriff’s divers were stowing their scuba gear as the tow truck dragged the pickup up out of the murky water. A large alligator watched from just a dozen yards away. He was just waiting for us to leave. He had been here before. Somebody’s plans definitely got interrupted one night a day or so ago. It happens. Frequently. Without warning. Nobody wakes up in the morning and says, “I’m gonna die today.” Well, maybe terrorists and suicide bombers do. Sane and stable people don’t. I’d investigated car wrecks before, all twisted metal and shattered lives. Wasn’t fun. This one was different. The image kept running through my head. I could literally see it in my mind’s eye. How it happened. The right rear tire coming off the pavement and onto the grassy shoulder, the driver overcorrecting, the splash as the truck twisted into a half flip and hit the still, dark water of the canal, the headlights fading into the murky depths, and finally the passenger door window coming to a stop pressed against the muddy bottom. The cab filling with black swamp water. The desperation and panic of those poor souls inside. Didn’t know they could get out. From panic maybe. I don’t know. Or maybe they were knocked around and dazed and just didn’t even try.

      The revelation came in knowing I’d need to find another line of work, more in keeping with the Buddhist-Christian-Pantheist philosopher that I am. That revelation came with the mental comparison I was making as I watching the retrieval of the red four-wheeled watery coffin. And it was a simple comparison too. I was alive in the universe of being, and these poor waterlogged corpses under the yellow sheets were not. And I wanted to stay that way. For a good long while.

      “How long they been in the water?” I asked that. But didn’t really want to know.

      “A day. Maybe two at most. Gator got most of the fourth one. We think that was a child.”

      “Oh, Christ.”

      Deputy Frank Sanchez, my partner, nodded at my prayer and looked away. I looked up at the gator there in the canal, his head above water, at his unblinking eyes. It suddenly just pissed me off. Not the bang-your-fist-on the-table kind of pissed; and not the kick-the-dog kind of pissed. It was a rage arising from cosmic injustice kind of pissed. I drew my service pistol and fired twice at the vile, primitive beast. Double tap. Both rounds struck home. One of my few virtues is I shoot well. Very well. The gator rolled once, red froth in the splash, and sank out of sight. Two .45 rounds wouldn’t necessarily kill a big gator like that. They have thick hides. But I didn’t care. It was a release. And I needed one. A little kid, for God’s sake.

      “Shit, Jake! What the hell! That’s a federal.”

      Sanchez knew my oddities, but this one surprised him. I was many things, but rarely impulsive. The two deputies in the dive unit looked at me as if I’d howled at the moon. One just shook his head. They knew what I felt. They had a shitty job too. Those poor bastards had to go down there in that murky water and retrieve the remains out of the truck. Human remains. The other gave me a thumbs up.

      “Fuck it. They can bill me.”

      It became one of those reflective crossroads in life a man may encounter when he has an epiphany. The last one I had was after graduation, when I could have been a rock star with my garage band. I played a mean guitar, but somehow I found myself in law enforcement. Right after I dropped out of college. I ended up down in the Everglades. That was then. This was now.

      The next day I turned in my badge. Retired from the CCSO—Collier County Sheriff’s Office. Full benefits.

      Two weeks later I left Naples and moved back up to my hometown of Clearwater. A week after that I became fast friends with George Dickel and Jack Daniel.

      Two out of three ain’t bad, I thought.

      CHAPTER ONE

      My name is Jesse Jake Randall and I’m a private eye. It says so on my office door. That office is in Clearwater, Florida, and that’s my hometown. I look for things and people, and sometimes I get paid for it. I go by Jake. It’s not short for Jacob, it’s just Jake. I was in my office trying to reason with a hellacious hangover from last night. I hadn’t made it home. Tequila, I think. My alligator boots were crossed at the ankles and were propped up on my desk. The blinds were drawn in an attempt to hold back the bright late-morning sun. The drumming in my head was accompanied by a light show on the inside of my eyelids. At least that’s what I was watching. I dimly remember hearing the tinkling of the wind chimes I have on the office front door. It was either being opened, or my tinnitus was kicking in again.

      The tall dame walked into my office and stood expectantly at the front of my desk. Really. Right at my desk. She had come in and marched all the way down the hall to my office. The receptionist must have been off that day. Anyway. Things were looking up. She was one of those high-profile, high-maintenance dames that only rich playboys and queer actors have. One eye focused on her and eyed her up and down. The other eye couldn’t manage just yet. Black patent-leather high heels tied at the ankle. A light gray wool suit that clung to her curves better than Mario Andretti at Sebring. Blue silk plunge-neck blouse that showed enough of the Valley of Contentment that imagination could take the rest of the day off. Her amber hair was sun streaked, professionally coiffed, cut, and colored. Hazel-green eyes were clear and alert. High cheekbones, cute little ski-jump nose, and those lips. Full luscious lips in red’s own red. I blinked and tried to focus, but she was still

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