Touching Broken Bones E-Book

Andrew Davie

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: McGill And Gropper Thrillers
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 101

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

McGill and Gropper are back for another adventure! McGill never leaves the diner, drinks coffee, and eats pancakes/bacon, while Gropper is in charge of the heavy lifting. Both men wouldn’t have it any other way.

As they’ve gotten older, times have changed. While Gropper has led a transient life, moving from place to place to protect the people he cares about, he’s longing to settle down. Meanwhile, McGill must handle the interest of a young South Carolina Law Enforcement Division officer, Lorraine Littlefeather, who would rather see him behind bars.

After a big case comes their way, they need to investigate the mysterious deaths of medical workers. And Gropper’s friend Connie, and her daughter Liz, might be next on the list.

Leseprobe

TOUCHING BROKEN BONES

MCGILL AND GROPPER THRILLERS

BOOK FIVE

ANDREW DAVIE

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Touching Broken Bones

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Andrew Davie

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Jaylord Bonnit

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.

For Aunt Sue, Uncle John, and Uncle “Bruckles”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to Uncle Barry for the inspiration, and Heather for the inspiration and the suggested notes.

McGill finished his coffee. As he was returning the cup to the table, Sue was there to refill it. He didn’t necessarily believe in the supernatural, but he assumed she had some kind of sixth sense. They had grown close in the few years since she’d started working there, and unlike the revolving door of staff members who typically had the early morning/late-night shift, and would only stay at the diner for a few months, Sue had remained. He never asked her why. Most of the wait staff were either related to Demetrios or were on the younger side looking to offset tuition.

McGill got the feeling she was there for similar reasons he had been; just that it had been a good fit. Her husband was a professional gambler, “Slick” Vic. Though not a mechanic by any stretch, he’d been able to keep them afloat playing poker. Still, it was probably good to have some more stability. Since it was still early, McGill added cream to his coffee. Recently, he’d read an article suggesting variety was one of the more important elements of a good diet, so rather than have pancakes with bacon, he’d opt for French toast and corned beef hash.

It felt good to try new things.

Sue thanked him and topped him off one more time before she left. When he was alone, he removed the baseball card from his wallet. It was of Paul Molitor when he played for the Brewers, but his name had been crossed out. Instead, it read Cecil Wright. The card was worn and smoothed over. He’d been thinking about Renee less and less these days, but for some reason, this morning she’d been on his mind. He looked up to see Connie standing just off the corner of the table.

“Good morning,” he said. “Join me?”

She forced what looked like a smile.

“Thank you.”

Connie took a seat. She inhaled and exhaled a few times like she had been trying to figure out what to say, and each time didn’t like what she’d come up with. Her clothes and makeup had been applied hastily. Sitting in the chair across from him now, she looked deflated. Sue came over with a menu.

“Just coffee, please,” Connie said.

Sue nodded and returned with a cup and saucer. Sugar and cream were already on the table. She also topped McGill off and left them. Gropper had let him know Connie had a problem she’d wanted to discuss. McGill had only met Connie a few times. The last one was when Gropper had decided to move back in with them. To celebrate, Gropper had brought Connie and her daughter, Liz, to the diner. Gropper had figured he’d be transparent about everything now that he’d be staying with them. Initially kept in the dark for their safety, they eventually learned some information about McGill and Gropper’s enterprise. However, even though they were still oblivious to most things, he had wanted them to meet McGill; while they could never truly understand what the two men did, Gropper had looked at his return to staying with them as a new beginning.

So, on an off Saturday morning, after clearing it with McGill, he had asked Connie and Liz to join them. Liz had been aloof, much different than the little girl who’d often pestered Gropper to play hide and seek with her. She had been on the dance team until an injury left her sidelined. It would be another few weeks until she could compete again, and McGill could tell the frustration had been difficult to cope with. She’d been cordial, though, but kept quiet the entire time, content to eat half of a chocolate chip muffin. McGill could tell she had a definite affinity for Gropper, and though she had been coy about it when the topic came up, she was happy Gropper was going to be living with them again.

Connie had been more vocal than her daughter; she asked a few questions of McGill, but nothing along the lines of asking a military veteran whether they had ever killed anyone. McGill liked her, and he could see why Gropper wanted to be with them. Their operation couldn’t last forever, and it would be nice to have something substantial when they had decided it was time to hang it up. McGill hadn’t thought that far in advance. Since Renee, he had kept mostly to himself, but perhaps it would be time to consider the future as Gropper had.

The Connie who sat before him now was completely different. She took a sip of her coffee. Her hands were trembling. It was barely noticeable, but McGill had caught it. Bags under her eyes suggested she hadn’t been sleeping well. McGill didn’t think it was residual effects of the last year. Gropper had just recently moved back in with them when he’d almost been killed by a cartel assassin. As a result, Gropper moved out and found new accommodations. McGill doubted any of this had caused her current grief. “Mojo” was currently being held in a Supermax penitentiary while he awaited trial or extradition, whichever came first. The man had been a top prize for every agency with an acronym. McGill suspected the man would spend the rest of his life in prison awaiting sentencing.

“Boris Villwock,” she finally said.

