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The Ranters [A Private Eye Jim Wolf Story] [MultiFormat]
eBook by Tim Wohlforth
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eBook Category: Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: Private Eye Jim Wolf meets Walter Johnson, one of the world's greatest jazz musicians. "I need you to find thirty people," Walter tells him. His daughter, Charlene, a student at Cal, has disappeared along with 29 other young women, all members of a strange suicide cult, the Ranters. Soon Wolf is tracking down a "levitated" school bus and a demented guru.
eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Fedora: Private Eyes and Tough Guys, 2001
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2005
This eBook is part of the following series:
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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [208 KB], eReader (PDB) [31 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [18 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [17 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [78 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [90 KB], hiebook (KML) [51 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [46 KB], iSilo (PDB) [15 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [19 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [47 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [28 KB]
Words: 5354
Reading time: 15-21 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
 
Walter Johnson towered over my table at Yoshi's Jazz Club, trademark sweat-stained fedora tipped toward the front of his head, kinky hair sticking out the sides.
"Jim Wolf, right?" he asked. "The Private Investigator?" His sad brown eyes and sensitive, almost feminine, lips suggested a beaten rather than a triumphant man. A golden trumpet was tucked under his arm, reflecting the red and blue spotlights from above the stage.
"That's me."
"I need you to find thirty people."
I've been asked to find some weird ones in my day. Comes with working in the San Francisco Bay Area. But thirty people?
"You were great. That was the best 'Salt Peanuts' I've heard since Dizzy died. Now what's this all about?"
He shrugged his shoulders in response to my compliment. Then he collapsed into the chair opposite me. A dark brown shirt and suit accented his sepia complexion. He placed his trumpet on our small table and, for a moment, buried his head in his hands. The strong odor of honest sweat stung my nostrils.
"It's about Charlene, my daughter," he finally responded. "She's one of the missing thirty. She's all I've got since Annette left. Probably all I ever had. Annette and I were never close."
"Annette's your wife?"
"Was. It's my fault. It's hard to live with a musician. Either I was hanging around the house, moping because I had no work or I was on the road. Annette took to drinking. Then she left with this guy. We haven't heard from her in three years."
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