In A Manner Of Speaking

Chapter 1

I answered an early morning phone call with a simple hello. My bedside clock showed a few minutes past seven.

Is this Millstone Detective Agency?

Yes, it is.

Am I speaking to Chuck Millstone?

I could tell from the monotone, staccato sound that it was a text-to-voice message.

You are. I made a quick glance at the caller ID. It showed anonymous.

I pulled myself into a sitting position on the edge of my bed.

Private detective?

Yes, I'm a private detective. How can I help you? I picked up the notepad and pen I kept on the nightstand next to my bed. I hadn't done any detective work for almost a full month, ever since my last poker playing binge had taken over my life. I wondered if my caller knew that.

I'm a kidnapper, and I need your help.

Was this a joke? I'm available, I said. How can I help you? I repeated. I fumbled through the top drawer of my nightstand for my portable recorder and then remembered I'd lost it two nights ago during an overnight stay, sleeping and sipping cold coffee, in the coffee shop at Four Stars Casino.

I can't tell you how you can help me. You only need to know that your work for me will have little to do with the girl I've kidnapped.

I walked toward the window on the east side of my bedroom. The sun was just beginning to show on the horizon. I opened the blind and waited for him to continue.

Are you there, detective?

Yes...I'm here.

If you don't agree to help me, I'm going to kill the girl—her name is Andrea Masterson.

This got my attention. Andrea Masterson was the stepdaughter of Delaney Kendrick, CEO of Four Stars Casino. She'd been missing for three days, and the police haven't made any progress in their efforts to find her. The kidnapper left a single message in an e-mail to the editor of the San Antonio Express-News. He said the girl was safe as long as the police didn't interfere.

I was having trouble getting my thoughts together. He wasn't going to harm Andrea as long as the police didn't get involved, but he's telling me he'd kill her if I didn't cooperate with him. It didn't make sense. I scribbled a note on my pad, crank call?

My retainer fee is $3,000, I said, wanting to get rid of my early morning caller.

There's $5,000 cash in a mail box at the Uvalde Post Office on Highway 90. The box number is 947, and it's in your name. Go to the customer service window, identify yourself, and they'll give you the key to the box.

I wrote the box number on my note pad. What if I take the money and decide not to help you? I scratched through crank call but left the question mark.

Do I have to repeat myself? The girl will die. This isn't a joke, detective.

I understand. That wasn't true. I had no idea what this whacko had in mind. I want to talk to the girl, I said.

There was a long delay. I carried my cell phone into the kitchen and turned the coffee pot on. Then a voice of what sounded like a young female came on the line.

Mr. Millstone, this is Andrea.

How do I know this?

There was another long delay. I tucked the phone under my chin and put two slices of bread in the toaster, then turned my cast iron skillet on to medium-low.

In my locker at Jefferson Middle School, there's a note to Albert Vasquez. I was going to deliver it to him the day I was kidnapped. She spoke clearly. There was a slight quiver in her voice, but it didn't sound as though she was in immediate danger.

The police would no doubt have cleared her locker. But I sensed she was telling me the truth. I scribbled Jefferson Middle School—Albert Vasquez on my notepad. My hand shook as I wrote.

Where are you being held, Andrea?

Another delay. You disappoint me, detective. The kidnapper was back—in the text-to-voice mode.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I said.

Pay strict attention. There can be no variations in what you are to do.

I'm ready. I felt at a disadvantage. He could pick up on the shakiness in my voice. I had only his emotionless text-to-voice messages.

Silence. Then he came back on the line. You're to visit Four Stars Casino. You're going there to observe. There will be no poker playing during this visit.

And when will this be?

I'll call you when the time if right.

I'd planned to go to the casino later this morning to play in their no-limit poker tournament.

Obviously, you know me—other than as a detective. The toast popping out of the toaster startled me. I sat down at my breakfast bar, and moved yesterday's dishes out of the way.

Obviously, he said.

And you know that I play poker at Four Stars Casino, in San Eduardo, TX. I scribbled a note; kidnapper—probably either plays or works at casino.

You will continue to be involved in the poker games when I'm ready for you to play.

I wasn't sure I could do that. My counselor, Dr. George Benton, had classified me as a binge gambler three years ago. Playing poker and working at the same time wouldn't work, he'd told me. It was one day at a time for the rest of my life. My three years of abstinence was enough to convince me that he was wrong. My relapse a little over a month ago, proved him to be right.

Andrea Masterson's mother had been murdered six months ago. It had been a major news thread on stations throughout southwest Texas. I wondered if there was a connection between the kidnapping and the murder.

You know Andrea's mother was murdered, I said.

Of course. It was six months ago, he said. Why wouldn't I know that?

I was still trying to get my thoughts together. I walked back into my bedroom and took a cigarette from a pack I'd set on my nightstand. I'd given up smoking following the last time I'd visited with Dr. Benton. I picked up the habit again shortly after my current gambling spree hit me head on. I crumbled the cigarette in my hand and threw it and the rest of the pack into the trash can.

