Two to Worry About E-Book

B.R. Stateham

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

She's a successful career woman. Single, strong-willed and beautiful. She’s made her career in the newspaper game the hard way, and she’ll keep digging until the full story is told.

But she’s also human. And like most humans, she keeps secrets - close, personal secrets she does not wish to share with anyone. But now, the secret is out. Her past has come back to haunt her. From out of the grave, a person she once loved has returned, determined to exact his revenge on her.

She cannot fight this menace alone, so she turns to the two people she knows who can help her find the truth. Her lover, Detective-Sergeant Turner Hahn and his partner, Detective-Sergeant Frank Morales.

Homicide detectives in the South Side Precinct, the two experienced, old-school cops will latch onto a case and never let go until every trail, every clue and every suspect has been investigated. But ultimately, can they find the person responsible and put him behind bars?

Leseprobe

TWO TO WORRY ABOUT

TURNER HAHN AND FRANK MORALES CRIME MYSTERIES

BOOK FOUR

B. R. STATEHAM

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

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 B.R. Stateham

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

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.

I’d like to dedicate this book to the author who first pulled me into this fascinating world of hobbling around in the dark trying to solve a grim murder or two. Thank you, Dashiell Hammett. As a kid of twelve, I stumbled onto your books and fell immediately in love with the genre. Sixty-one years later, that love grows even stronger.

CHAPTERONE

He stepped into the bright light of the early afternoon sun and slipped on a pair of expensive aviator shades. Turning his head to look to his right, he scanned the immediate area. And then turned to do the same to the left. It was standard procedure. First to his right. And then to his left. A quiet moment of careful observation before acting. A trait he learned from long experience after deliberately, or not so deliberately, walking into a puddle of serious trouble in his line of work. In front of him the four lanes of Van Pelt Drive were the dull roar of its usual heavy traffic at this time of the day. Trucks, buses, cabs. Everything, includinga traffic cop, could be found on the Van Pelt at a quarter past four on a Tuesday, all going about fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit.

A typical day.

On either side of the door leading into the small hole-in-the-wall taco shop, the mini mall contained a large liquor store on his right and a loan company to his left. At the corner of the block, to his right, was a gas station. Directly in front of him, his new acquisition. Sitting at the curb was a fully restored ‘67 Olds 442 convertible, fire engine red with freshly installed white vinyl interior. In the passenger side bucket seat was his carrot-topped genetic monster for a partner. The big nightmare was sitting with one elbow resting on the door while his massive paw of a hand gripped the upper edge of the Olds' windshield, Fingers drumming idly in the process.

He couldn't help it. The grin exploded across his features before he could catch it. A big smirk of a boyish grin flashed across his thin lips as he looked at the ugly kisser of his friend and partner.

Frank Morales was, and there was no polite way to say this, just friggin' big. Even sitting in the bucket seat of the Olds didn't help him look any smaller than a parked Russian tank sitting atop a squashed industrial boiler. Frank was, like him, a nudge over six feet four. But unlike his relatively modest 258 pounds sitting on a relatively firm athletic skeleton, Frank weighed, easily, a good fifty pounds heavier. With no neck. But with long, stringy carrot-colored red hair pulled back past his ears and balled up into a man bun. To match this hirsute splendor, the giant had a thick bush of red hair for a mustache underneath his nose and a thin, scraggly-looking shadow of a beard covering his cheeks and chin.

To be honest, Frank’s newly acquired mustache and beard, plus the man bun, gave Turner images of some long-lost Viking freshly thawed out of a block of Arctic ice and somehow resuscitated.

The smirk of amusement on his lips widened perceptibly as he visualized the Viking image to himself. Apropos to say the least.

But Frank had other qualities as well. Like the man’s arms. The giant had arms on him as thick as the cement trusses holding up an interstate highway bridge. Hands as big as snow shovels. The big lug had that kind of face which was unforgettable. Hard to explain. But completely unforgettable once burned into someone's memory.

