Broken Alliance E-Book

Chris Hunter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Murders are not common in Mountainview: a sleepy North Carolina town. But when a librarian finds a dead body on her morning walk, assistant district attorney Greg is sent to assist in the police investigation.

The victim turns out to be a prominent lawyer, and soon another victim is found, along with connections to unsavory agreements with the legal department. Clues in the case are few and far between.

Together with homicide detective Brian, the two race against time to find the killer. But as the plot becomes even more tangled and the investigators have to rethink their assumptions, can they solve the case before another life is lost?

Leseprobe

BROKEN ALLIANCE

MOUNTAINSIDE MYSTERIES BOOK 1

CHRIS HUNTER

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Copyright (C) 2022 Chris Hunter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CHAPTERONE

“Court is back in session, be seated and come to order!” The court bailiff didn’t yell, but his voice was loud enough to reach over the murmur in the courtroom. The jurors entered and the judge asked if they had reached a verdict. The spokesman answered: “Yes, Your Honor.” The judge directed him to hand it to the court clerk. The clerk cleared her voice and read aloud without emotion. “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of second-degree murder.”

There was a sudden movement behind the defense table. “No!” The anguished whisper of the older man sitting in the gallery behind the defendant as he stared at the defense attorney, reverberated in the silent courtroom. The attorney, visibly shaken, turned. He was very pale and appeared to be in shock. The young man was dazed. “I didn’t do it, I didn’t” he kept repeating.

“Order in the court!” The voice of the bailiff boomed over the commotion.

“We will need a sentencing date about sixty to ninety days out,” the judge stated to the now-silent courtroom. The prosecutor and defense counsel consulted their calendars. A date for sentencing was set, the defendant was led out by deputies, the judge then retired from the bench and the courtroom began to empty.

“What happened?” Demanded the older man.

“We can’t talk here,” replied the attorney. “I have some matters to discuss with the prosecutor right now. He hasn’t been sentenced yet. This isn’t over. I’ll see you later today or early tomorrow.”

“You assured me it would be OK.”

“It will be. Just give me some time. We’ll meet tomorrow for sure.”

CHAPTERTWO

He had been tired when he entered the bar, but now, after two scotches, his mood turned sour. Things had not gone the way he had planned. In fact, his life had not gone the way he had planned. It was a mess. He had just lost a big case. One he was set to win. He was able to collect a huge fee, triple what would be normal, because he convinced the plaintiff’s dad he could pull it off.

“I have friends in high places,” he had told him. “There’s no way your son will go to prison.” Well, he lost and his guy could get thirty years. The dad was angry, felt betrayed, wanted his money back, but all he had was the final payment. The first two had gone to his partners and were not easily retrievable. If at all. And the dad was not someone Barry Gulden wanted as an enemy. His thoughts ran back to the past.

Amy had been a beautiful woman. Even after eighteen years of marriage, he had to admit she was still attractive. And intelligent, and fun. So what went wrong? He had a great life. True, he wasn’t making enough money to support their lifestyle, but her dad was there to supplement whatever they wanted. He didn’t want his little girl ever to go without. There was lots in that bank account and more to come when daddy was gone. Life was comfortable. So, what went wrong? Why did he need to mess it all up?

He reached for another drink. But he wasn’t done with the memories. He was a logical man and wanted to make sense once and for all of his life. And thinking about the past was less stressful than thinking about his present mess. Suddenly, the answer hit him. Yes, life was good but it had become BORING. Amy had become boring, too, and clingy. He started drinking too much and meeting younger, more fun girls, who didn’t need to be included in every part of his life. For a while it was exciting, but then it all came crashing down. There was a scandal. His father-in-law found out and cut off the money. Then Amy left him.

He had to leave town, where his name was mud. But he was still young and good looking. He considered switching from criminal to real-estate law. Marianne was a successful real-estate broker whom he had met at a conference in Raleigh. She gave a spirited presentation on real estate for lawyers, and he was impressed. Lunch followed, then his move to NC, divorce and remarriage. Real-estate law turned out as boring as his marriage to Amy had been, so he went back to crime. With Marianne’s connections, he built up a decent defense practice. He cut back on the booze and cut out running around. Marianne was attractive and smart. Life was good again, with only two small flies in the ointment. It bugged him a little (not a whole lot) that she was making more money than he did. Also, his practice had become a bit tedious and boring. He was sociable and easy going. He had a ton of “friends” but none really close to whom he could confide his dissatisfaction and complaints. They just wouldn’t understand, and word might get back to Marianne. So he kept his mouth shut. Then he got lucky. He met a man he liked and could trust.

