Down, But Never Out
“Well,” Jack Steele murmured with a grin, “looks like I’m not checking out just yet.”
Coming from a man recovering from a nasty bout of Montezuma’s Revenge, it was reassuringly optimistic. I’d suffered the same fate two days earlier after eating the same questionable ceviche leftovers. You’d think between the two of us, we’d have figured it out sooner. Now, Jack was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows, looking like his old self again.
“Don’t write me off yet,” he continued. “Jack Steele, private eye, the terror of Miami’s crime scene, isn’t down for the count. “Someone posted about me on X last week after I busted that illegal cockfighting ring—check it out! Read these comments.”
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and read aloud.
“‘Attention, Miami’s underworld: Jack Steele might be out of commission for now, but once he’s back, the game is over.'”
I chuckled, glad to see him in good spirits.
“Well, Steele, Miami doesn’t seem to be falling apart without you. Nothing’s been worth chasing down while you’ve been out—has it?”
A nurse interrupted, poking her head through the door.
“There’s a gentleman downstairs, Mr. Steele. Says he’s got to see you or Ace immediately. He’s all frantic—and dressed sharp as a tack too. Here’s his card.”
She handed me a sleek business card.
Harper’s Request
Jack winced, clutching his abdomen in pain. “Ace, check X. Let’s see who this ‘Randy Harper’ is.”
I scrolled through the search results and pulled up his profile:
“Randolph Harper, real estate developer, second son of construction magnate Wallace Harper. Married in 2013 to Zoe Southern, former Broadway actress turned lifestyle influencer.”
“Big name, but what’s the deal? Sounds like the kind of guy with everything to lose—and no doubt a few skeletons in the closet”
Steele smirked. “Go down, hear him out. Make my excuses; bad ceviche takes no prisoners.”
Harper, a man in his forties with a sharp suit and a sharper frown, stood pacing in the lobby of our small Miami office. His desperation was clear from the deep furrows in his brow.
“Mr. Steele couldn’t make it,” I said, shaking his hand. “But I’m Ace, his partner. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Harper’s words spilled out in a rush. “My uncle—my best friend, really—was murdered last night.”
“In Miami?”
“No, at my vacation home in the Everglades. I stayed in town last night, and this morning I got a frantic text from my wife saying he was dead. The cops have their theories, but I came straight to you. You’ve got to help me.”
“Give me a moment,” I said and headed back upstairs to Steele. He raised an eyebrow as I filled him in.
“Well, Ace, sounds like a juicy one. You’re dying to go, aren’t you?” He waved off my protests. “Go. Use what you’ve learned from me. Just report back daily, and don’t forget to follow any instructions I send.”
Half an hour later, I was in Harper’s glossy obsidian-black Tesla Model X, heading toward the Everglades.
The Scene of the Crime
As we sped past Miami’s high-rises into swampy wilderness, Harper filled me in.
“The house, Southern Haven, is a retreat for my family. It’s secluded, surrounded by nothing but marshes and gators. We only take a skeleton staff when we visit. My uncle, Harrington Pace—he moved in with us after the 2008 recession. He never got along with my father, but we were close. He practically kept me afloat when my investments tanked. My wife, Zoe, adored him too.”
He hesitated, his voice thick with grief. “We went down to the house two days ago to unwind. I had to return to the city for meetings yesterday, but Zoe and Uncle Harrington stayed behind. This morning, I got this text.” He handed me his phone.
“Randy, come home now! Uncle Harrington was killed last night. The police are here, but find a private investigator—we need someone on our side!”
We pulled up to Southern Haven, a sleek, modern home surrounded by towering palm trees. A Miami PD cruiser was parked out front, Detective Reed stood by the door, his tailored shirt doing little to disguise the powerful build beneath. Fresh from a recent fitness competition, his physique was impossible to ignore—broad shoulders, a chiseled frame, and the kind of presence that turned heads even in a room full of suspects.
“Reed!” I greeted him, surprised. “Didn’t expect to see you out here.”
He nodded curtly. “Case like this, I had to be. Looks messy. Mr. Harper, I’ll need a few minutes of your time. Ace, why don’t you head in and get the lay of the land?”
Meeting Mrs. Harper
I rang the doorbell, and when it opened, I was momentarily taken aback.
The woman before me wasn’t what I’d pictured for a housekeeper. Introducing herself as Mrs. Petrova, she was a stoic, statuesque blonde of obvious Eastern European descent. Her sharp features and piercing blue eyes gave her an almost regal air, and at nearly 5’11”, she had a commanding presence. Her dark uniform, crisp and perfectly tailored, only added to the striking impression. Her thick accent matched her demeanor—cool, composed, and efficient—as she gestured for me to follow her into the spacious living room.
Mrs. Zoe Harper joined me moments later, descending a grand staircase with a graceful ease that belied the tragedy unfolding around her. She was striking—her fitted coral blouse and cream slacks were perfectly suited for the Floridian humidity, balancing comfort and elegance with ease. Her dark hair was swept into a flawless updo, not a strand out of place, as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion editorial. Her calm demeanor contrasted starkly with the chaos of the situation, her poise as unshakable as her polished appearance.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her voice carrying a faint Southern drawl that seemed carefully restrained, as though she’d spent years trying to tame it. Her words were precise, almost rehearsed, and her tone was just a shade too casual for someone recounting such a horrific event. It set my instincts on edge, and I found myself watching her a little more closely than I might have otherwise.
“Harrington was in the lounge last night when someone came to the door asking for him. He told me to stay in the kitchen while he handled it. Next thing I knew, I heard shouting, followed by a gunshot. When I ran to check, the door was locked. I had to go around to the patio and found him…dead.”