The man’s head swiveled somehow on those massive shoulders as he gave his thinner, and definitely more photogenic partner a frown just as Turner handed him the bag of tacos. Walking around the front of the car, the better-looking of the two detectives slid in behind the wheel, closed the door, and leaned forward to start the engine.

"Did you get anything for yourself?"

"There’s twelve tacos in the bag. Twelve. Save me two. That's all I ask. Just two."

The corners of Frank's mouth twitched, his odd little way of silent laughter, as he nodded and reached inside the bag for a taco. Turner glanced over his left shoulder, eyed the flow of traffic passing by until a gap miraculously appeared, and then rolled the big but elegant-looking Muscle Car out into the traffic lane and accelerated rapidly. The top was down. The heat of the sun felt good. The afternoon daylight was still bright and clear. And they were headed for the first squawk of the day.

The city's South Side Precinct of the Metropolitan Police Department was the largest of the six precincts. The precinct was five miles wide and eight miles deep. Forty square miles. Figuring, on the average, seventeen blocks per city mile, it didn't take long to figure out the precinct was big. For those forty square miles the precinct had, on each shift, eight pairs of patrol officers working in tandem and six detectives. A total of twenty-two men to cover forty square miles of territory.

Or to look at it another way. The city's population averaged 5,200 people per square mile. The South Side precinct was an area of forty square miles. Two hundred thousand, eight hundred people lived in the South Side. With only twenty-two officers, per shift keeping the chaos from boiling over into a certified disaster.

The city’s population was a little over eight hundred thousand strong. Eight hundred thousand basically honest people just trying to live day to day and make a living for themselves. But in that eight hundred thousand decent people there were, like Italian wiseguys like to say, you’re typical Gagootz to deal with. The crazies. The homicidal freaks. The thieves. The usual clientele Frank and I worked to collar on a nightly basis.

In the metropolitan area of the city were four other smaller cities with their respective police departments. All told, the urban area of the city and its surroundings contained a population of roughly 5.5 million people. Not as big as New York or LA. Certainly, nothing like a Tokyo or Mexico City. But big enough. With its own particular set of troubles.

Like today.

By 6:30 in the evening, just two and a half hours after the shift started, the patrolmen were tied up doing other things. So when the call came in there was a cowboy, an honest to god, genuine cowboy, lying dead in the middle of the intersection of Roach and Pine Streets, the desk sergeant routed the call to Turner and Frank.

Of course the two had to investigate. Who wouldn't want to go out and stare at a dead cowboy lying face down in the street.

CHAPTERTWO

They established the body was in the middle of the intersection as advertised. A quiet residential intersection where two streets met, with each street filled with tree-lined old homes setting in the middle of decent sized yards of green grass. The homes were old but well kept. Harking back to a past when this part of the city’s residents were the mavens of society. But time changes all things. People move out. People move in. A different generation lives here now. Today, this part of town were just great, old, family homes filled with children, dogs, and an assortment of mortgages a blue-collar family of four could just about afford. Around the body was a small assembly of residents, staring at it and/or talking among themselves in quiet whispers. The crowd parted when Turner and Frank flashed their detective badges toward them.

For a second or two they stared down at the body in silence. A dead cowboy. Fitted out in blue jeans, a Western-styled long-sleeved shirt, wearing cowboy boots obviously caked with dark, foul smelling manure. Covering the man's thighs were a pair of heavy, leather chaps. Lying beside him on the pavement was a battered-looking dirty Stetson cowboy hat. Stuffed in the man's belt was a pair of old leather gloves. Working gloves that had absorbed quite a large amount of hard work on a ranch or farm.

The cause of death wasn't hard to figure out. In the middle of the man's blood-soaked back was a hole about the size of a man's fist. A big bore handgun or rifle had taken the man down with one shot. Depending on how you looked at it, it was either a very good way to die or a very bad one. Messy as hell. But fast. There would have been no lingering. No suffering. Punch a hole that large through a man's chest and death was instant.

