The Red Shoe: A Robert H. & Tisza Book 1

by Philip Dampier

Overview

The Red Shoe is the first book in a series involving special investigator Robert H. and his canine companion, Tisza. Someone is missing, and Robert H. has to find them before it’s too late. Two romances are ongoing, and they are headed in two different directions. There is, of course, a surprise ending. You don’t want to miss the twists and turns and especially how it all works out. This book, as well as the series, has received rave reviews. And you are sure to enjoy the story as well as the characters.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781546220251
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	12/27/2017
Pages:	158
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.50(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Robert H.

The taxi stopped in front of a small, white, ranch house on Stuart Street. The street was lined on both sides with similar-style homes. Most of them were painted white, but here and there someone had become adventuresome. Blue, was the second favorite color. It was an old neighborhood in a quiet part of Southern City, close to the Belt Way. Robert H. looked out of the window at his home. Most of the neighbors were older than him, but he and Charlotte had liked the quietness of the area.

Robert H. stepped out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk. He stretched. He'd been sitting in an airplane for way too many hours. He was tired; tired and anxious to see Charlotte. She hadn't been at the airport to pick him up, which was totally unexpected and thus very puzzling. He wondered if she had a surprise party or something special waiting inside their home to welcome him back. He was wearing Army desert fatigues and the accompanying ugly desert boots. On the front of his uniform was the Army Military Police badge. His sleeve displayed a Tech Sergeant's chevron. The Expert Marksmanship Badge for Pistol Shot on his chest caught the morning light.

He'd certainly not expected to arrive home by taxi. When Charlotte wasn't at the airport, he'd tried to phone her, but she hadn't answered her cell phone. He couldn't imagine what was wrong. They had been separated for a year during this tour, and both were counting the days until they were back together again.

The driver opened the trunk and set the two bags on the sidewalk. Robert H. handed him a twenty dollar bill and waved him away with a polite, "Thank you." He looked around the neighborhood. Everything seemed about the same as it had a year ago. He retrieved his duffel bag with his right hand and then picked up the lighter, overnight bag with his left. He stared at the house for a moment, neither his eyes nor his thoughts visible through the dark, Maui Jim, sunglasses. He started slowly up the driveway. It was a warm day in Southern City, and he was immediately greeted by a swarm of gnats. Oh boy, he thought, so nice to be back in Alabama. There weren't any gnats in the mountains of Afghanistan, he recalled, but there were worse things.

Robert H. was home from a second Afghanistan tour with the United States Army. His unit was a Military Police outfit. Before his last tour, he'd been sent to Military Police School for investigative training. During the last overseas assignment, he'd been promoted into the Investigation Unit. Robert H. relished the job as much as he despised being in Afghanistan.

A six-year enlistment behind him, his military career was now over. He'd enjoyed his work with the MP's, but he was happy to be back home with his wife and ready to find a job in local police work. With his successful military police investigative history, he thought he might get a job with the city or the county as a detective. With some experience gained at the local level, he could apply to the FBI. To be an FBI Special Agent was his current life's ambition. Robert H. snapped out of his daydream, and his investigative training took over. The house looked different. He looked around. The grass was uncut, and weeds were in the flower beds next to the front door. His car wasn't in the carport. The place had a deserted feel to it.

He walked up to the front door and set his bags on the concrete steps. The door was locked. He rang the bell twice and then knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door. He was greeted by silence. He stepped back to the driveway and onto the carport. There was a dying, pink geranium in a clay pot by the back door. How unlike Charlotte, he thought, to let a plant die. He lifted the pot and removed the tarnished key from beneath it. It hadn't been used for a long time, probably not since he left for Afghanistan a year earlier.

Robert H. walked back to the front door and put the key in the lock. It turned easily enough, and he eased the door open. "Charlotte," he called, "are you here?" No answer. The TV was off, as were all the lights. It was so quiet, he was able to hear the fridge running in the kitchen. It was cooler than outside but not as cool as they usually kept it. He reached behind him and flipped the light switch. The overhead light came on, as well as a large lamp on the end table by the sofa.

The usual magazines weren't on the coffee table in front of the sofa. The room gave the appearance of not being lived in. He walked straight into their bedroom. He called her name again. The bed was made, but the dresser was cleared. No, it wasn't. On the farthest end was an envelope. A strange feeling came over him. Slowly, barely breathing, he walked over and picked it up. His name was on the outside, and he recognized Charlotte's handwriting. It was sealed, to keep the contents in, he thought. He grabbed the flap and ripped it open. A small sheet of stationery dropped out. He smelled Moonlight Kisses, her perfume. It made him ache inside. He bent down and picked the paper up.

