= Setting Up The Kill
  A Micki Garrity Story
  by J. Michael Blue

In my occupation, as in most others, it's risky to do business with friends. When things work out well you have more satisfaction than you'll ever experience in a transaction with strangers, but if things go badly, you can incur losses you'll carry around for the rest of your life.

My name is Micki Garrity, and I'm a private investigator in Naples, Florida. A decade and a half ago, I went to college at Notre Dame, where I played on an NCAA Champion women's volleyball team with a group of fiercely competitive, athletic young women. One of the fiercest among us was Fran Besham.

She had determination and skill to spare and more fast twitch muscles in her legs than any female I've ever known. Only five foot six inches tall, she could jump in place and grab a basketball rim with both hands, and she could deliver a kill shot over a volleyball net with the force of a rocket launcher. At least once in every game, I would set her up and she would send a lightning bolt into the opponent's side of the court. Together, we became a very dangerous combination.

My teammates chose me as the team's most valuable player, but my vote for that honor went to Frannie, because I knew we couldn't have become National Champions without her. The Fran Besham who came to my office on North Tamiami Trail last Tuesday morning looked and acted nothing like the young woman I remembered.

First, there was the plastic surgery. Her lips had been done, puffed into a permanent pout, and her cheekbones lifted and augmented to hollow her cheeks. Her breasts were more than twice the size they'd been when we played together, and she had lost the large mole she'd once carried at the base of her throat. Also, her short brown hair had gone blonde and long. She had always had a tendency to dramatize her life, as though she was the main character in a play of her own making. Now she had a dramatic look to go with her style.

"You look ... great," I said. "Stunning."

"You didn't see me along the way, so I imagine it's pretty overwhelming. You must be thinking, what happened to Frannie? Where did she go?"

I gave her a nod. "None of us look the same after twelve years. You just happen to look better and the rest of us have been sliding down the hill a little."

"The hair was my doing, and the mole, I wanted to lose the mole."

"You didn't want the rest of the look."

"I always thought it would be great to have big boobs, but I don't believe I would have done anything about it on my own."

"It was Andrew's idea?"

"Yes. Andy's big into self-perfection, especially where I'm concerned."

"How does he like you now?"

"He thinks I need a little work around the eyes. Crowsfeet, you know, laughlines. He sees them any time I get too close to him."

"And how do you like the way you look?"

She shrugged. "I don't look much like me anymore, but I guess I like it all right. I'm ready to stop though. My laugh lines don't bother me, and I've decided to give up laughing anyway."

"I only met Andrew that one time. At your wedding."

She smiled. "Yeah, all of you came. It was so great and it turned out to be the last time we got together."

I reached for the coffee mug I'd filled before we sat down and looked at her over the top of it while I took a sip. "There've been a couple of reunions, you know. We all met in South Bend when Muffet's girls ran the table last year."

"Yeah." She looked away. "We were busy."

Her manner was hesitant, nervous, and unsure, as though she thought perhaps she shouldn't be talking to me. She sat stiffly in one of my client chairs, shoulders squared, hands in her lap, with her short floral skirt pulled tight across her thighs. She seemed ready to fly away at the first loud noise or unexpected movement.

"I didn't even know you were living here," I said.

"Andrew bought us a place last year. He wants to do the winters here now."

"How is Andrew?" I hadn't liked him when I met him, but I thought I ought to ask.

"Andrew is always the same. He's fine as long as the world runs the way he wants it to run."

I decided to wait. The edge in her tone told me she might say more, and I didn't want to give her any reason to hold back.

"It's funny how I found out about you," she said.

"Is it?"

"We went to a benefit thing at the Edgewater Club, and a man named Wilson told me he knew someone who had gone to my alma mater."

"David Wilson?"

"Yes, he said that you did some work for him, saved him a lot of money."

"Some of his employees were stealing merchandise. I got onto them before they had sold everything and spent all of the cash."

"He thinks you're remarkable. Smart and tough and fearless, that's what he said."

I nodded again. "It wasn't all that difficult a case."

"I need somebody smart and tough and fearless on my side, Micki."

"Frannie, I've always been on your side."

"I've really tried hard," she said with a catch in her voice.

"Meaning you've tried hard at your marriage?"

"Yes. I never had much luck with guys, you remember? I was either too uptight or too quiet or too busy with sports."

"None of us had much of a dating life in college. It went with the territory."

"Yes, but I never went out with anyone in high school, and things didn't change for me after college. I just didn't have the right kind of honey."

I said nothing.