Fred had his own woes. He had served honorably (he said) on the police force for many years. He was a good detective. When the opening for head of homicide came up two years ago, he was the logical choice and expected to get the promotion. To the surprise of everyone in the department, they brought in some guy from Virginia. Barry, a Virginian himself, made no comment. But he listened and empathized. Frank was disgruntled and pissed at the unfairness of the department and life in general. Pretty soon he and Barry were regularly drowning their sorrows at the Black Bear. In time, Fred had an idea that provided them both with additional income. They became partners.

Actually, Fred was supposed to meet him here tonight but did not come or return Barry’s calls. That was strange, not like him. Especially since they had important business to discuss. Barry checked his phone for a message or text. Nothing. He called Fred’s cell but the call went directly to voicemail. Now he was truly pissed. They were supposed to be partners, but when the first big problem arose, Fred had disappeared. Well, fuck him, he wouldn’t get away with dumping it all on Barry. Tomorrow was a new day and, much as he hated conflict, Gulden would confront him.

Time to go home, he thought, but the idea of getting up and moving was unappealing. One more for the road, he decided. Finally, fifteen minutes later, he stumbled out into the night.

CHAPTERTHREE

While Barry Gulden was drowning his sorrows at the Black Bear, another man was making his own plans for the evening. He was different. He always had been. His father had seen it back when he was six. It was the way he played with the bait when they went fishing. They always used live frogs that his father would hook through the back. The big bass that lurked in the pond near their property couldn’t resist them as they writhed under water. At some point, his father noticed that he would play with the frogs on his hook, twisting them this way and that with a fascinated smile and a vacant look in his eyes. This had so much disturbed his dad that he overheard him telling his mom about it late one evening.

“Oh, he is just a child,” she said, “I’m sure you did some weird things when you were a kid.” Mom was like that, always stood up for him.

“Not like that,” his dad replied. “That stuff is more than weird. Eating live bait is weird. Playing with animals like they are voodoo dolls is damn disturbing.” They had left it at that. But it was around that time that his father switched to artificial lures.

He had learned his lesson, though. He didn’t want to be weird or different. From that point on, he learned to act normal. He didn’t mess with animals as a rule but when he did, he made sure that he was alone in the woods that surrounded their home. More importantly, he studied people and learned to emulate their expressions of sympathy and sadness over someone else’s loss.

This learned skill came in handy when he was twenty-three . That was when his parents were killed by a drunk driver while coming home from his father’s retirement party. All those years at the paper mill, working his way up from the yard where he had helped sort logs as a teenager to the position of foreman with a salary and benefits. Now, just when it was time to enjoy the fruits of his labor, his father was dead, along with the wife he had adored since high school. They had been driving home in his dad’s F-150, the truck he hunted out of and drove to work every day. His mother had been sitting in the middle of the seat, teenage-girlfriend style, and a local lowlife with several prior convictions for drug-related activity had plowed into them at high speed. They were both pronounced dead on the scene. Half the county had turned out for the funeral. He acted appropriately and received sympathy from friends and family members, but it was mostly an act. He wasn’t happy that his parents were gone by any means, but any loss that he may have felt had been more than compensated for by the realization that he would inherit the house free and clear. It wasn’t a mansion but it was a solid brick rambler built in the seventies. He would also inherit the bass boat that his father had purchased two weeks prior to his death. Now, twenty years later, the bass boat was long gone but he still lived in the same house. He hadn’t changed a thing about it.