* * *

“You need AT LEAST 4 onions for Flanken.”

Even though this was not the first time they’d been through the ingredients to make Flanken, Jerry still spoke with as much enthusiasm as if he were delivering a eulogy. Jerzy “Jerry” Nerumberg spoke while animating his hands, which only served to contribute to his enthusiasm. Currently, he wore a tank-top t-shirt and brown shorts. He had to have been somewhere in his seventies or eighties, but Gropper had never asked the man his age. Gropper didn’t speak that often, but with someone like Jerry, it was difficult to get a word in any way. That was fine by Gropper, who was more than happy to listen to Jerry recount his time working as a postal carrier in Compton, Illinois, which had about 300 residents in total. The son of immigrant parents, he preferred to go by Jerry to sound less ethnic. However, he never shied away from his heritage and often made Flanken. Jerry held up a bottle of the secret ingredient: homemade voodoo sauce he had gotten from a farmer’s market. The stall owner was from somewhere in the Caribbean, and Jerry would buy the stuff by the case.

“2 tablespoons replace all the garlic, herbs, and bullshit,” Jerry said as he measured out two tablespoons’ worth of sauce. Jerry did everything by eye. He wasn’t one to adhere to precision. After all, this wasn’t baking.

“It makes it taste mmmmmmmmm.”

Jerry mimicked a chef’s kiss.

Gropper had been staying with Jerry for almost six months, and though it was substantially different from any of his previous living situations, it was by far the most entertaining. Mr. Hare could certainly keep Gropper riveted with tales of his experiences on the battlefield in Korea, and few things would be relaxing as listening to vinyl with Ms. Bradley, but Jerry was a natural raconteur. He was susceptible to hyperbole, but Gropper didn’t care. In the few months he’d lived there, Jerry had told Gropper about a postal carrier who’d been arrested for selling drugs on her mail route, having to track down a veterinarian since someone had sent a live bird in the post, which arrived on a Saturday, and a manhunt for an escaped criminal in the neighboring town of Earlville. Jerry went on a tangent about how the whole thing played out like a Bruce Springsteen album.

“It could have been called ‘All day in Earlville.’“

Today, Jerry had been telling Gropper about his youth growing up in Queens, New York, being a fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and watching Happy Felton’s Knothole Gang. According to Jerry, Happy Felton had “Jackie Gleason’s body and Phil Silver’s head.”

Gropper had heard of Jackie Gleason, though he wasn’t familiar with what the man looked like. He nodded, though, and let Jerry continue uninterrupted. Happy Felton presided over a show at Ebbet’s field where the Dodgers played. Youngsters would work out with players who would then critique their performances and give them suggestions. Whoever had the highest rating would be able to return the following day to talk with the players. Jerry remembered watching Happy Felton asking about the mechanics of the game with catcher Roy Campanella and pitcher Don Newcombe. Campanella would often provide long and insightful answers, at which point he’d confer with Don Newcombe who would reply, “Me too, Roy.”

Jerry laughed at the memory.

“Have I told you about—”

Gropper’s beeper went off.

“Next time,” Jerry said. “Give McGill my best.”

* * *

The office was cloaked in a haze of cigarette smoke. It lingered in everything and gave the place the appearance of an opium den. The private investigator, Otis Stephens, would always ask if it was alright if he lit up. Boris had already assured the man he didn’t mind, but it was probably a force of habit. The man lit another cigarette, and Boris went back to perusing the contents of a manila folder he currently held in his hands. The office was not what Boris had expected when he contracted the man who smoked behind the desk. Upon reflection, he thought perhaps he was too influenced by the hardboiled characters he’d known from film and television: hard-drinking, classically handsome, tough guys who’d still refer to women as dames. The man who sat chain-smoking was anything but: he had a turkey neck and rhinophyma. However, he’d been effective, and really, wasn’t that what was important?

“Everything’s there… she puts mustard on her french fries,” Stephens said.

He ashed his cigarette.

“I tried it. It’s not bad.”

Boris didn’t register a response, outside of his glancing upward to make eye contact, briefly, to let Stephens know he was listening, then went back to the paper in front of him. Stephens took another drag.

“The rest of the materials are in a box that was delivered this morning to the address you gave me.”

“Thank you.”

Boris’s voice had a hoarse quality to it like he’d been screaming for an hour previously. He drank some water. Boris closed the folder, stood, and handed Stephens a money order.

* * *

Otis took the money order, and for the first time, was able to get a good look at Boris’s face. He’d certainly been through something. The physical scars were obvious, and though he’d clearly tried to erase the emotional scars, Otis could sense them. Otis was also able to get a good look into Boris’s eyes.

As he suspected, they were full of hatred.

Otis wasn’t worried about Boris flying off the handle or making a scene. The man seemed able to abide by the decorum required, plus Otis had a Glock Subcompact in his desk drawer and spent enough time on the range to feel confident. When he was out of the office, he’d make sure to affix the trigger lock, but when he was in the office, it gave him some comfort knowing if he had a client pitch a fit, he could produce it quickly. Though it was rare, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities for a cuckolded husband to lose it after going through some 8 by 10 glossies of his wife and the pool man.