He stepped to the window for more light and began to read:

"Dear Robert H. When you get this note I'll be gone. I couldn't tell you on the phone, but I just don't love you anymore. And no, there isn't anyone else, at least not now. I'm going across the country and start my life over. I don't want to be near you as that would make it hard on both of us. Please, please, don't try to find me. I won't change my mind. I have removed everything I wanted so you can have what's left. I took our car and half the money in our account. You can have the house. I filed for an uncontested divorce, and when the papers come, all you have to do is a sign. You are a fine man, and I wish you the best. I'm sorry it didn't work out. Please don't hate me. Goodbye forever, Char."

Robert H. staggered backward and sat on the bed. Their bed. The words on the paper began to move, and then they blurred. Tears began to run down Robert H.'s cheeks. Two trips to Afghanistan and he believed he was ready for most anything, but this, this ... He doubled over and began to sob.

"No," he cried, "Oh my God, please no."

He read the note again. The message didn't change. She was gone. He didn't know why exactly and he certainly didn't know where. She didn't want to be found; she didn't want to see him or hear from him. His world ground rapidly to a stop.

He stood up, walked over to the closet and pulled the sliding door open. Six shirts and two pairs of slacks occupied the left-hand side. There was also a blue navy blazer that he wore on infrequent trips to church with Charlotte. On the floor, were a pair of dress shoes, two pairs of running shoes, loafers, and work-boots. The rest of the closet was empty. Robert H. sighed. He was finding it hard to think and almost impossible to breathe. He went back to the dresser and opened the top right drawer. Empty. One by one he pulled the drawers out. He knew what he would find, but something drove him to look at all of them anyway.

Still, in a daze, he moved back into the living room and out to the front steps. He picked up his bags, brought them into the house and turned the lock on the door. He paused in the hallway long enough to reset the thermostat and make it a little more comfortable. Both bags went into the bedroom, where he began to unpack his things. As if in a dream, he put things away, hanging shirts and putting underwear, socks, and jeans in his highboy. His father had instilled neatness in him, and six years with Uncle Sam had enhanced that trait. Without conscious effort or though, he succeeded in putting everything in its proper place. He put the empty suitcase and duffle bag in the spare bedroom.

He didn't know what to do. His parents were both dead, and he had no sisters or brothers to turn to. He did have an uncle but he was halfway across the United States, and he hadn't spoken to him since his folks had died. All of his old school buddies were scattered around the country. He was totally alone in Southern City. He didn't know anyone close enough for him to call. He didn't know what he would say if he did call someone. He went into the den, flopped down on the sofa and turned on the cable. After a few minutes of the news, he turned off the TV, went into the bedroom and changed into shorts and T-shirt. He put on the old pair of work boots and went outside. He walked around the house to the small storage shed in the back where all the tools were. He pulled the lawnmower out, checked the gas and oil and cranked it. Somehow, he mowed the lawn. He was hardly aware of it.

An hour later, he put the mower up, went inside and took a shower. Later, he walked down the street to a neighborhood grocery store and bought as much as he could carry in his arms. After he put the groceries away, he took a run towards town. He stopped at a Wendy's and had a couple of burgers and fries. The fries were really off his usual diet but at the moment, eating healthy wasn't the prime thought on his mind. He borrowed a newspaper off the counter and looked at the want ads. Nothing he was interested in. Since he wanted to work for the FBI, it made sense to get a job in local law enforcement for the time being. He would need a paycheck. That was for sure.

He ran for two hours and then went back to the empty house. He showered again, changed into pajamas and turned on the TV again. He wasn't really aware of what was on. He just sat there staring at the screen, his mind ignoring the images that flicked on and off. Sometime later, he got up, went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and then fell into bed. It was a restless night that had him tossing and turning. He awoke and went back to sleep several times before the alarm went off.

The next morning, he went into the kitchen, found the newly purchased tea bags and made some tea. The refrigerator had plenty of ice, and he soon had a glass of iced tea on the table. He got up and retrieved a pad and pencil off the counter near where the old, landline had been. Still feeling surreal he began to make a list. He needed some more groceries and other household supplies. He needed a job. He would try the Southern City Police Department and the Winfield County Sheriff's Office as well.

He finished the tea, spent five minutes in the shower and within 15 more minutes was on his way to the business center of town. There was no car, thanks to Charlotte, but he was used to running several miles a day, and the short walk to the downtown area was nothing to even think about. He applied with the city police department and the county sheriff department. He left résumés with both and went home to wait. He worked around the house, weeding the flower beds and making the obviously needed repairs. He painted some trim and tried to find other busy work, and he watched lots of TV. He cried off and on, wiping the tears on his shirtsleeve, but he knew he would make it. He was tough, and he figured he could see this through. He thought about reenlisting with the Army. Maybe he could get a commission now. He debated whether to take the time to try to track down Charlotte. He had no idea where to start looking. He'd checked at the post office, but she hadn't given a forwarding address. Her phone was now no longer in service which meant she had a new number. He would give her some time. Maybe in a few weeks, she would change her mind. He kept his mind occupied by staying busy fixing things up and by running. The running really helped him. Two days later, the Sheriff called and asked him to come in for an interview.

