White Space Season 1

tell me what the hell you’re accusing me of, Brother? ”
    “Emma’s missing. Where is she?”
    Warren laughed. “I don’t know anything about the kid, but Lord knows that dumb white trash junkie whore can’t take care of her. Call the cops. I’m sure it’s so open and shut even Barney Fife and his Beachside Goons will be able to solve it in less than 10 seconds. Hell, Cassidy probably sold her for drug money. If you want, I’ll give you the number of the Captain of Paladin. I understand that you already made quite an impression on them.”
    “Fuck you,” Jon said, and hung up.
    He stared out the window at the sea, trying to slow his rising anger and breath, before calling the one contact in his phone he knew he could turn to at a time like this — Brock Houser.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 2 — Brock Houser

    Las Orillas, California
    Thursday
    September 7
    Morning…

    Brock Houser sat in his car with his eyes on Bill Benedict’s house.
    Benedict was a 46-year-old slip and fall case seeking a payday from the insurance company of the store where he fell. Given that Benedict was an Army vet, a loving father of a 6 year old child with autism, and had a wife who battled breast cancer the year before, he would likely clean up in front of a jury. So the adjuster was looking for anything they could get on the guy.
    Which was why Houser was now working his 19th day tailing the guy, despite never seeing the Benedict do anything remotely incriminating. The man never even left his house, and the most damning evidence Houser had gathered so far was video of Benedict stepping from the front porch to collect his mail one afternoon. Other than that, he was a recluse.
    Houser had exactly dick on the guy, and if he didn’t get something soon, the insurance company would have flushed $600 a day right down the drain, which was fine by Houser. He didn’t care for the adjuster assigned to the case at all. The guy, Victor Reynolds, had a hard-on for Benedict for no good reason, and Houser didn’t want to be part of screwing over a guy who hadn’t done anything wrong. So as Houser wound down his time watching Benedict, he almost found himself hoping not to catch the guy doing anything.
    Most insurance frauds were stupidly easy to catch. People either got busted in the act of doing things a disabled person couldn’t do, or posting pictures and video to their social media websites of themselves doing things they claimed they couldn’t, or got greedy and went out and found a second job.
    Benedict wasn’t doing any of these things. He used his Facebook wall to complain about the pain, depression, and not being able to work. The guy was either the real deal or the most committed faker Houser had ever seen. Houser had a good sense for these kinds of things, and he’d bet his last dollar that the guy was legit.
    The other thing about insurance fraud cases, however, was that you could spin evidence any way you wanted. The adjuster didn’t need airtight evidence on Benedict, just enough to sway a jury to side with the poor embattled insurance company against the evil scammer looking for a payday on the backs of rates that the hardworking people like the ladies and gentlemen of the jury had to pay.
    Houser was bored shitless. He had one eye on his iPad, flinging angry birds at green pigs and passing time, while the other stayed on the house.
    Suddenly, he spotted movement in his rearview mirror.
    Houser had his hand at his shoulder holster and fingers on the butt of his gun in seconds; prepared as always for someone seeking vengeance.
    He watched as the figure slipped between the cars parked along the street behind him. The shadow was wearing black shirt, black jeans, and a black ski mask pulled over his face. He also had black gloves and was carrying a crowbar, headed to the front door of the house next door to Benedict’s.
    Is this fucker actually wearing a ski mask in broad daylight? Doesn’t he even see me sitting here?
    Houser let go of his gun, grabbed his cell with one hand and dialed 9-1-1, then waited for dispatch to answer. With his right hand, he grabbed his video camera, popped out the video he’d been using to surveil Benedict (the client insisted on video tape, not digital) then fumbled through his center console and grabbed another tape. He slid it in, pressed play to make sure he wasn’t taping over anything important, then hit record and raised the camera to catch video of the burglar.
    A dispatch operator picked