"Andy was the first one who ever told me I was beautiful or sexy, or that I could be."

"It's probably a bad idea to think you need someone to tell you those things."

She smoothed her already smooth skirt. "He was also the first one to tell me he loved me, and the first to make love to me."

"He wouldn't have been the only one," I said.

"I fell so hard for him. I wanted to do anything he wanted me to do."

"And he should want you to feel good about yourself and want what is best for you."

"Andy has always believed he knows what's best for everybody."

"Must keep him busy, managing the world."

She laughed. "Something certainly does. He works all the time."

"How are things going now with the two of you?"

If I wanted to trigger a flood of emotion I couldn't have picked a better question. Her face contorted and she let out a wail that could only have come from a bellyful of pain and heartbreak. "Oh God, I don't know what to do. I can't handle this anymore."

I rose from my chair and came around my desk. She stood and threw herself into my arms. "Please help me, Micki. Please. I have to get away from him. I have to find a way to make him let me go."

I held her and rubbed a hand across her back. She sobbed and her upper body heaved and trembled against me. "Are you afraid of him?"

She nodded into my shoulder.

"Does he hurt you?"

Another nod.

"And he's told you that he won't let you go?"

"He says he hasn't invested all of this time and money so that I can go roll around in the dirt with some dyke. He thinks I'm a lesbian."

"Why? Because you don't want him?"

"Yes."

"Have you tried to leave?"

"Once. It was awful. He found me and brought me back. He told me he'd kill me if I ever tried that again."

Her body had relaxed as she talked. I stepped away. "What do you want me to do?"

"Let me show you something," she said.

She pulled her blouse out of her skirt and began unbuttoning the cuffs. I could see where this was headed, so I crossed my office to lock the door. When I turned back toward her, Frannie had removed her shoes, blouse, skirt, and pantyhose, and she stood facing me in a bra and a pair of thong bikinis. She stood at attention with her arms at her sides. Blue and yellow bruises covered her midsection and spread over the tops of her legs. As she turned in a circle I saw that the discoloration expended all the way around her body. "He doesn't mind ugliness on me as long as he puts it where no one else can see it."

"Oh, Frannie."

"He broke two of my ribs when he pushed me out of a chair, and another time he separated my right shoulder. He stomped on one of my feet so hard he crushed three of my toes."

"How long have you put up with this?"

"It started before we got married, but in the beginning it was never anything more than a push or a slap."

"And he always apologized and promised he wouldn't do it again."

"Yes. I used to fight back, but I always paid for it."

"Have you ever shown this to anyone else?"

"No. For a long time, he had me convinced it was mostly my fault. If I didn't provoke him all the time, he wouldn't hit me."

"We'll have him arrested," I said.

"No! All I want is for him to leave me alone. I want him to go away and I want a divorce."

"Okay."

"I want our house in Naples and I want enough money to live on. I've never worked. I don't know how to do anything."

I nodded. "It's the least of what you deserve."

"Will you talk to him?"

"You want me to go with you?"

"No. I want you to go see him and tell him what he has to do. I don't want to be in the same room with him again."

"If you're with me, he won't hurt you."

"I can't do it, Micki. I wish I could, but I can't."

This would be strange. Andrew Maxwell would not remember me, and I wouldn't have known him if he passed me on the street. I would be a stranger walking into his life and telling him that his marriage was over.

"Will you do it?"

I looked at my old friend, at her redesigned face and her violated body, and I knew I could not refuse her.

"Yes. I'll do it."

"Can I stay with you until he leaves?"

"Of course."

Her joy was so obvious and so effusive that it soon became embarrassing. She grabbed me in a bear hug and she laughed and she threw her clothes into the air. She kissed my picture, the one from the newspaper article about my success in locating runaway kids, and she skipped around the office in her underwear like a small child released for summer vacation.

"Oh God, Micki, thank you! I can't begin to tell you...." and then she began to cry.

"It's all right," I told her. "It'll all work out. You tell me where I can find him and I'll set something up. Also, I'll introduce you to a lawyer friend of mine. If you like him he can help you with the divorce, and in the meantime, a restraining order would probably be a good idea."

"Okay," she said. "I'll do whatever you think is best."

* * *

My condo is less than three miles from my office. Fran followed my Saturn in a classy Jaguar convertible, and we drove west on Vanderbilt Beach Road to Gulf Shore Drive. I pointed her to a "Visitors" parking space in my garage and we took the elevator to the top floor of the building.