Her delivery was smooth, almost detached, and it only added to the growing sense that there was more to Mrs. Harper than met the eye.
“What about the visitor?” I asked. “Did you recognize him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before in my life! He was middle-aged, had a black beard, wore a tan jacket, and dark sunglasses. He spoke with an American accent. That’s all I can tell you.”
The Gun Room Investigation
Zoe led me to the lounge where the murder occurred. The airy room featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the swamp. A large stain on the plush beige carpet marked where Harrington’s body had fallen. The wall above the bar displayed two mounted pistols, but one was conspicuously missing.
“Uncle Harrington loved those revolvers,” Zoe said, her voice trembling. “The one that’s left—he got it as a gift from an Italian dignitary after saving his life during an assassination attempt. It was one of his most prized possessions. I overheard the police saying they believe the missing one is the murder weapon.”
I snapped a few pictures with my phone and noted the trampled ground outside the patio doors. It was clear someone had fled through the swamp. Judging by the tread marks, it looked like the perp had used an ATV, or some other kind of amphibious vehicle.
A Break in the Case
Back at the Sunset Square Precinct, Reed filled me in. “The bullet matches the missing Colt. And get this, someone found a similar gun dumped in Coral Gables this morning.”
Reed paused, his brow furrowed. “Wasn’t Harper there last night?
“Why dump it so close to his location—or his home?”
“He’s no Al Capone,” Reed said. “As far as I know, this is his first ride at the rodeo—his first dip in the pool, so to speak. As flimsy as it is, Harper has an alibi. He left here last night and was at his downtown condo by ten.”
Detective Reed firmly shook my hand before we parted, both of us nodding in understanding.
After firing off a rapid text to Steele with my findings, I slid behind the wheel and headed for the Tamiami Trail. His response came quickly—a single text.
“Excellent work, Ace. I’ll see you in Miami.”
Steele’s Deduction
When I returned to Miami, I found Steele by his pool, reclined in a lounge chair with his laptop open beside him. The Florida sun seemed to have done its job—he was back to his sharp, confident self.
“So, Ace,” he said, setting his cup down. “Tell me about this housekeeper. Describe her again, in detail.”
I frowned, confused by his focus. “Mrs. Petrova. Blonde, statuesque, Eastern European. She had an accent and was cool, professional. Why?”
“Because, mon ami,” Steele said, leaning forward, “she doesn’t exist.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, startled. “I saw her with my own eyes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you saw two women? Isn’t there a chance that Mrs. Harper was just too good? Heels, a wig, and a little makeup can change anyone’s appearance.”
I paused, trying to piece it together. “But—her accent, her whole demeanor…”
“Acting,” Steele said simply. “Mrs. Harper was an actress, remember? You only saw the housekeeper in dim light, never at the same time as Zoe. It would have been child’s play for her to play both roles. Mrs. Petrova was her alibi while she was busy killing Harrington.”
I shook my head, trying to process. “But the police report didn’t mention any evidence of a disguise.”
Steele shrugged. “Subtlety is key. She wouldn’t leave anything obvious. A blonde wig, subdued makeup, and a dark uniform can vanish as quickly as they appear.”
“And the gun?” I pressed. “The one found in Coral Gables?”
“Randy planted it. They needed to divert attention away from the swamp and Southern Haven. It was all part of the show.”
I shook my head, still processing it all. “But why would Randy kill his uncle? Was it just about the money?”
Steele leaned back in his chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he explained the final piece of the puzzle. “As absurd as it sounds, Ace, Randy Harper’s motive boils down to one thing—a grudge he’s been nursing for years.”
I frowned. “A grudge? Over what?”
Steele smirked. “At Randy and Zoe’s wedding, Uncle Harrington got a little too comfortable during the festivities. After one too many glasses of champagne, he gave the bride a congratulatory kiss—one that lingered just a second too long. Not scandalous, perhaps, but long enough to make Randy see red.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, incredulous. “All of this… because of one awkward moment at a wedding?”
“Apparently, it wasn’t just the kiss,” Steele continued. “According to one of Randy’s old friends, Harrington had a habit of reminding Randy about it at every family gathering. ‘Ah, Zoe,’ he’d say, ‘if only I’d met you first!’ Always with a wink, always when Randy was in earshot.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “So, Randy’s been seething about this for years?”
“Seething,” Steele confirmed, “and when Harrington moved in with them during the recession, the jokes only got worse. Randy, who was already in debt and barely keeping it together, snapped. Killing his uncle wasn’t just about the money—it was his way of silencing the humiliation once and for all.”
I shook my head, still stunned. “All over a drunken joke and a kiss?”
Steele raised an eyebrow. “Never underestimate the power of a wounded ego, my friend. It’s brought down kings—and apparently uncles, too.”
The room fell silent as the pieces fell into place. My mind spun, considering the audacity of their scheme. “But Steele, how can we prove it?”
His smile faded. “That’s the issue, Ace. Without concrete evidence, we have nothing. All the pieces are there, but the picture isn’t clear enough to bring them down.”
Justice Served
Despite Steele’s genius deductions, the Harpers walked free. They had played their roles perfectly, leaving no loose ends for the law to tug at. But justice, as Steele always said, often works in ways we don’t expect.
Months later, while flipping through the morning paper, my eyes caught a small but jarring headline:
“Jet Crash Claims Lives of Miami Couple.”
I read further, the details confirming what I already knew. Randy and Zoe Harper, en route to New York, had perished in a fiery crash when their private plane went down.
Steele’s words echoed in my mind as I set the paper down. “Justice has its own way of balancing the scales,” he liked to say. For once, I couldn’t argue with him.
The End
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