Digging for Beauty

Mac Mason was sitting in his home office, looking over listings for rental office properties. Mac was the retired head of the Major Crimes Division for the Miami Police Department and, until recently, had been a lecturer and consultant for local, state, and national law enforcement agencies. In his early sixties, Mac had recently become partner with Phil Phillips in what was now Mason-Phillips Investigative Services. Phillips had based his company in Miami, but Mac’s chief caveat in accepting the partnership was that he be allowed to open a branch office in Venice, Florida.
Mac and his wife, Maggie Miller Mason, had made their home in Venice since his retirement several years previously. Maggie, or Mags as she was affectionately known, had been a top flight model and currently owned a very successful company, Maggie Miller Cosmetics. Her company had recently rolled out a new perfume called Mmmm, and that product was selling off the shelves.
Mags came into Mac’s office, a small room in their Venice home. Mac looked up with a frown on his face and said, “Mags, we need to talk.”
Mags, knowing what was on Mac’s mind, answered angelically, “What about, Dear?”
“Mags, you know what we need to talk about. It’s that bomb you laid on me on The Mistress on our way back from Miami yesterday. I was so stunned that I thought you were kidding, but knowing you, you probably weren’t.”
Mac and Mags had just returned from Miami, where they together had solved a murder, freeing a falsely convicted man from death row. They had lived on their thirty-nine foot luxury boat, The Mistress, during their stay in Miami.
“Mac, I was very serious. You know--you’ve seen it yourself--I can take care of myself in a tough spot. I can do it! I want to be involved with you in Mason-Phillips Investigations. I want to get my private investigator’s license, and I want to work with you! I know I can make it work!”
“What about Maggie Miller Cosmetics?” Mac asked, hoping Mags had not thought about how her business venture might interfere with her being a PI.
“You know well enough that I don’t have to do much directly with the company anymore. I have a great staff that does all the work. I just have to talk with Kimberly Christiansen once a week or so. You’ve met her; she’s a great vice-president. And, I might have to do a photo shoot for a product ad once every few months. Other than that, Kimberly and the staff take care of everything else. The one-day Board meetings are only held twice a year. I promise that MMC won’t interfere,” Mags argued.
“Hon, I just don’t know. You are still a cancer patient, and the PI work can be dangerous,” Mac countered.
“It can’t be any more dangerous than what I’ve been through in the last year. I’ve been kidnapped, shot, almost mugged, and I helped apprehend a murderer. I think I’ve proven that I can take care of myself. I can help with investigations.” She took a deep breath. “And you’re the one who insisted I get self-defense training. Brenda did that for me while you two were working together in Miami. And not only that, I have my carry permit for my Ruger LCP and you know I am able to use it.” She paused to measure Mac’s reaction. Then she added, “And I’ll go through any other training that might be necessary.”
“Mags, I need time to think about it. I’m still reeling from the thought of your becoming a PI, getting a license and all that. Let me adjust to that idea and see what it might entail. I am concerned about how taxing it might be for you.”
“Yes, Dear,” Mags responded, with a knowing smile.
*****
Mac returned to the correspondence from the real estate agent, listing property that might be the future location of the new Mason-Phillips Investigative Services branch in Venice. As he reached for his phone to call his son, Adam, his cell phone began playing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, his personal ring tone.
“Mac Mason here,” Mac answered.
“Mr. Mason, it’s Moose.”
Brad Williamson, better known as Moose, was soon to be a lead agent in Mac’s new Venice office. Moose was 6’ 7” and around 300 pounds of solid muscle, a retired All-Star tackle for the Atlanta Falcons NFL team.
“Yes, Moose, what’s up?”
“Mr. Mason, this is awful. All I can do is just say it.” He paused. “I’m in jail! I’m sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Moose, what happened? What’s going on? Where are you being held?”
“I’m at the Sarasota Police Department.”
“Moose, I’ll be there within the hour. I don’t get it. Why were you arrested?”
“I’d rather explain when you get here.”
“I’ll be right there!”
Mac hung up the phone and called to Mags, “Mags, could you come here?”
Mags came into the office and saw Mac’s worried expression. “What’s wrong, Hon?”
“Moose just called. He has been arrested and is being held at the Sarasota Police Department. I’m going right now. Do you want to go with me?”
“Definitely! Let’s go.”
*****
Mac and Mags drove the thirty-five minutes to the Sarasota Police Department as quickly as possible. Mac checked in with the officer in charge who asked “How can I help you?” Mac explained that he was there to see Brad Williamson, an employee of his. Mags was asked to wait while Mac was taken to a small room with only a table and two chairs. Moose, handcuffed and wearing an orange jumpsuit, was brought in and sat facing Mac.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Mason,” Moose said, as he looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure what I should do and the only thing I could think of was to call you.”
“Moose, what happened to your face?” Mac said as he saw a bruise on Moose’s left cheek.
“It’s part of the story, Mr. Mason.”
“Maybe you should tell me the story. But first, what are they charging you with?”
“As well as I understand it, it’s disturbing the peace and public fighting. I’m told it can range from a misdemeanor to a felony. I’ll go before a judge tomorrow morning. I had to surrender my private investigator’s identification and, of course, my sidearm.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story. Billy, a friend of mine from college, lives in Sarasota. He called me and suggested we get together to catch up. He mentioned this place called Ray’s Sports Bar. I don’t usually frequent bars anymore, but agreed to meet Billy there.”
“Where is this bar?” asked Mac.
“It’s in a seedier part of northern Sarasota. Anyway, when I got to the bar, Billy wasn’t there. I was a little early. I found a place at the bar and ordered a Diet Coke. The bartender snickered at my order, but served it. Three guys were sitting at a table immediately behind me. The only other people in the bar were several women sitting at a booth in the corner. I’d been sipping my Coke for a few minutes when a woman came up and sat next to me. She asked me if I would buy her a drink. I told her that I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone, but that if she wanted a Coke, I’d buy it for her. She laughed and asked me if a big boy like me couldn’t handle a beer or something stronger. I told her that I had the drink I wanted.