Before the week was out, he was working for Winfield County as a deputy. He'd tried to get on as a detective, but Sheriff Harris informed him he would have to serve some time on patrol and prove himself before that could happen. They immediately scheduled a course at the Academy in Selma. He was furnished a patrol car by the county as part of his salary, so he put off buying any transportation of his own. He did buy some additional groceries, including cleaning supplies and a small cookbook. Charlotte had never allowed him to cook and neither had his mother. He was smart though, and he would learn. He decided he needed a grill. Hamburgers and hot dogs he could do on the grill – chicken, too. When he could afford it, he would try a steak.

The weeks went by. Every day he checked the mail for a letter from Charlotte. He stared at his cell phone as if he could make it ring. He tried her number again, but it still answered not in service. Charlotte had vanished out of his life, and he felt helpless in trying to change that. Day by day he learned to live alone. He tried to read but found it difficult to maintain his focus. The same was true with television. He watched the news, but he found that dull as well. He would sit in the bedroom some nights and cry, but the next morning still came. He was having trouble finding a reason to even exist. He turned his energy toward work.

He re-familiarized himself with Southern City and Winfield County. He drove by Southern City High School where he'd met Charlotte and played football. He was a linebacker in high school and a very good one. At 6-2 and 212 pounds he could have collected a scholarship from several colleges, but he wanted to be an army M.P. like his dad had been. Charlotte was in the band and played at all the games. They also had two classes together. He fell for her his junior year, and they were married in June after they graduated in May. The feelings that came over him as he remembered these things almost made him sick at his stomach, and so he quickly turned onto a side street where he couldn't see the school. He wondered if the hurt and emptiness would ever leave him.

Robert H. stopped in different restaurants for lunch when on day patrol and found he liked the burgers at Ruby Tuesday the best. He ordered his with a baked potato instead of the fries, and sometimes he added cheese. Their iced tea was also good, and he loved iced tea. Unlike most Southerners, he'd learned to drink it unsweetened. At many foreign posts where his dad had been stationed, sweet tea was not available. Now, he couldn't stand the taste of the sugar. Drinking it unsweet as well as running every day, helped him stay near the 215 pounds he now carried.

A pretty, dark-haired, young waitress at Ruby Tuesday waited on him frequently. He quickly discovered that her name was Ann. She was very friendly, but he told himself he wasn't interested in anything but the burgers and tea. Not yet, anyway. Still, he found himself sitting at the same table each time he ate there. One of her tables. He also found that his tips were slowly increasing in value.

Robert H. had been on the county payroll for six months, and with the Academy behind him, he was now learning the county in a way he never had. Day patrol near Plymouth one week, night patrol on West State Highway 60 and into Deland and onto the south end the next. He liked the east side of the county best though, especially the southeast corner where there were lots of county roads and dirt trails that led up to the Dark Water River. There were a couple of nightclubs in the area, and they could be counted on for a little police action on Friday and Saturday nights. One was a large place called Dark Water River Tavern. He became a regular visitor late on Friday and Saturday nights. Seemed as if drinking, knives, and guns were familiar companions at that time of the week.

He learned the civilian counterpart to Military Police work. Some things carried over from his MP days and somethings were totally different. He liked the staff at the County Sheriff's Department and was soon friends with several of them. They were all married except him, and so it put him in an awkward social position. He became a loner of sorts. He worked, went home, did chores, watched TV and went to bed. In the morning he ran and started the daily routine over.

Late one Tuesday night after a high-speed chase had led him and two other deputies across the county he was back home on the sofa watching TV. They had stopped the speeder just short of the county line and found him a little over the limit on blood alcohol. The high-speed chase had gotten Robert H.'s adrenalin flowing. Deputy Earl Hart had taken the guy in and booked him into the county jail. Deputy Dean Brown hung around until the wrecker picked up the guy's car and took it back to the vehicle compound. Robert H. had completed his report and filled his patrol car with gas. Then he'd driven home to his empty house. Watching TV allowed the adrenalin to drop down so that he could relax. He needed to relax. He was still having some difficulty sleeping the entire night.

A program was on about K9 dogs in military and police work. It was one of the rare times he found TV interesting. What caught his attention was how the handlers and the dogs interacted. The bond between the handlers and their dogs was something to see. It was as if they were more than work partners. They seemed to have formed deep friendships. It was then that it hit him. Robert H. sat straight up and spoke out loud.

"I'm lonely."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Red Shoe"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Philip Dampier.
Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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