TITLE: Crap Out
“You know where Apple Way is?” Harley Millshutter yelled over what sounded like the whirring roar of chopper blades. “Where the rich people live?”
“Of course,” Carson Rule acknowledged. Having just completed a 30-minute workout in the mini-gym he maintained in his office, the 46-year old private detective straightened his 6-foot 4-inch frame and stepped onto the electronic scale—215, 18% body fat. Frowning, he asked, “Is that a chopper I hear?”
“You got it, big guy. Can you get out here now or should I send the chopper?”
“What about lunch? I was on my way out for lunch.”
“Now means now,” Millshutter shouted. “We got a problem on our hands. A big problem.”
“Haghorn,” Millshutter said. Just the day before Millshutter had retained Rule to investigate the man.
“The cat out of the bag?” Rule asked.
“No such luck. He’s dead. It looks like murder. 4360 is his home.”
“Murdered? You on your way there?”
“I’m five minutes out,” Millshutter said. “The old man doesn’t want those dumb ass sheriff deputies screwing up the crime scene.”
Rule ran a hand through his thick, prematurely white hair. "I'm on my way."
“You want me to swing by and pick you up?” Millshutter asked.
“Yeats doesn’t like to fly,” Rule said looking at his pound dog, supposedly a Chihuahua/miniature collie mix. Yeats was staring up at him from his bed.
“He still with you?” Millshutter shouted.
“Always liked Yeats. See you soon.”