âIf youâre reading this, then you havenât heard from me in three weeks, maybe more. If thatâs the case, call Marty Singer. Heâll know what to do.â
Thatâs the note Karen Reynolds, ex-wife of friend and former US Marshal Karl Schovasa, hands retired cop Marty Singer. Schovasaâs missing after trying to guide a young addict away from being exploited by a fake rehab center, and all signs point to foul play. In a bid to save both of them, Marty heads south to Palm Beach to take on a cabal of crooks, con men, and drug dealers that operate at will up and down the East coast. Theyâre the masterminds of a scam worth millions...a scam theyâre willing to kill for if it stops Marty from Chasing the Pain.
âIf youâre reading this, then you havenât heard from me in three weeks, maybe more. If thatâs the case, call Marty Singer. Heâll know what to do.â
Thatâs the note Karen Reynolds, ex-wife of friend and former US Marshal Karl Schovasa, hands retired cop Marty Singer. Schovasaâs missing after trying to guide a young addict away from being exploited by a fake rehab center, and all signs point to foul play. In a bid to save both of them, Marty heads south to Palm Beach to take on a cabal of crooks, con men, and drug dealers that operate at will up and down the East coast. Theyâre the masterminds of a scam worth millions...a scam theyâre willing to kill for if it stops Marty from Chasing the Pain.
People I trust have told me I should answer my phone more often. Since I almost hung up on the call that saved my friendâs life, they might be onto something.
In my defense, two kinds of calls had been showing up lately, the have-you-thought-about-replacing-your-windows? and the would you like to vote for our candidate? variety. When this one came in, I was sitting on my front porch with my feet on the railing and my hands behind my head, gazing at the ceiling where patches of paint as big as pages in a dictionary were flaking away.
It was boring and unproductive, but I was content, so I sat there for nearly a minute with the phone in my pocket chattering like an angry cicada until, eventually, it stopped. Score one for patience, I thought . . . then, seconds later, it rang again. Aggravated, I pulled it out, my thumb hovering over the red button to end the call. But the world doesnât go away just because you ignore itâbelieve me, Iâve tried. I sighed, punched the green button, and said hello.
As it turned out, this call wasnât about windows or voting.
A woman introduced herself in a deep, confident voice as Elizabeth Reynolds. I was silent, trying to place the name.
âElizabeth Reynolds,â the woman repeated, as if to jog my memory.
âSorry, Ms. Reynolds,â I said. âCan youââ
âIâm Karl Schovasaâs wife,â she interrupted, then corrected herself so quickly she tripped over the words. âEx-wife.â
âHow is Karl?â
âHeâs missing,â she said. âAnd I thought youâd want to know.â
âWhy is that?â
âBecause he left a message telling me you would.â
Karl Schovasa had been a U.S. Marshall and a good one. Dogged. Smart. Successful. He maintained congenial relationships with colleagues above and below him on the ladder, had a high âfugitive warrants clearedâ score on the cases he solved, and avoided screwing the pooch on the ones he didnât. It would be nice if that were all there was to say and, if I could stop there, I would.
But, throughout a career spanning three decades, heâd not only been a top-flight federal agent, heâd also been an alcoholic, dedicating himself to the bottle with as much gusto as transporting prisoners and chasing crooks.
In terms of the job, that isnât as bad as it sounds. Heavy, habitual drinking among law enforcement officers is so common itâs clichĂ©. By itself, it isnât enough to end a careerâif you can do the work, a lot can be forgiven, and for many years Karl had done that work well. He was, as they say, a high-functioning alcoholic . . . and better than functioning most days.
Just as retirement came in sight, however, the penny dropped in spectacular fashion. An Irish mob from Philly, working off a leak from the inside, had set out to eliminate a witness preparing to testify against the mob. Karlâs team, assigned the witness protection detail, was annihilated . . . while heâd slept off a three-day binge in a nearby motel. By some miracle, the witness and his son escaped, but Karl was ruined, professionally and emotionally.