"You'll be fine at my place for now," I said. "I called Andrew on the way over here, and I'm going to meet him for lunch in about an hour in an Indian restaurant on 5th Avenue."

Her expression turned fearful. "What did you tell him?"

"He didn't remember me, so I behaved as though we'd never met. All he knows is that I have a client who believes we have matters of mutual interest to discuss. Also, I told him that he could check me out with David Wilson."

"Oh, that was good. He says David is an 'All Star'."

"Did you tell Wilson about our history together?"

"No. I just listened to him talk about how wonderful you are and then we were interrupted by someone who wanted to take his picture."

When we reached my condo, I opened the door and allowed Fran to move past me while I disabled my alarm. Like almost everyone who visits my place, she walked unhesitatingly through the apartment to the sliding door leading out to the lanai. The Gulf of Mexico lay before her, a stretch of dappled, soft, blue water for as far as she could see.

"What a great view."

"Yeah. It's neat. We can have dinner out there tonight if you like."

She turned and gave me a huge smile. "What a great friend you are, Micki. After this is over, you'll have to come and stay with me. Our house is on the water in Old Naples. We have a pool and a boat and a little apartment for guests that looks out toward Naples Pier. We have help too, a maid and a pool attendant/gardener guy who take care of everything. You and I could lay around all day and get fat."

"Sounds self-indulgent and expensive," I said. "I could probably get used to that."

"Yes. One thing Andy has done right is make money. It would kill me to give the place up. Anyway, thank you for everything you're doing."

"You're welcome," I said. "Make yourself at home. I have a couple of errands I need to run after I see Andrew, but I'll be back before five. If I want to reach you, I'll call this phone." I pointed to my receiver and answering machine set up on the pass through counter between the kitchen and the dining room.

"Okay."

"I'll let it ring three times, then I'll hang up and call right back. Don't answer the door and don't answer your phone."

"I have a gun," she said. "If someone tried to get in, I think I could scare them off."

"Does Andy know you have it?"

"God, no! He'd take it away and hit me with it if he knew."

"How well do you shoot?"

She laughed. "I grew up on a farm with four brothers, Micki. I know how to shoot."

"Okay, but don't break any windows or put holes through my walls unless you have to. Right now, no one knows where you are, and by the time Andy thinks about looking for you here, we'll have more security than he can handle."

I left her looking out at the Gulf, and retraced our path to the garage. Her car couldn't be seen from the street, but we would need to find another place to park it by nightfall. Several of the ritzier condo buildings on Gulfshore had enclosed garages. Perhaps I could talk one of the building managers into renting us an indoor slot where no one would think of looking. The winter season was almost over and many of the snowbird residents in Naples had headed north to catch the late spring thaw.

I drove into town through light, fast traffic and turned onto 5th Avenue South in the heart of downtown Naples. Restaurants and shops line both sides of the street in that area, and parking spaces are tough to find even in the off season. I took a right at the second corner and settled into a rented space in a four story parking garage, less than two blocks from the bistro where I was meeting Andrew Maxwell.

The front wall of Kahlil's Karma Kafe was open to the sidewalk, and the aromas of curry and lentils and slow roasting vegetables poured outside to entice passersby to stop in for a mid-day Southeast Asian meal. I gave my name to a sari-clad hostess, and she pointed me toward a table near the back of the already crowded room where Andy sat reading the Wall Street Journal.

"Have we met?" he asked as I shook his hand.

"Yes, at your wedding."

He smiled, a tall, handsome, black haired man with the wide smile of a conqueror. "Damn! I knew it. After you called, I thought, 'I know that broad's name from somewhere.' You were one of the volleyballers."

"Yes."

He nodded. "Does Fran know you're hanging out in Naples?

"David Wilson told her last week."

"Really? How do you know David?"

I placed one of my cards on the table between us, and Andy picked it up. "He's a client."

"And what is it you're doing? Private eye stuff? That's kind of a "butch" business for a woman, isn't it?"

"I guess I think it's gender neutral."

"Well, yeah, but you female jocks think that everything except standing up to pee is gender neutral. I'm surprised Fran hasn't started yammering at me about having you out to the house. She's always trying to drag somebody over to take up an evening."

"It's Fran I want to talk to you about."

"She's your client?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. She's my friend, and I'm representing her today."

He gave me a puzzled look and reached for his glass of water.

"Okay, but this place gets really busy, so why don't we order. I haven't eaten since six this morning, and I'm starved."

We flagged down the lady in the sari, got her to locate our server, Beverly, and Andy ordered for both of us. He wanted to do it and I wanted the busywork of our lunch meeting out of the way.

