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  NO TIME TO RUN

  A Legal Thriller

  Featuring Michael Collins

  J.D. TRAFFORD

  Books By J.D. Trafford

  No Time To Run

  No Time To Die

  No Time To Hide (coming this winter)

  “No Time To Run” Is An Amazon Kindle Top 20 Legal Thriller

  WINNER OF THE NATIONAL LEGAL FICTION WRITING AWARD FOR LAWYERS

  FIVE STARS

  “Michael Collins is hot, and Kermit Guillardo is a riot!”

  FIVE STARS

  “I stumbled onto “No Time to Run.” … It was fast paced, the characters had real depth (I agree with the other review on those points), and I didn’t see the end coming. Simply, I just loved it. Thank you Amazon — yet again you provide me content that comes out of nowhere and surprises the hell out of me.”

  FIVE STARS

  “Fun, well-paced, and with the feel of a style that might include future books at some point, this is a great one to own.”

  Amazon Edition Copyright Notes and License Notes

  Copyright © 2011 by J.D. Trafford

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook cannot be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  A FORWARD FROM THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE NEW EDITION

  This new edition of “No Time To Run” is dedicated to the seventy thousand people who have downloaded this book since it was initially released in the fall of 2011. I appreciate every one of you. It all started late one night as an experiment, and it turned into an Amazon bestseller. Before releasing the sequel to this book, I worked hard on this new edition. Although all of the twists and turns are still there, I wanted to make sure that it was as good as it could possibly be. I cleaned it up, and I think that I made it even better. Thank you for your support. It was the least that I could do, and I hope you enjoy it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Inches away, Kermit Guillardo’s breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, marijuana, and salsa rode heavy on his breath.

  “Rough night?” A small piece of egg dangled from Kermit’s nest of a beard.

  “Can you give me a minute here?” Michael pushed the empty Corona bottles away from his body, closed his eyes, and laid his head back onto the sand. It was a temporary respite from the Caribbean sun and a world-class hangover.

  “Tin bird leaves in just a few ticks of the clock, mi amigo.” Kermit’s head bobbled. His swaying gray dreadlocks mirrored the thoughts kicking around inside. “Next flight won’t be ‘til late, so you better rise and shine, maybe fetch yourself a clean shirt.”

  Michael didn’t respond. His mouth was dry, and a dozen tiny screws were inching their way into the deeper portions of his brain.

  “Andie called again.” Kermit put his hands on his hips. “She’s freaked out, man, very freaked out. Cops, like, won’t talk to her, so she’s just stirring in jail wondering what’s goin’ on an’ all.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “Told her you were flying out first thing. Didn’t tell her you were passed out on the beach, though.”

  “I appreciate that.” Michael sat up.

  “No problemo, mi amigo.” Kermit brushed away the compliment. “I’ve found that ignorance is often the key ingredient of a well-settled mind.” He nodded, agreeing with himself, then his expression turned serious. “You really a lawyer? I know you said you were and all, but … people say a whole lot of things down here.”

  “I was.” Michael touched the small scar on his cheek. “And, I guess I still am.”

  Kermit nodded as his mind worked through the information. Finally, he said, “You don’t look like a lawyer.”

  “Well I clean up pretty good. You’d be surprised.”

  With that, Kermit smiled wide.

  “I bet you do.” He leaned over and offered Michael his hand. Michael took it. “You know Andie’s like a sister to me.” Kermit pulled Michael to his feet.

  “I know.”

  “Tendin’ bar here and taking care of this little resort is the only job I’ve ever managed to keep, not that Andie couldn’t have fired my ass, like, a million times by now …” Kermit’s voice drifted away with the thought, and then circled back. “She didn’t do what they say she did, man. Not my Andie.”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “You gonna straighten it out?”

  Michael started to answer, and then stopped. He had only been a lawyer six years before the incident that caused his premature retirement from the practice of law, but he had been asked that question hundreds of times by clients. Usually the answer was a hedge. He knew not to commit ― the cops won, even when they shouldn’t, and there were some problems that even the best lawyer in the world couldn’t fix ― but, this time was different. It wasn’t a client. It was Andie, a woman who had stopped him just short of the edge. A woman he loved.

  “I’m going to bring her back.” Michael looked Kermit in the eye. His voice was steady, although everything else inside churned. “Whatever it takes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  He had sworn that he would never practice law again. Michael John Collins had quit his job. His Brooks Brothers’ suits and silly striped ties were burned in a glorious back-alley bonfire, and he had given away just about everything else he owned. He had dropped out, and remained dropped out, living in the beautiful mess of shacks and huts, about an hour south of Cancun, that comprised the Sunset Resort & Hostel.

  Listed in The Lonely Planet guidebook under “budget accommodations,” the Sunset promised and delivered: “An eclectic clientele of backpackers, hippies, and retirees that is a little more than a half-mile down the road from the big chains, but a million miles away in every other sense.”