Before he could be fired or forced into retirement, he cashed in all the personal leave heâd accumulated over years of service and made it his mission to hunt down the killers. Iâd been pulled into Schovasaâs orbit when the witness and his son, no longer believing in the âprotectionâ part of âwitness protection,â had enlisted me in helping them construct a new identity and getting the hell out of there.
Karl hadnât appreciated my interference, but he and I had found a way to work together somewhat creakily, caught the bad guys, and reached a level of grudging, mutual respectâtwo crusty, middle-aged cops past their prime. We approached problems differently, but weâd both been around long enough to know that there was more than one way to skin the proverbial cat.
Where Iâd faced and tackled many of my demons, though, Iâd never been sure Schovasa had. The last Iâd seen him, he was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from a gunshot wound, looking more than ever like a haggard King Pellinore of the Arthurian legends searching for his Questing Beast, unhappy in the hunt . . . but even more miserable when kept from it. What that Beast was, exactly, Iâm not sure even Karl knew.
Post-recovery, heâd called to let me know the hospital food hadnât killed him. That had been the only contact for a year. I had no idea heâd had a wife, a divorce, or the slightest interest in contacting me if he happened to go MIA.
I met Elizabeth at Karlâs place at the Audubon Fields apartment complex in Falls Church. It was one of those apartment towers that was painfully nondescriptâa bland, ashen exterior where every unit had a balcony and a picture window, but not a jot of character.
Hung up by traffic, I arrived after Elizabeth. She was easy to spot, standing outside of the double-glass doors to the apartment building with her arms crossed and a hip slightly cocked. Hers was a wide face, with a rounded nose and arresting gray eyes. Her black hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, with a white streak running from her hairline to the crown like a bolt of lightning. A large leather handbag slung over one shoulder complemented her fashionable, rust-colored pantsuit and gold camisole top.
I introduced myself and we shook hands. âI didnât know Karl had been married.â
âI sometimes wonder if he did.â The comment dropped like a dead fish on the table and she grimaced. âSorry. Itâs been five . . . challenging years and itâs been difficult to move on. Every time I think Iâve turned a corner, he lays this kind of thing on me.â
âWhat kind of thing?â
âDisappearing mysteriously. Asking me to contact strangers for help.â
âHow did you know to reach out to me, specifically?â
âHe left a note inside his apartment.â
I said nothing, my tongue tracing circles on the inside of my cheek. In my experience, divorcees with five rough years behind them donât often allow each other easy access to their homes.
She read my confusion. âIâve had a key since last year when he was shot. Prior to that, we hadnât spoken much, but Karl simply didnât have anyone else to help, so . . . I got him home and set him up.â
I frowned. âIs he still recovering? What made you look for a note?â
She shook her head. âA colleague from the Marshals called, asked me to check on him. Karl missed an important date, the anniversary of that terrible shooting. When he didnât show, his friend reached out to me.â
âThe anniversary isnât something heâd avoid? Too painful, maybe?â
âKarl wouldnât miss it if he had to crawl there. It was his form of penance.â She shifted the bag on her shoulder. âWhen I couldnât reach him by phone, I let myself in.â
âAnd found the note?â
âIn the recycling.â At my raised eyebrow, she said, âI was the wife of an investigator. If Iâm going to bother checking his apartment, Iâm going to cover all the bases.â
âMay I see the note?â
She pulled a wrinkled page from her bag and handed it to me. I smoothed it out and peered at the crabbed writing that fit neatly on the lined paper. A date nearly three weeks past was scrawled at the top.
Liz, it read, if youâre in the apartment and reading this, Iâve been gone for a while. If you havenât heard from me at all a few weeks from the date on this letter, call Marty Singer. Heâll know what to do. Thanks, K.
My phone number was jotted beneath my name with an arrow pointing to it. I flipped the paper over. Blank. I looked at Elizabeth, an unspoken question on my face.