"Anyone recognize this man?" Turner asked, turning slowly around to look at the crowd as Frank bent down and began to look more closely at the body.

Everyone kept silent. A few shook their heads silently. All looked pale and in shock. A couple of the young mothers held their small children close to them. A few of the men looked grim and angry. Obviously, veterans who had witnessed death before. Used to it already. But angry that something like this would desecrate their neighborhood and terrify those around them whom they loved.

"Anybody hear the shot or see who killed him?"

"That's the funny thing, officer," one of the older men, dressed in a business suit with his tie pulled down and his collar open, said, looking up to stare into Turner's face. Perhaps in his early forties. Freshly shaven. A businessman, more like a salesman, going to work at 6:30 in the evening. "No one heard a thing. No gunshots were fired. No one racing away at high speeds. Nothing. A couple of us thought we saw a pickup turn the corner and disappear down Roach. But that's it. I came out of my house and was about to get into my car when I saw the body."

"Anybody get a license plate number or the color of the pickup?"

"Black," a young boy piped up, his head peeping around the back of his mother. "It was black. With a smashed up tailgate. Smashed up like someone had driven into it with something."

Turner looked at the boy. About ten or twelve years old. Big blue eyes and shaggy blond hair. A spitting image of his silent mother standing in front of him. She was dressed in slacks and wore a bright yellow blouse. Perhaps forty or a little more. Pretty, but not much else. She was eyeing her boy silently, but not making any effort to hush him up. She looked terrified. But resilient. Which wasn't unusual. He was never surprised about how many good people who had witnessed such horrors wanted to help the police do their job.

"Ladies and gentlemen, go home. We'll take it from here. Sometime tonight or tomorrow I and my partner, or some other officer, will come by and take your statements. And don't worry about something like this happening again. It won't. It appears fairly clear this man was murdered somewhere else and his body dumped here. Probably a random act. I promise you the department will find those who committed this act, and we'll bring them to justice. Now, please. Go home and let us do our work. Thank you."

Slowly, in ones and twos, the crowd broke up and traipsed back to their respective homes. Turner watched the blond boy and his mother disappear into a big, sprawling home with a wraparound front porch sitting at one corner of the intersection. He and Frank would be talking to them soon enough.

He turned to look down at his partner. Frank fished out the dead man's wallet. It was empty. Empty of anything which might designate a human being once owned it. No driver's license. No money. No Social Security card. No photos. Nothing. A barren piece of leather.

Turner grunted. That he found most curious.

Frank nodded in agreement.

"We got a dead cowboy lying in the street of suburbia. With not an iota of identification on him. No change in his pockets. No car keys. Nothing in his wallet," the red-headed giant began, frowning. "And take a look at this. Look at his fingers."

Turner knelt on the other side of the body and, after pulling on a pair of fresh surgical gloves he pulled out of a coat pocket, reached down and grabbed one of the dead man's wrists. Rigor Mortis was already setting in, but the arm moved. Lowering his head Turner took a close look at the fingertips of the dead man and grunted again in interest.

"No fingerprints," Frank said, nodding. "Thought that'd catch your attention."

"A conundrum," Turner commented casually.

"Indeed, Sherlock," Frank agreed, flickering the corners of his lips. "An enigma of Brobdingnagian proportions."

Turner smiled knowingly and came to his feet.

"Been watching The Big Bang Theory again, haven't you?"

A television show. The most highly rated comedy on TV. Smart people using big words. Somehow making it hilarious. He knew his partner and the big guy's entire family loved the show. He enjoyed it as well.

Frank came to his feet, pulling off the surgical gloves covering his hands.

"So, we get the coroner out here and a few of the uniforms and start canvassing the residents. Can't do a thing until we identify the stiff."

Turner nodded in agreement, pulling off his surgical gloves as he stood up, still looking downward at the body.