"You drink?"

"Not when I'm working."

"Bring me a glass of that Indian booze that comes in the funny black bottle, and we'll take two orders of the special. No salads, no appetizers, no dessert and no coffee. Chop chop, Bev! I want to be out of here in forty-five minutes." He was talking to the server but he was staring at me.

"I'll have a jasmine iced tea," I said, "and you don't need to do any chop, chopping on my account."

"You and I wouldn't get along very well if we had to spend much time together, would we?" he said.

"Probably not."

"I like my women a little less edgy and a little more compliant."

"And I like my men with a little less ego and a lot better manners."

He nodded, and stuffed my card into his breast pocket. "All right, so what do we need to discuss?"

"Fran has decided to leave you and she'll be filing for a divorce as soon as possible."

He leaned back in his chair and laughed. "You're shitting me."

"Not a bit."

"Oh yes, you are. You may not know it, but you are."

"And why is that?"

"Fran isn't going anywhere. She lives in hog heaven and she is the original Mrs. Piggy."

"Apparently, your aura is powerful enough to drive her away despite all the side benefits."

"You don't know Frannie. We have no children and our prenuptial contract says that if we have no children and we divorce, Fran gets $100,000 plus $10,000 for every year we were married plus her car and her clothes."

"And?"

"And, Frannie couldn't live a year on that kind of money. She likes the Platinum Card life too much."

"Nonetheless, she's gone, and I'm here to tell you that I know about the abuse and that I will be providing protection for her. She'll seek a restraining order, and you won't be allowed to come near her."

"You're nuts!"

"No. Just dead serious."

"You think I beat my wife?"

"And you're saying that you've never hit her?"

"Of course I've hit her! Any sane man would smack Fran silly at least once a day, but I've hit her one hell of a lot less than I've been hit by her."

"I saw the bruises."

"What bruises?"

This was getting tiresome. "Look," I said. "You and I are not going to argue. I don't have the time or the appetite for it. I don't know about or care about any agreement you have with your wife, but I'm telling you to leave her alone. She's finished playing punching bag for you, and she's going to have all the help she needs in staying safe and starting a new life."

"You bull dyke bitch! Are you the one Fran has the hots for? The two of you want a little reprise of your old 'groping in the shower room' days?"

"Just be sure you leave her alone."

He started to say something else, but Beverly arrived with our drinks and our lunch and the phone in his jacket pocket began buzzing. I picked up his newspaper to clear enough space for the dishes, and he answered his call.

"Hello?"

He waited, a look of annoyance on his face. I couldn't tell if he was angry with me or irritated that we had been interrupted.

"The food just got here," he said into his handset. "I'll be there in an hour."

Another pause, and his frown deepened.

"All right, for Christ's sake. All right!"

He flipped the phone closed and slammed it against the table. "I'm out of here," he said. "Eat your lunch if you want. Hell, eat mine too!"

"Why don't you get yours boxed up? You're the one who's hungry."

He picked up a large piece of flat bread, dipped it in cucumber sauce, and stuffed it in his mouth. "Don't have time," he said. He poured half of his drink down his throat and grabbed another piece of bread. "You can get the check, Butch. This was your party."

"Fine."

He left, and I sat staring at a table full of food. Beverly came back to ask if everything was all right. I invited her to sit down and have lunch, but she demurred. "I've got a lot more "chop, chopping" to do before I get out of here," she said.

The food was great, as was the tea. I decided I would have to try this place again when I was in better company. The guy I'd been dating for the past month loved exotic food. I took it easy, trying to give my stomach time to calm down from my confrontation with Andy, but I finished eating in less than an hour.

I had promised my number one client, the lawyer I'd mentioned to Fran, that I would conduct an interview that afternoon so that I could get him the tape for transcription before sundown. I picked up my car and drove south on 41 to Marco Island, where I spent an hour with a high speed, high volume talker who was likely to be an important witness in one of my lawyer friend's cases. The woman was eager to please and determined to inform.

Next, I returned to downtown Naples, dropped off the tape, and headed for home. The call from a man named Barry Fortman came in while I was driving north on Tamiami Trail. I hate to talk while I'm driving, but I punched the on button for the speakerphone.

"Yes?"

"Micki Garrity?"

"Yes."

"My name is Barry Fortman, Micki. I live next door to Andy and Fran Maxwell."

"Yeah, Barry?"

"Do you know where they live?"

"No. I know it's in Old Naples along the water, but I don't know the address."