Is her mother's murder connected to her kidnapping?

Another delay. In a manner of speaking, he said. Don't bother to respond. This phone will be destroyed in two minutes. He terminated the call.

This whole episode seemed like a scene from a vintage Batman movie. I envisioned The Penguin dropping the phone in a barrel of acid. I thought about retrieving the cigarette pack from the trash can but didn't. If I was going to get back to being a detective, it would be as it was one month ago—all business. No smoking and no gambling.

I scrambled four eggs and fried three slices of bacon. I hadn't had anything other than a bag of peanuts to eat in the last twenty-four hours.

If this screwball was telling the truth, I'd have to change my plans for the day. For a brief second, I hoped the $5,000 retainer fee wouldn't be in the mail box in Uvalde, and I'd have an excuse to continue playing poker. I quickly dismissed the thought. The kidnapper's retainer fee was my ticket back to leading a normal life. I wanted the money to be there.

I glanced at the notes I'd taken while eating breakfast. The one that stood out was, my work for him would have little to do with the girl he'd kidnapped. I wondered how this fit in with his saying he'd kill the girl if I didn't help him. Even if he was the real deal—if there was $5,000 in the post office box, I had to think there were some mental issues involved. This was not a normal man I was dealing with. I put a question mark after his comment, In a manner of speaking.

P.O. Box 947. Uvalde was a twenty minute drive from my home in Sabinal.

Twenty minutes away—the contents of box 947 might determine my immediate future.

Chapter 2

A Google search on the Andrea Masterson kidnapping didn't tell me much that I didn't already know. There were a number of news reports and comments from viewers on internet articles but nothing that shed any additional light on the kidnapping. I'd watched a few of the evening news programs that promised new information or updates on the kidnapping that did nothing but put a different twist on what had already been reported.

I took a quick shower and put on a clean pullover shirt and a new pair of Dockers I'd picked up at a clearance sale of a clothing store going out of business.

The two Excedrin's I'd taken before breakfast were having a positive impact on my headache and the aches and pains that come with long days and nights at a poker table. I'd get back to my daily workouts at Medallion Gym soon. I poured a second cup of coffee into my travel mug, and I was on my way to Uvalde.

The morning traffic was beginning to ease as I pulled into the post office parking lot. I took a final gulp of my coffee before getting out of my car and moving gingerly toward the main entrance.

The Uvalde Post Office was a small but efficient operation, almost always having its three customer stations manned. I glanced around the small room and spotted the customer service window, where I was to pick up the key to box 947

I approached the window. I'm Chuck Millstone, I said. I showed my identification and asked for the key to box 947. I smiled and put on my best professional look. The clerk glanced at me and then back at my picture.

Your driver's license says Charles Millstone. He was a short man with wide-rimmed glasses, and he wore a sun visor type hat. I handed him my business card that had Chuck Millstone, Private Detective, with the same address that was on my driver's license printed on it.

This seemed to satisfy him. He handed me a key and pointed to where the post office boxes were located. Have a nice day, Mr. Millstone, he said. I felt his eyes following me as I walked away from the window.

Inside the box was a manila envelope with my name printed in large block letters. The five stacks of one-hundred dollar bills, each bound with a rubber band, surprised me. I was on the clock. I only hoped I could handle whatever it was the kidnapper had hired me to do.

I returned to the parking lot and sat in my car, reflecting on what I knew about the kidnapper. Despite his saying he would kill the girl if the police were involved, I knew I had to let them know about the strange call I'd received this morning.

Lt. Bruce Williamson was my favored contact in the San Eduardo police department. I'd taken his cell phone number at a social event a while back and entered it into my smart phone contact list. I tapped on his name. Bruce and I had both served in the Green Berets—not at the same time, but we shared an allegiance that goes with belonging to an elite group.

He sounded surprised when he answered. Chuck Millstone? It's been a while. How can I help you?

I told him about the call I'd received and I lied to him, telling him I was pretty sure it was a crank call, but I felt an obligation to let the police know about it. I did my best to keep a steady voice. Something I hadn't been able to do over the past month.

I agreed to update the police of any future contact with my caller. He reciprocated by telling me they would keep me in the loop on their efforts if my caller turned out to be legitimate, and they would not interfere with my investigation. We laughed about my caller saying he'd destroy the phone at the end of the conversation, and then we drifted into talking about the Green Berets. I didn't tell him about the $5,000 retainer fee or that I'd talked to Andrea. The kidnapper's threat to kill her if the police were involved was on my mind. I was playing it low key, until I knew more about my mysterious kidnapper. I was sure Lt. Williamson hadn't told me all he knew about the kidnapping.