"Maybe Joe can look at the man's boots and give us some indication of where he came from. We find a location and we might find somewhere to start."

Joe was Joe Weiser. The best forensics tech in the state. What the guy could do in a laboratory was phenomenal. If anyone had a chance of pulling something off the dead man and giving them something to work on, it would be him.

Frank pulled out his cell phone and thumbed a number. A few words later he thumbed the phone again and returned it back to its pocket.

"One patrol unit is available. Flattery and O'Connor. They'll be here in eight minutes."

Odd.

For both detectives. Standing over the form of a dead man in the middle of a residential intersection and waving gawkers driving by slowly in automobiles to move on while they waited for the uniforms to arrive and help them out. But not so odd after all. Both men would tell you straight away they did stranger things while investigating a homicide. Much stranger.

CHAPTERTHREE

"Okay, tell me what you got."

The three of them stood in the lieutenant’s eight-by-ten office staring at each other. The lieutenant’s desk was littered with case files and stacks of papers. A small fan in one corner was almost strong enough to generate some kind of a wind current. The squad room the lieutenant’s office sat in, bashed against two other offices on either side of his, was devoid of any life now.

"We got a dead body," Turner said succinctly.

Lieutenant Dimitri Yankovich turned and looked at them both, his face as expressionless as any human cadaver could be. Tall, thin, slightly stooped, almost anemic-looking, Yank was known throughout the Metro for looking like a walking dead man. Pale complexioned, yet with vivid dark brown eyes, he was also the supervisor of South Side Precinct's second shift. But everyone knew Yankovich. The man was approaching legendary standing as an arrow-straight shift commander. He could be hard as nails to any recalcitrant fellow officer or criminal. Or he could be as soft as a priest in a confessional booth. It depended on the situation. And his mood at the moment.

"Care to take that just a little bit further? You know, maybe fill in the blanks some."

"I wish we could, Yank. But there's nothing to fill in yet. A call came in we would find a dead cowboy lying in an intersection. That's what we found. A dead cowboy. Right now, we're waiting for Joe down in forensics to give us something to work on. Until then we're just circling in a holding pattern."

"Any witnesses?"

"None," Turner's red-headed partner chipped in, shaking his head. "No one heard gunshots. No one saw the body being dumped in the streets. A couple of 'em thought they saw a black pickup truck slip around a corner about the time the body showed up. But that's about it."

"A dead cowboy," Yank muttered, shaking his head. "This friggin’ city is going to hell in a hand basket. A friggin’ hand basket."

He circled around Turner and Frank, walked around his big desk, and sat down. Yank's glass cubicle for an office was one of three, the middle one, sitting at one end of the second floor reserved for the precinct's detectives’ squad room. Motioning for the two to sit down in the battered-looking office chairs on the other side of his desk, he sighed, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and looked at both men.

Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. And liked what he saw. A perfect match. One tall. Red-haired. Looking like some madman's nightmare for an experiment gone bad. The other tall. Athletic looking. With thick wavy black hair and a wiry smear for a mustache underneath a razor straight nose. The guy had dimples, deep dimples, in each of his cheeks which would make most women become all dreamy-like. Add that boyish permanent sneer on his lips … that half grin of someone just barely within the limits of proper decorum … and women would take their clothes off any time Turner would bat his eyes at them. Without being asked. Not that he knew for sure. But that was the scuttlebutt around the precinct.

By themselves they were damn good cops. Two of the best detectives he had ever met. Together as a team they were unbeatable. Frank, the ugly one, had an IQ that was off the charts. He was also equipped with an eidetic memory that pulled up raw data faster than a computer. Turner, the handsome one, was pretty damn smart himself. But his talents were his gut instincts and his unshakable confidence in himself and his partner. He was also Metro's best shot with either pistol or rifle.

Frank was sheer force and intellect. Honest as the day was long. Impervious, apparently, from pain. Completely devoted.