"Fran asked me to call you. She's too upset at the moment, I think. The police are on their way."

I moved into the left lane so that I could do a U turn at the next opening in the boulevard. "What's going on, Barry?"

"Fran said to tell you that she came home to pick up some of her things and Andy walked in and attacked her. I saw her. She's a mess, all bloody and her clothes are torn."

My pulse was rising and I couldn't wait to get my hands on that bastard Andrew. "How badly is she hurt?

"I think she'll be okay," Fortman said, "but Andy is dead. She shot him."

* * *

The cops did not allow me to talk to Fran. I hoped to get to her first, but I had too far to drive and she had told her neighbor to do the 911 thing before he called me.

As things developed, I was a witness of sorts. I told them about my long friendship with Fran, her visit to my office that day, her fear, her bruises, and her appeal for help. I also took the cops through my meeting with Andy and told them what an agreeable cuss he had been when I told him of Fran's plans to seek a divorce. They were interested in the call he got at the table, but I couldn't tell them any more than what I had heard.

I didn't see Fran after that for almost two weeks. I was busy and she was unavailable. I read in the paper that Andy was cremated and that his memorial service had been held somewhere in Connecticut. I assumed that she had gone north so that she could attend to whatever family matters needed her attention.

The cops came around again and took me back over the events of my day in the lives of the battling Maxwells. I repeated what I had said and did not offer any of my speculations.

When Fran and I finally got together, I had already left our old friendship behind. At her suggestion we met for a drink at Maxwell's On The Bay. She looked relaxed, and calm, and beautiful.

"I'm sorry I've been so unavailable," she said, after we'd been seated and had our cocktails in front of us.

"I don't think I need any more explanations of what's going on in your life, Fran."

"Are you angry?"

"I'm not sure. I'm disappointed."

"You don't understand why I left your condo and went home that day."

"I'm not certain."

"I decided to get some of my clothes. I brought nothing with me when I came to your office."

"I'd told you not to leave. We could have retrieved anything you needed later on."

"I know. I should have waited."

"Did you call Andy at the restaurant?"

"Why would I have done that?"

"The cops told me that the call came from a pay phone in The Waterside Shops. Was it you who called?"

"What's this about, Micki? Why are you asking me this stuff? You sound like the police."

"Andy went flying out of our meeting because someone wouldn't wait until we had finished eating."

"All I wanted was to get away from him."

"But you went home and he found you there."

"Yes, and after what you'd told him, he was crazy!"

"Probably so."

"If I hadn't shot him he would have killed me. I'm certain of that."

"I set him up for you, didn't I, Fran?"

"What?"

"I set him up and you delivered the kill shot, just like the old days."

"I protected myself."

"From what? An unarmed man walking into a trap?"

"The police have closed the case. What I did was justifiable."

"And now you're a rich widow with a wide open future."

"He was an bastard, Micki. You have nothing to feel guilty about. All you did was help a friend who really needed you."

"Were the bruises real, Fran?"

She smiled and sipped her drink. "What bruises?"

"He was a bad guy, but he wasn't bad enough to divorce. You wanted the life he'd given you; you just didn't want him to be a part of it."

"He did beat me, and he would have killed me on that day."

"Maybe so," I said. "We'll never know for sure, will we, Frannie?"

"I know that we can be great friends again."

"Thanks anyway. I have enough friends for the moment."

I left her seated alone, listening to the cocktail hour music and sipping a Tequila Sunrise. Two men at the bar ignored me as I passed. They couldn't take their eyes off Fran.

Editors' Note: J. Michael Blue's novel A FAVOR FOR ZODIAC featuring Micki Garrity is available as an eBook from HandHeldCrime / Coffee Cup Press along with 3 LADY BLUES + 12, a collection of his short stories, and JUSTIFIED CRIMES, which Plots With Guns listed as one of the "Top 10 Hard-Boiled Books of 2000". All three are published in PDB (Palm Doc) and PDF (eg Adobe Acrobat) for $3.50 (US). Visit www.handheldcrime.com/ebooks for more information.

J. MICHAEL BLUE has published more than 75 short stories, and 50 essays and articles in publications as diverse as Byline, The Flying Island, The Concho River Review, Blue Murder Magazine, Papyrus, HandHeldCrime, and Plots With Guns. His three eBooks published by HandHeldCrime / Coffee Cup Press are also available as trade paperbacks from Mystery and Suspense Press, the Mystery Writers of America imprint of iUniverse.

Copyrights (c) 2002 J. Michael Blue

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