He was more financially successful than his father had ever been. As a respected professional, he made a decent salary. As a dishonest professional, he made several times that salary. He was also careful. He made sure to hide his fortune well. It wasn’t in a local bank. It wasn’t even in the country. He never married and didn’t date much. He endured just enough short-term relationships to appear normal. The fact was that he never understood the benefit or even the concept of “sharing his life” with someone. He didn’t like sharing. Usually, when he felt the urge, he simply drove down to Charlotte and satisfied it with a room at the Hampton Inn and a young call girl. He honestly didn’t understand why more men didn’t stay single and do the same. He had only slipped up one time. He had knocked up a twenty something piece of trailer trash six years ago. She refused to get an abortion but did agree to accept payments of eight hundred a month to keep quiet and raise the kid. She lived two counties away and, other than when he went by once a month with cash, he never saw her or his kid, and he kept those meetings short. Nobody knew about it and she knew better than to cross him. Besides, with the food stamps, the welfare check and his cash payments, she did pretty well for herself. As far as her county social services knew, she was a single mother with no income. She would be crazy to mess that up. With that one annoying exception, his life was simple and trouble-free. He planned on retiring comfortably before he was fifty. He would move far away. Nothing was going to mess that up. Certainly not a slimy defense lawyer.

It was time. He would meet Gulden later that night at the Black Bear. He knew Gulden well. He would be there sitting on a barstool by five-thirty. By seven-thirty he would have consumed several drinks. Maybe not enough to be falling down drunk. That might jeopardize the good-ole-boy DUI pass that a guy like Gulden expected from local law enforcement. But he would be feeling good and his guard would be down. Gulden would be heading home around then. He didn’t actually intend to meet Gulden in the Black Bear. He would wait for him outside. In the shadows.

He strode across the thick seventies-vintage carpet to his father’s old gun safe that resided in the corner of his living room. From it he retrieved a model 1911 Colt 45. It was large, powerful and more than up to the task. Best of all it was untraceable to him. The gun had belonged to his father who had gotten it from his father-in-law who had bought it shortly after WWII at a yard sale. The ATF would have no idea of the sale or any record of the .45 changing hands. Probably no record of it at all as it had likely been taken home by a long-forgotten GI. As final insurance, he had collected all the shell casings every time he practiced shooting the gun behind the house. He would spread a tarp out and stand on it while target shooting or shooting at squirrels. Then he would collect the casings from the tarp, making sure he got each one. He knew that although television shows always depicted bullets being traced to a particular firearm, it was usually not the case. Bullets distort and rifling patterns are often destroyed. Shell casings have unique marks left by both the firing pin that strikes the primer and the ejector that pulls the empty shell case from the chamber. They are never distorted and easier to find, making them favored for forensic analysis. He always got rid of the casings when he travelled to Charlotte. He would ride through the poorest neighborhood at night and fling them from the window at random. He wore latex gloves, of course, whenever he handled them. He figured that if he ever used the gun for its intended purpose and the police ever recovered shell casings from the scene and by chance matched them up with one recovered from Charlotte, it would really throw them off. It was a long shot, but it always made him laugh to think of it.

He loaded seven full-metal-jacket rounds into the gun’s magazine and slid it into the butt of the pistol. It gave an audible click. He wouldn’t need seven rounds but he liked to be prepared for anything. He racked the slide, which cocked the hammer and forced a round into the chamber. He placed the safety on. The gun was now “cocked and locked.” All he had to do was slide the safety lever down and pull the trigger.

He opened the door and saw that there was a slight cold drizzle. It was perfect for his plans. He stepped back in and donned his dark wool trench coat. He dropped the .45 into the side pocket and strode out to his car.

His car was the only thing on which he had spent significant money during his entire adult life. Back in 2008, it had cost him $40,000. That was a large sum but, considering he owned his house outright and had no debt, nobody questioned it. It was a plain black Mustang and, to the average person, that was all it was. But the large wheels, the hood vents and the Cobra logo on the front grill told any car buff that it was a Shelby Mustang GT-500. The vented hood covered a 5.4 liter supercharged V8 with 550 horsepower. It could get to 60 mph in well under five seconds and could cover the quarter mile in 12 seconds and change. There were a few cars that could outrun it but not many. He never really loved anything in his life, but that car was close. He maintained it meticulously. He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The interior smelled like leather and preservative. It was a pleasant smell. He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. He put the wipers on intermittent mode and pulled out of his driveway, took a right and headed towards town. He smiled with pleasure every time he heard the supercharger whine just before he shifted gears.