Turner was the bulldog who, when he accepted a case, wouldn't give up once he latched onto a problem. He friggin’ liked the hard cases. The unsolvable ones. The ones no one else would touch with a fifty-foot pole.

What made the two even more interesting to him was the fact many in the city's department hated them with a deep passion. With Turner catching the brunt of the intense dislike. There were reasons for this festering malice. Turner was rich. No. Not just rich. But rich. An unexpected inheritance a few years back plopped almost thirty million dollars into his bank account. The inheritance gave him not only the money, but a grandfather as well. A grandfather who was, as the rumors went, possibly as rich as a Scrooge McDuck rich. The old man was, in a nutshell, colorful. He had a past that read like an Ian Fleming spy novel. Still was a spy as the story went. Except this time, he was running a super-secret agency no one talked about.

But the thing was this. Once the old man died, Turner would inherit. Everything. God only knew how much the old man was worth.

A rich cop is a hard man to beat. You can't bribe him. You can't scare him with lawsuits. You can't frame him. But a rich and honest cop is even worse. Both were. Honest to the bone. In a city filled with corruption, what the hell could you do with two honest cops?

That's why a large number in the department didn't like the two. Money and honesty. A terrible combination for anyone who honestly wanted to be a crook.

But that's why he liked them. Trusted them. Gave them the tough cases.

"Go home," he said, looking at the two. "Go home and get some rest. The two of you deserve it. Can't do anything until forensics comes up with something. Come back tomorrow, and let's see where we stand."

"But …” Frank began, throwing a shrug at Yank worriedly.

"Forget it," Yank growled, waving a hand of dismissal. “I'll get the H & B to cover if another body pops up. Go home and get some sleep. That's an order, dammit. Get outta here."

The H & B.

Detectives Marissa Hamm and Mike Bean.

Oil and water. The Ying and Yang of human contact. If Marissa Hamm said UP, Mike Bean would find three reasons to claim it was DOWN. It was in their genetic makeup to rub each other the wrong way. And they preferred it that way. Actually, enjoyed it. Quietly relished the idea of finding something to one-up on the other. But professionally, as a team, when it came to solving cases, they were very good at their jobs.

The H & B worked the second shift Theft/Larceny desk. Busy, yes. But the work was slow going most of the time. Tedious yes, but not that they were so overworked they could not momentarily cover another desk occasionally when the need popped up. Besides, Turner suspected the two would enjoy working a homicide if a body dropped on them in the next twelve hours. It would be a break in the tedium of their normal workload.

The two nodded silently and left the lieutenant's office in silence. As they lumbered down the rickety stairs leading to the ground floor below, Frank was thinking it would be nice to see the kids and the missus for a few hours uninterrupted. Turner, for his part, was thinking of a cold German pilsner or two before hitting the sack for some sleep. Eight hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep.

At least one of them got their wish.

CHAPTERFOUR

The place was called Abner's Distillery. It was a specialty bar, featuring just about every known brand of beer from around the world. Along with a large selection of wines rarely found anywhere else in the city. It was unique, to say the least. A bar not much wider than a single-width mobile home and almost seventy feet deep. Shoved in between an expensive boutique store on one side and a shoe store on the other in the city's newest mall.

Down the entire length of one wall were small tables that would seat no more than three people per table. On the other side was a large mahogany and brass bar lined with tall barstools. The decor of the place was neon lights and brass. Polished brass everywhere. Behind the bar was the longest one-piece mirror Turner had ever seen. Lining the countertops in front of the mirror were all the brands of booze the bar sold.

It was new. It was clean. It was expensive. The clientele who frequented the establishment were high-end professionals. Doctors, lawyers, business executives. The young and the rich. When Turner stepped through the mahogany and brass double doors he noticed the place had a large crowd tonight. Mostly young. Mostly business execs. Mostly clustered together in tight little groups pushed up against the wall and having a good time.