  It was just what Michael had needed. He couldn’t really say whether he had fallen in love with Andie first, and then signed the overpriced lease agreement, or vice versa. But, either way, he had been an easy mark. Hut No. 7 at the Sunset Resort & Hostel had become his home, more than any place else he had ever lived.

  As Michael finished gathering his toiletries and a change of clothes, he picked up the framed picture of his namesake. Growing up, his mother had hung three photographs above the dining room table in their small Boston apartment. The first picture was of Pope John Paul II. Next to it, there was a picture of President John F. Kennedy. And, the third, and most important, was a black and white photograph of the Irish revolutionary, Michael John Collins.

  Michael had been named after him, and, when he was little, he would pretend that the revolutionary leader was his real father. The photograph was taken shortly before the Easter Rebellion against the British in 1916. The revolutionary was young at the time, in his mid-twenties, but the look on his face was hard and determined, with a glint of mischief.

  Michael didn’t believe in politicians. And his belief in religion came and went depending on the day, but the Irish revolutionary was a constant. He had kept the photograph after his mother had died of lung cancer during his senior year of high school. The picture gave him comfort, a thin tether to the past and loose guide for the future.

  He wrapped the photograph in a few shirts and placed it in his bag, ready to do battle once again.

  They were getting close, Michael thought. His two worlds, past and present, were coming together. Andie was somehow caught between. As he closed his knapsack, Michael looked around Hut No. 7 and wondered whether he would ever be back.

  “You coming?” Kermit stuck
his head through the open door. “We gotta shake a leg and head toward the mighty coastal metropolis of Cancun, my man. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tickity-tickity-tock.”

  Michael turned toward Kermit. “I’m coming.”

  He threw his knapsack over his shoulder, and took a last look at his sparse living quarters before walking out the door.

  “You seem a little gray, dude, like a long piece of putty brought to life by a bolt of lightning and a crazy-daisy scientist or two.”

  Kermit reached into his pocket and removed a small plastic bag. As they walked past the Sunset’s communal bathrooms, he held the baggie in front of Michael’s face.

  “Methinks you need a little somethin’ somethin’ to soothe your troubled mind.”

  Michael looked at the bag filled with a cocktail of recreational drugs, and then pushed it away. “You a dealer now?”

  “No, man,” Kermit said. “Dealers sell. I, on the other hand, give.”

  “That’s deep.” Michael walked past the Sunset’s cantina and main office, and then to Kermit’s rusted cherry El Camino. He placed his knapsack in the back, and began to open the passenger side door.

  “Hold on there, young man.” Kermit grabbed hold of Michael’s shirt. “The doctor does not simply dismiss patients without providing some care.” He retrieved two light blue pills from his baggie, and stuffed them into the front pocket of Michael’s rumpled shirt. “Dos magic pills.”

  Michael looked down at his pocket and wondered what the jail sentence was for possession of two Valium without a prescription. Then, he got in and closed the door as Kermit walked around the front to the driver’s side.

  “Senor Collins. Senor Collins.”

  Michael looked and saw two young boys running toward them as the half-car/half-truck roared to life. Their names were Raul and Pace, the star midfielder and the star striker for the school soccer team. Michael was their coach.

  “Senor Collins, wait.”

  “We have to go, mi amigo.” Kermit shifted the El Camino into gear. “Time’s wasting.”

  Michael raised his hand.

  “Hold on a minute.” He rolled down the window, and leaned outside. “Aren’t you two supposed to be in school?”

  The boys stopped short of the passenger side door.

  “Heard you were leaving,” Raul avoided the question.

  “Wanted to say good-bye,” Pace said.

  “I’ll be back.” Michael tried to sound convincing.

  “You are going to help Senorita Larone?”

  “I hope so.” Michael reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be gone, but I need to hire you two for a very important job.”

  The boys looked at each other. The smiles were gone. It was all business.

  “This fellow over here,” Michael nodded toward Kermit, “is going to need a little help running this place. Do you think you two can come over here after school and do what needs to be done?”

  Raul and Pace nodded without hesitation.

  “But you have to go to school and study hard. If I learn that you’ve been skipping again, then that’s it. No second chances. Agreed?”

  They nodded.

  “All right.” Michael handed the boys a small stack of pesos. “Be good.” Michael turned toward Kermit and tapped the dashboard. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Inside the airport, Michael’s nerves had grown worse. What little confidence he had shown Kermit that morning was in retreat as he made his way through one line, down a corridor, and then through another.

  Everything was lit up by the bright, artificial glow of fluorescent bulbs. The light bounced off of the polished floors and tiled walls, giving the airport a disorienting hum. Parents and kids, honeymooners and college trust fund babies hustled from check-in to security, and then to the gate.

  Michael’s low-grade headache turned up a notch. The dozen tiny screws had joined forces. They were now working as one, drilling deeper into his head.