CHAPTERFOUR

Jenna stepped out into the crisp, bright morning. It was still early, and the sun glistened on the dew. The previous night, there was a heavy rainfall and now everything looked sparkly and fresh. Her German Shepherd puppy, Otto, was pulling eagerly on the lead. He was normally very well behaved, but this morning he was eager to get going. “Settle down,” Jenna told him. He ran up to her and licked her hand. Eventually, they both got into a comfortable pace, with him periodically lurching to the side of the road to explore some creature or scent. He was so curious.

Jenna loved walking with Otto. It got her outdoors, gave her the exercise she craved and she enjoyed his company. A beautiful girl, with long auburn hair and emerald green eyes, Jenna had no trouble getting all the attention and company she wanted from men, but having recently broken up with a two-timing boyfriend, she was not interested. Her eighteen -month old pup Otto was a perfect companion, loyal and true.

They continued along their usual route. The country road from their house led to a path around a small pond. On hot North Carolina afternoons, Otto loved to splash and swim in the pond, but this was a work morning, and Jenna had to get moving. “Maybe later,” she told the pup, as he started pulling toward the pond. Only he wouldn’t stop pulling. A low rumble erupted in his throat and progressed to a loud growl. “Stop it, Otto,” Jenna shouted, tugging on the lead. “I have to get to work. No time for pranks this early in the day.” But she was puzzled. He had never acted like this before. She could not get him to continue the walk. He growled and kept pulling her into the undergrowth lining the road. Jenna took a deep breath and looked. Suddenly she saw what had upset the dog. What looked like a human arm was sticking out of the brush.

“Are you OK?”She cried to the arm. Only Otto’s barking answered her. The arm did not move and kept sticking out at an unnatural angle. She felt her breakfast coming up, and it was all she could do not to throw up. She suspected the owner of the arm must be dead, and she was not going to investigate. She couldn’t anyway, with Otto going crazy. She groped for her cell phone and dialed 911. After giving her name and location she briefly described what she saw.

“You see a person in the bushes? Are they conscious?” Asked the dispatcher.

“I don’t think so. There is an arm pointing up out of the bushes. I can’t get closer because of my dog.”

“Is anyone else there who can check on them?”

“No, it’s just me.”

“OK, stay there. There is an ambulance on the way.”

“I can’t stay, I have to go to work. I don’t know anything other than what I told you.” Jenna didn’t add that she didn’t think the owner of the arm needed an ambulance.

“Stay on the line with me and remain where you are. They are almost there. Is the person moving at all?”

Jenna could already hear sirens in the distance. Good, she thought. Maybe she would still make it to work on time after all. Maybe the guy in the bushes was just drunk or passed out on drugs. Maybe this would be over in a few minutes. Something in the back of her head bothered her, though. She had seen people who had passed out from intoxication. Somehow this was different.

The dog settled down as if he knew he had done his job, and now others were going to take over. She sat on the side of the road, petting him and deriving some comfort from his warmth. She realized she was shaking, and settled down to wait. There was nothing more she could do. The dispatcher asked her question after question, basically to make sure she was still there. In less than a minute a police car arrived. Then another police car and then, right behind them, an ambulance pulled up, turned off its siren but left the lights on. All the activity made Otto tense again and she held him tight on a short leash.

Two young deputies got out of their car and a couple of EMTs hopped out of the ambulance. One deputy and the medical technicians went to the guy in the bushes. The other deputy approached her and stopped a short distance away, eying Otto. He was tall, with blond hair. He smiled. It was a friendly smile that put her at ease but without a whole lot of warmth. A police smile.

“I’m Officer Morris. Are you Jenna?”

“Yes, I called 911. I was hoping to get to work. Do I have to stay around?”

“Probably not. I mean, he’s probably just passed out. Hopefully he didn’t overdose on something. Either way, we shouldn’t need you too much longer.”

As he said this she could see the others backing out of the bushes. The EMTs were walking slowly without a sign of the briskness they had displayed a minute ago. The other deputy was talking to someone on the mini-mike that hung on his shoulder. She heard him mention a code. She thought it was 230. She looked up at Morris.

“230?”

“Yeah. He is deceased all right. I better get your full name, address and phone number. And stay here for a moment until investigations gets here. Just in case.”