Spying a table at the far end of the narrow establishment, he glanced at the smiling young girl behind the bar, held up two fingers and mouthed silently Warsteiners and pointed to the empty table in the back. She smiled pleasantly, nodded, and bent down to open up one of the coolers. Pulling a chair out, he sat down just as his cell phone started buzzing inside his sport coat. Setting back in the chair he pulled the phone out and glanced to see who was calling. And smiled.

Debra Patterson. The blonde, spectacled, blue-eyed newspaper reporter, maybe one of the best reporters in the state, and sometimes girlfriend. Maybe fifteen years younger than him. A tomboy who was, when she decided to play the feminine role, a stunningly beautiful woman to drape across an arm to go dancing with at some expensive city function or museum opening. Otherwise, Debra covered the city's crime scene with her gritty writing and excellent instincts. In fact, that's how the two met. Frank and him working a particularly difficult homicide case and Debra inserting herself into the investigation at the most inopportune time.

They were on again/off again lovers. There was no question the two were attracted to the other. Their age difference didn't bother either of them. But their respective occupations did. Turner knew how hard it was to be a police officer and keeping a marriage alive and meaningful, as well as healthy, between the two. He tried it once before, a long time ago. It didn't work. That experience left scars behind. Scars which bothered him even today, so many years later.

For Debra, the idea of becoming a wife, and possibly giving up her reporting career, terrified her. Being a professional woman who was completely independent was what she cherished the most.

Or that's what she told him one night. But, knowing the human heart, and being an old cop who dealt with vagaries of humanity on a daily basis, Turner suspected there was more to Debra's reluctance to commit. The human heart was a mystery few people understood. Secrets multiplied and fumed in deep and dark corners and were rarely exposed to the light of inquiry. Everybody nursed secrets far removed from prying eyes. It was natural. The most human of human experiences. Nobody truly opened up to anyone completely. Not husbands to wives. Not parishioners to priests. Not mothers to daughters. Everyone kept a secret or two locked away in their hearts for one reason or another.

Everyone.

CHAPTERFIVE

Tonight, she was the tomboy when she came walking into the pub. Curly blonde hair falling past her shoulders. Heavy-looking, black-framed glasses sitting on her nose. Wearing dark slacks and comfortable-looking shoes. Draped over one shoulder was her small laptop case. On her startling red lips a wide smile of sunshine warm enough to thaw the Donner party back into life.

Several lawyers and doctors stopped talking and followed her with their eyes as she swept past them. She had the stride of a woman who knew what she wanted … and who knew how to handle the wolves who usually inhabited drinking holes like this. Nobody tried to stop her as she walked up to the waiting Turner, standing now by his table, the bottle of Warsteiner in one hand.

Debra was tall, almost six foot tall, which was another factor which drew Turner toward her. She did not have to stand up on her toes to peck him on his cheek with those red lips. He smiled, handed her the beer in his hand, and pulled a chair out for her to sit down.

"Aren't you working on a case, fella? Something about a dead cowboy?"

His smile widened. Debra knew everything there was to know in her line of work when it came to the Metro Police Department. You couldn't hide anything from her for long.

"Is this going to be a social call, or a business meeting, luv?" he asked, waiting for her to sit down before he returned to his seat.

She grinned boyishly before lifting her bottle of beer up and taking a big swig. Around them the crowd grew a little livelier and no one paid attention to them as each moved their chairs a little closer to the other. The lovely young girl for a waitress came over with two more bottles of beer and deposited them on the table before disappearing. Debra eyed the fresh drinks then looked up at the smirking Turner and chuckled.

"Trying to get the young, innocent damsel in distress liquored up, old man? Are you going to attempt to have your way with me later on this evening?"

"To the first part of your statement, I would never label you a damsel in distress. As to the latter, I admit the thought crossed my mind."