âI donât know where he went or why he would write that. You know he retired last year after that business and the weeks in the hospital. I have no idea where heâd go for weeks at a time. As far as I knew, he was sitting at home drinking and watching reruns of The Rockford Files.â
The words were raw, the hurt just below the surface like an old injury that hadnât healed and still ached when touched. Unfortunately, Karl and Elizabethâs story was one played on repeat, worthy of its own channel of reruns: cop has a tough life, cop hits the bottle, bottle destroys marriage.
Iâd had my own struggles with booze. Friends and colleagues had helped me pull myself together before I did any lasting damage but, twenty years later, I still didnât like to dwell on where Iâd been or where I mightâve ended up. I was just thankful Iâd found my way out. But not all copsâor copsâ wivesâwere so lucky.
âThe best way to figure out what he expects from me is to look around, maybe go through his stuff,â I said. âIs that okay with you?â
âLooking after his things isnât my business anymore. If he asked for your help, he mustâve known how youâd go about it.â
There wasnât much to say to that, so I let her show me the way to the seventh floor where lackluster, ridged wallpaper pulled the eye down the corridor. The carpeting was grayish brown, with a striped pattern meant to hide dirt and stains. Intermittent wall sconces emitting a low-wattage glow broke up the monotony.
We walked in silence to the end of the hall where Elizabeth fumbled with the keys at the door, then let us inside. She took a seat on a couch to watch as I soaked the place in.
Iâd expected a bachelor pad with a dĂ©cor to match that of the hallway with an easy chair parked five feet from the TV. Or, with his struggles with alcohol fresh in my mind, a slobâs nest of cast-off furniture, ripped carpeting, and trash in every corner. But Schovasa had a better sense of design than I did, avoiding all the clichĂ©s, and was apparently unafraid of expressing a complicated personality through the objects in his apartment.
If his alcoholism influenced his home life, he covered it well. Sunlight streamed through spotless double-paned windows, revealing an apartment that was tidy and clean. No stray coffee mugs or lolling beer cans, no half-empty pizza boxes or flattened chip bags. I sniffed. The apartment was a little stale from lack of use, maybe, but the air still held the pleasant smells of polish and the spa-like scent of upscale cleaning products. I knew what my place would say about me if someone were to do a spot inspection.
The furniture had simple lines and a lack of unnecessary adornmentâa professorâs chair upholstered in cream-colored linen with dark rivets, a Shaker coffee table of burled maple. I picked up a piece of ebony carved in the shape of a boa constricting a hapless boar then set it down next to its neighbor, a gleaming brass marine compass. Books on a nearby shelf ranged from potboilers to a recent volume on the history of psychedelic drugs.
In a far corner sat a tower of audio equipment and a shelf of Classical music CDs, populated by Russian composers Iâd never heard of and light on the Romantics I had. I turned the power on and punched play; a riot of stormy orchestral notes blared forth and I snapped it off. In the sudden silence, road noise from the street in front of the complex took over, making Karlâs choice of music more understandable.
The walls were covered with art, from rustic and comfortingâa winter scene in New Englandâto violent, modernist clashes of blues and gold. A man playing a trumpet in one, gouts of scarlet and black in another. Cityscapes and night scenes. The pieces were confusing, compelling. I peered closer to read the signature.
âTheyâre his,â Elizabeth said from the couch.
I glanced over a shoulder. âHis who?â
âKarlâs,â she said. âSurprised? It was his artistic side that was always getting him in trouble. If he hadnât been so damn sensitive, he couldâve handled things better.â
The word things covered a lot of ground. Their marriage. His career. His life.