She was starting to seriously wish that she had walked Otto somewhere else that morning. This was already getting complicated. And now she was definitely going to be late for work.

“But I don’t know anything else. Can’t they come to my house if they have questions? I just live down the road.”

The other officer came up and pulled Morris aside. He spoke briefly. Morris raised his eyebrows and whistled softly. Then he returned to Jenna. His casual attitude was gone and he seemed slightly tense and a little more business-like.

“Sorry, Jenna. I really am. The investigators shouldn’t be long. You can probably leave fairly soon. They are definitely going to want to speak with you now and probably at some point in the future as well.”

His prediction proved correct. It didn’t take any time before an unmarked gray SUV pulled up and a guy in khaki pants and a polo shirt emerged. Short and a bit stocky, he did not look like a policeman. He looked more like her father on his way to play a round of golf. His dark hair showed some gray and he was clearly older than the officers. He instantly took charge.

“Is this the young lady who found him?” He called out to Morris.

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll be with her in a minute. All right, let’s secure the scene.”

The other officer and a third cop who had arrived in the interim began to encircle the area in yellow police line tape. It read, “crime scene DO NOT CROSS,” in black letters every few feet. Morris moved Jenna back beyond the tape. She started to ask again if they could get her part over with but the guy in charge was gone, easing into the brush. A deputy with a camera followed him. It suddenly seemed that there were cops everywhere. There was even a state trooper, chatting with the EMTs who were still there by the ambulance. She noticed its lights were now off.

Brian Murphy quickly took in the scene. A body lying face-up with a bullet hole in the head. The face was familiar. He was sure he knew the man. Before they touched anything, the deputy with the camera took several photos of the body as it lay. He pointed to a military-model 1911 lying close to the body, and placed a card with the number one on it next to the gun. He then took several pictures of it before Murphy picked the gun up carefully with his latex-gloved hand. He inspected it briefly and handed it to yet another deputy who was designated to collect the evidence. That officer was also wearing latex gloves and carrying a clipboard with a numbered chart on it. He carefully removed the loaded magazine from the gun and racked the slide, expertly ejecting a .45 caliber round into his palm. The gun was now unloaded and safe to store or send to the lab. He removed a small bag from a duffle bag at his feet. In the bag, he placed the round that had been in the chamber. In another bag, he placed the loaded magazine. In a larger paper bag, he placed the gun and the other two bags containing the magazine and the single round. On that bag, he wrote a large “1” with a felt pen.

On the chart, he noted the gun was item 1 and that it was loaded when recovered.

“Any ID?” Murphy asked the cameraman.

“Yes, his wallet is intact. It’s Barry Gulden, local defense attorney. You know him?”

Now things came into focus. Of course he knew Gulden. He was not truly local, moved into the area a few years ago and married a local real-estate broker, had a reputation as a social climber and great defense attorney. Though, when Brian had a case with him a year ago, he hadn’t been impressed. Those thoughts ran through his mind as he examined the scene more closely.

There were no evident footprints, which suggested Gulden must have arrived before the rain. The soaking-wet body confirmed that. Could have been a suicide, he thought. But how did he get here? Brian was pretty sure the Guldens had a big house on the other side of town. Definitely not hiking distance. He could have been dropped off. No point in spinning theories until he had some evidence and leads. He noted Gulden was dressed in a suit and tie, indicating he was coming from work or some social event. All things to check out.

He’d talk to the scared-looking girl who couldn’t wait to go home. Then he’d have to notify the widow and interview her. The autopsy would hopefully provide more clues. It would be a full day. He told the deputy to make sure that they checked Gulden’s hands for gunshot residue. Even though it had rained, there was a chance of locating some on his hands which would get them closer to the suicide possibility. He also told them to find the spent shell casing that should be in the vicinity. If located, it would be photographed and a map drawn to show its location in relation to the body. That would be critical.

Jenna stood wearily as he approached. She’d been sitting there for an hour, and the sun was getting hot. She eyed the detective warily, noticing the tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve. He looked unfriendly and a bit dangerous. She was feeling harassed, didn’t understand what more she could tell him, and wished he would go away.

“Good morning, Miss Harkin. I’m Detective Murphy, and I’d like to ask you some questions.” He smiled and pulled out a badge to show her.