She laughed again. Easily and naturally. But there was something in her eyes which caught his attention. There was a veil covering her usual merriness. She was comfortable around him. Always had been. Always would be. But tonight, she was trying to be loose and relaxed. But she was holding something back. Holding something back yet, in her own way, telling him nonverbally she wanted to talk. Talk seriously. And Abner's was not the place to do it in.

"Hey, you haven't seen my new pad, have you?"

"What? You've moved out of that ratty-looking downtown warehouse and parking garage you call home? When in hell did this happen?"

"Last month," Turner answered, reaching inside his coat pocket, and pulling out his billfold. "But don't worry. I moved out of one warehouse and into another ratty place. Except this time the place has a view. Come on. Grab the beers and I'll show you."

Turner threw a couple of twenties onto the table and, grabbing two bottles of Warsteiner, came to his feet and followed Debra out of the place. In silence they walked through the crowded mall ground floor and out the nearest exit. When they got to Turner's red 442 Olds, Debra stopped and turned to smile up into Turner's face.

"My! Another toy, old man? This is a beaut! How many do you have now?"

"Cars? Oh … eight … ten. I don't know," he said, opening the passenger side door for Debra and waiting for her to climb in. "I find old Muscle Cars and buy 'em. I love tearing them down and rebuilding them. Been doing that for years. I buy 'em. Rebuild 'em. I sell some and I keep some. Gives me something to do in my free time. Keeps me out of trouble."

The 442's engine lit up and he pushed the gearshift up into first and pulled out of the parking stall easily. It was a hot, still night. The city's nightscape was lit in its early evening glory. With the top down, the drive across town was spectacular. Neither said a word as they zipped along the city's streets, heading for the wide, dark waters of the Little Brown River. Twenty minutes later Turner turned down into a narrow street. On both sides of the street were old brick buildings that were built in the ‘20s or ‘30s. Tall, three-storied red-brick edifices that once had been elegant apartment buildings. Now they were business fronts and warehouses. Except one. One three-storied brick and native stone building that sat on the river side of the block and was surrounded by an actual lawn. A strip of green grass on the three sides of the building not facing the river.

She watched Turner as he lifted his hand up, clutching his cell phone, and thumbed a number. Automatically the large garage door in front of them began opening and lights on the other side of the door came on brightly. She looked inside and saw the cars Turner kept for himself neatly parked down the length of the building's far wall. Pulling into an empty stall, he hit the button on the dash to raise the convertible's rag roof. Locking it down tightly, both of them got out together.

"Look. An elevator," he said proudly, pointing to one corner of the ground floor. "Just rebuilt."

Debra raised her head and laughed. The old warehouse he recently lived in, had only an old wooden set of stairs that went up from the ground floor to the upstairs. So old and so oil-stained she wondered if the time were coming, and soon, when they would eventually fold up and collapse on them the next time they went up together. For that matter, the old building that had been Turner's original home had been nothing but a pile of bricks threatening to collapse in on itself.

"Come on, I want to show you something else."

"What is this old place?" she asked, following Turner into the elevator. "It seems like I recognized the building. But I can't place it."

"It used to be a hotel. The River House. Back in the twenties it was supposed to be the place to stay in. Time hasn't been too kind to her. But then I found it and bought it."

The elevator doors opened on the second floor, and she followed him out into a very large room. The room's walls were half gutted and ripped to pieces. On the floor were various power tools, hammers, crowbars, and other equipment a carpenter would use in his trade, along with numerous cans of various chemicals. She glanced at the big man standing beside her and shook her head in amazement.

"You're doing this all by yourself? Remodeling the place? Hell, man. You've got the scratch to hire a whole host of professionals to come in here and get the job done."

"Oh, I have. I have," Turner conceded, grinning sheepishly. "The plumbers have been here for the last two weeks doing their thing. The week before that I had the electricians in rewiring the place. But the carpentry work I'll handle myself. I like that work. So far I have the upstairs main bedroom finished and the kitchen. And one bathroom. The rest is going to take a little time. Come on … this is what I wanted to show you."