I managed to get one of the few parking spots to the side of the Uvalde branch of Mercantile Bank. The lone female teller in the bank did a counterfeit scan on each of the hundred dollar bills. She handed me a receipt and wished me a nice day, then turned and made her way to handle business that was stacking up at the drive-thru windows, before I had a chance to respond.

_____

Waiting for the kidnapper to call me before going to the casino didn't make much sense. It was obvious that whatever he had in mind had something to do with the activity at Four Stars Casino. If he hadn't called me earlier this morning, I'd be leaving home about now, on my way to the casino. My emotions were mixed. What had become my way of life over the past month was suddenly being challenged. This was good. I would be back on track to leading a normal life. My positive thoughts were continuously interrupted by a sinking feeling that I wouldn't be able to play poker again. At least not until the kidnapper said I could.

Should I call Dr. Benton? I thought not. If I did, I'd have to tell him about my relapse. I wasn't ready for that.

I drove back to my home in Sabinal. My mood was sullen. I pulled into my garage and had one final thought about turning around and driving to Four Stars before I slammed the car door and entered into the kitchen. I went into the living room, turned on the television, and sulked.

I slept off and on throughout the day and into the late evening hours. When I woke up, my mood had changed. I was elated. I'd made it through the first day in a month without being at Four Stars Casino, immersed in a poker game.

I put two 250 calorie chicken pot pies into the oven and turned on the television again. Updates on the Andrea Masterson kidnapping were at the top of the newscast, but, as usual, they had little to add to what had already been reported. I finished one of the pies, and half of the other, then retired to my bedroom. I picked up a novel I'd been reading before my last gambling spree. I read a few minutes before falling asleep.

I was awakened by a phone call at a little before eight in the morning. It was the kidnapper. I confirmed the pickup of the $5,000 at the Uvalde post office.

Good. It was an emotionless text-to-voice response, but I'm sure he was pleased.

I needed to know more about his intentions. I'm going to the casino...as an observer, I said.

I'm giving the instructions, detective.

I can't learn anything or help you by sitting at home in Sabinal. My voice was raised, but calm.

There was a delay, then he responded. No poker, he said. It's part of our agreement.

I was okay with this condition. I had to test my resolve to go to the casino and not gamble. My mind was clear. I was confident I could observe the actions of others and not play.

Anything else? I asked. He'd already terminated our conversation.

Chapter 3

I had no idea why the kidnapper had picked on me to help him. My business card says that I'm a full service detective specializing in kidnappings, but that's a stretch. The only kidnapping I'd worked on had taken place more than three years ago and was what had led up to my first visit with Dr. Benton.

The intensity of the Kristina Richards' kidnapping, and its location being too far from any casino for me to gamble, had kept me away from the tables while I making my claim to fame. I'd rescued Kristina, and I was soaking up all the publicity that came with solving a complicated case that had the police completely baffled.

I felt good about myself, at the time. My divorce a year before I'd become involved in the kidnapping investigation was a distant memory. I'd talked to my daughter Heather and we agreed to work on our relationship. The gambling that had made my life miserable prior to the kidnapping case, would no longer be a problem for me. I'd be able to play a little poker on occasion, but my world would be focused on my recent success in rescuing Kristina Richards, and my future as a private detective. Or so I thought.

I'd play once a week, I told myself. The rest of my time would be devoted to my work. It didn't work that way. I went to the casino every day for the next month. Playing poker had once again taken over my life. My budding reconciliation with my daughter was back on hold, and I knew then that I needed help.

I'd picked up the business card of psychologist, Dr. George Benton, on my first visit to the casino, a week after rescuing Kristina. He specialized in helping gamblers overcome their problems. I scoffed at the idea that a psychologist would be able to help problem gamblers.

I might never have thought about him again if I hadn't come across his card in my wallet while searching for my driver's license to cash another check at the casino. I started to crumble the card and throw it in a trash container when the moment of truth hit me. I needed help.

My call to his office, three years ago, saved my life. Dr. George Benton would become my mentor, my savior, and a good friend. He worked alone, and his first words to me were, I'm not going to hold your hand, Millstone, if you're looking for a shoulder to cry on, you can get the hell out of here.

I stayed. And I kept going back—monthly for the next year.

I'd stayed away from the casino for two years after my last visit with Dr. Benton. I was back to making a living as a private detective. I'd stayed clean for close to two more years, until I fell off the wagon, a little over a month ago.

_____

Now I was involved in another kidnapping, and in the back of my mind I knew I should call Dr. Benton, but I still wasn't ready to tell him of my recent failures. I decided I could make the trip to the casino without any outside help.

I stopped at the nearest Valero Corner Store, filled up the tank, bought a pack of Slim Jim's and a twenty ounce Big Red. I was on my way to the casino. I clicked my cruise control on at 72 MPH, and glided my seat back a few inches. My favorite Johnny Cash CD was already playing. I hit replay on a couple of songs, then let the CD run