âSo, Elizabeth,â I said, straightening. âYou said he didnât tell you about any side work, but did he give you any hints about what he was doing? Something that would land him in trouble?â
âI donât keep tabs on him.â
âNo calls? Texts? Emails?â
âWe donât . . . do that. Not on a regular basis.â She looked down at the arm of the couch, toying with an errant thread. âBefore he was shot, months could pass between calls. But since his time in the hospital, things have been . . . abnormal. We havenât gotten back to our post-divorce footing again, so to speak.â She paused and the next words were made of ash. âGiven time, Iâm sure it wouldnât be long until we were back to not speaking at all.â
âBut you helped him after he was shot?â
âYes. After his time in the hospital, he was weak and hadnât been home in a month or more. I picked up some groceries and got him settled.â
Her voice hitched as she said the word settled. âHad he started drinking again?â
âYes. I think so.â
âYou left him to his own devices after that?â
âIf he was healthy enough to walk to the liquor store, he could get by without me.â
âWhen was that? Sorry, Iâm trying to build a timeline here.â
She sighed and crossed her legs. âI last saw him, face-to-face, I donât know, three or four months ago. After that, he called once a week for a while, then it dropped down to every two or three. I last heard from him more than a month ago, a quick call to let me know heâd had his last follow-up for the gunshot.â
âThen nothing until this friend from the Marshals called you, asked you to check on him?â
âRight.â
I did a slow turn in place, unsure what to do next. Was he missing? In trouble? Did he want me to get in touch or just keep tabs on his place? Or his ex-wife? Should I go home and grab a burger and think on it?
âLook, if it helps,â Elizabeth said, âKarl never asked for a hand. It was another stupid thing he did. Heâd get in over his head, wouldnât call or wait for backup, and land himself in a mess. Leaving a note for me to contact you is not his normal MO. It wouldâve cost him to write it. Which is why I imagine he didnât leave any details, then eventually tossed it. He wouldâve been . . . embarrassed.â
I rolled the note into a tube, tapped it in against my leg like a baton. âAnd he didnât call you, hint at anything?â
She shook her head.
I mulled it over. The smart play right now would be to back out, make some calls, file a missing personâs if I had toâbut what Elizabeth was saying about the man synced with what I remembered. And a note written in advance says a hell of a lot more than a midnight phone call or an email dashed off mid-crisis. Whatever Schovasa was involved with, heâd looked into the future, weighed the outcomes, and decided there was a chance he wouldnât be able to deal with it. If a simple call to a buddy in the Marshals couldâve solved his problemâassuming he hadnât burnt those bridgesâhe wouldâve written that on the note to Elizabeth.
But he hadnât done that. Heâd told her to contact me.
Chasing the Pain is the eighth and most current book in the Marty Singer series. Within we get a first person perspective in the form of Marty and learn a small snapshot of his life as a former DC homicide detective. Retired, Marty seems to fall into cases needing his outside expertise and experience. When former US Marshal Karl Schovasa (appeared in book six - Once Was Lost) goes missing, Marty gets a phone call from Karl's ex-wife Elizabeth Reynolds.Â
While not having read the first seven books in this series, I was quickly able to adapt to the characters, current storyline, and background information. Although some information is given about their past work experience and present-day situations, we're given just enough to help us understand and continue reading but not an overload of narrative. This helps ease the reader in and not bombard them with an overabundance of unnecessary info.Â
Marty strikes out to find the missing Karl and starts with a sweep of his house and personal effects. This leads him to a clinic Karl appears to have visited. Slowly, our main character works out the puzzle pieces and finds himself on his way to Florida and another addiction clinic. Along the way, he meets a few colorful and quirky individuals who provide him with information, support, and assistance in his mission to locate his almost-old-friend.Â
Marty becomes a likeable character as you read, and although I never felt a deep and abiding connection to him - as one hopes to with a character, I liked his grit and determination. He was a worthy personality with relatable stories and qualities. Another enjoyment in the story was how it didn't quite end with a bow wrapped around it. It held a twist, that while I saw it coming, didn't strike me fully until the scene before it was revealed. Overall, I couldn't put this book down. Did I mention I'm already downloading the first seven?Â
All in all, if you enjoy noir-esque, hard-boiled, private investigator mysteries with a Philip Marlowe meets Jack Reacher type of vibe, then this series will be your cup of tea. I encourage you to read it and find out why I rated it a 4/5 "really liked it." I'm sure you'll find several reasons of your own.Â
Thanks to the author and Reedsy Discovery for the ARC copy of Chasing the Pain.