  After getting his ticket and seat assignment, Michael floated along in the stream of passengers until he found a gift shop. He bought a pre-paid calling card, and then looked for a bank of pay phones.

  Michael had what could loosely be described as a plan, but thinking about it turned the screws tighter and forced his stomach into a remarkable gymnastic routine.

  He eventually found a payphone. Michael hesitated at first, and then picked up the receiver.

  Following the instructions on the back of the calling card, Michael took a deep breath, and then punched in a series of numbers. He paused, and then finished dialing. A long time had passed since he had last called, and if asked, he probably couldn’t say the specific numbers out loud, but his fingers remembered.

  “Wabash, Kramer & Moore.”

  The woman who answered was professional with an edge of perkiness. It was a style that was pounded into all of the receptionists at the firm: be nice, not chatty; be quick, but act like you care.

  “Lowell Moore,” Michael said. The screws turned again.

  “One moment.” A new series of pauses and clicks ensued, and then finally another ring and a click.

  “This is Lowell Moore’s office.”

  “Hello,” Michael said. “Is this Patty?” Patty Bernice was Lowell Moore’s longtime legal assistant. She was a short, round woman who was considered by most associates in the firm to be a living saint. She took the blame for mishaps that weren’t her fault, and often placed a blank yellow Post-It note on the side of her computer screen as a warning to all associates and paralegals that Lowell was in one of his “moods.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Michael.” He took a deep breath. “Michael John Collins.”

  Another pause, longer this time. “Michael Collins,” Patty said. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has. Too long to be out of touch,” he lied. “Is Lowell around? I know he’s busy, but I’m calling from an airport in Mexico and it’s pretty important.”

  “I think so,” Patty said. “Let me see if he’s available.”

  There was a click as Michael was put on hold. He hadn’t thought about what he would do if Lowell pushed his call into voicemail. He just assumed that the conversation would happen, but, the longer he was on hold, Michael began to wonder.

  Minutes passed, and then Michael heard his flight number being called over the public address system. Pre-boarding had begun.

  “Come on,” Michael said under his breath. He looked at his watch, and started to fidget, then finally, a familiar voice.

  “Mr. Collins.” Lowell spoke with far too much drama. “A surprise. How are you? Good to hear from you.”

  “Good to talk to you too, sir.” Michael’s voice was higher now, and each word was distinct and clear. It was his bright-young-associate voice, and it shocked Michael how fast it came back to him. “Listen, Lowell, I know you are busy so I’ll get to the point. I have a friend who’s in some trouble up there, and I was wondering if one of the investigators at the firm could check it out.”

  There was silence.

  Michael sensed the wheels turning in Lowell’s head. Lowell Horatio Moore was the only one of the three named partners still working at Wabash, Kramer & Moore. Tommy Wabash died of a heart attack at age forty-seven. In the end, the 5’9” son of Protestant missionaries weighed in at a remarkable 287 pounds. Jonathan Kramer “retired” after a murky and rarely discussed incident involving a female summer associate, his sailboat, enough cocaine to jack up an elephant, and inflatable water toys.

  “An investigator,” Lowell said. “I don’t know.”

  The firm’s on-book investigators, meaning investigators that were officially on the Wabash, Kramer & Moore payroll, were billed out at $275 per hour. The off-book investigators were paid at least four times that much, depending on the information or task assigned to them. The off-book investigators were usually former FBI or cops. They weren’t afraid to conduct business in ethical g
ray areas and that risk was rewarded. Most of the firm’s cases were won or lost based upon what they found.

  Michael knew his request would divert one of those precious billing machines from the paying clients with nothing in return, so he had to give Lowell something.

  “I’m thinking about coming back.” Michael said it with such earnestness that he almost convinced himself. “I’m not sure, but I thought maybe I could get set-up in the visiting attorney’s office, do any extra work that you might have, and then handle this case for my friend, kind of a pro bono deal to get me back into the swing of things.”

  Lowell was silent again, thinking through Michael’s offer.

  The turnover at the 1,500-attorney law firm of Wabash, Kramer & Moore was incredibly high. It bled senior-level associates. Either they burned out and became high school teachers or went someplace else with a vague hope of having a life and seeing the spouse and kids, assuming the spouse and kids hadn’t already left them.

  “Sure you’re up for that?” It was Lowell’s attempt to sound concerned about Michael’s welfare, but he couldn’t disguise the excitement. His young protégé might be back.

  “It’s been over two years,” Michael said. “I think it might be time.”

  Lowell thought for a moment. “Are you here now?”

  “No, I’m at the airport.” Michael looked at the line of passengers winding through a series of ropes, and disappearing through the gate assigned to his flight. “My plane’s about to take off.”

  Lowell asked for Michael’s flight information, and then told Michael that he was going to send a car for him when he arrived. “You can stay in my guesthouse.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lowell continued. Everything was a negotiation. “And what was the name of that friend of yours?”