He led her by the hand through the large room, the eventual living room, through the equally disassembled dining room, and finally into a large room that had all the makings of an outstanding library. One wall was finished with a fresh set of polished oak shelves, floor to ceiling, filling the entire wall. Stacks of oak planks yet untouched suggested more bookshelves were going up shortly. But the far wall of the room caught her attention. In the dead center of the wall was an elegant set of French doors that opened out onto a large balcony. The balcony sat twenty feet above the shoreline of the Little Brown river. She watched Turner step over and around a few power saws and rolls of wallpaper and open the double doors before turning and motioning her to come over.

They walked out onto the balcony hand in hand. The view was spectacular. The Little Brown was at its widest. River traffic of all sizes and shapes, brightly lit with running lights, filled the double channels of the river. Barges, small freighters, small recreational craft, even a few sailboats littered the surface of the calm river. To the right and on the far side of the river, the city's river front of wharves, small coves, and docks filled the night sky. Farther off in the distance, occupying and climbing up the steep river bluffs, the city itself sprawled out in its brilliant luminescence.

"My god. It’s beautiful, Turner. Just beautiful!"

He nodded silently, a lingering smile on his handsome lips. She watched for a few moments as he stood beside her, looking at the distant river life. A tall man, powerfully built. Yes … he did look like Clarke Gable, the movie star from way back when. But bigger. Stronger. The resemblance was uncanny. There was the dark black hair. The same unruly comma of hair hanging over the right eye. The same smirk on his lips. The dimples. The mischievous eyes.

My god, she thought to herself, he was a handsome man. And rich, for chrissakes! Rich, a gourmet chef almost, handy with tools, and one hell of a carpenter. What a catch Turner Hahn would be for that lucky woman! Hell … why wasn't she thinking of marrying the big lug?! Not that she hadn't thought about it. And often. But not now. Not now.

But Turner had another talent. A talent she desperately needed. She needed him as a friend. She needed his investigative skills. His ability to dig out the truth where it seemed the truth was impossible to find. As if he was reading her mind, he turned and looked straight into her eyes, squeezing her hand gently in the process.

"What's bugging you, kid? Something is. So tell me. Let me help you out."

She hesitated, and in this hesitation, her eyes filled with tears. His response was immediate. Letting go of her hand, he stepped in closer and wrapped her up gently in his arms. One of his big hands came up and swept away the tears streaming down one cheek. She stepped in and laid her head on a big shoulder and quietly sobbed a moment or two. Somehow, miraculously, in his embrace, the tension in her shoulders and stomach began to dissolve. She felt safe. Safe for the first time in two days. And it was a wonderful feeling.

But she had a confession to make, and she didn't know how he would take it. Steeling herself for the task at hand, she pushed herself away from him and looked straight into his eyes.

"Turner … I … I need your help. I have to tell you some things about myself I've haven't mentioned to anyone for a long time. A very long time."

"Help I can provide, Debra. A confession isn't necessary. Whatever you need to confess, I can safely say it doesn't matter. You owe me no explanations and I'm not asking for any. So tell me what's on your mind."

She turned, took a couple of steps toward the balcony railing, and paused. Turning, she faced him and clasped her hands into a big knot in front of her.

"I … I've lied to you in the past, Turner. About us. About us maybe getting together. I know we've both thought about it. Talked about it some. Both of us had reasons not to at the moment. But I haven't been completely honest with you. And before I ask for your help, I need to be completely up front and open with you."

A gentle smile played across his lips. The smile of a patient man. He stood in front of her and remained silent. But his aura told her everything. He would listen to her. Accept whatever was said. Keep her secrets as his own. But it was unnecessary. His affections for her required nothing from her. He was happy with just her presence being with him on this warm night. Nothing more was needed.

"A long time ago I married a man whom I thought I was madly in love with. It was in my sophomore year in college. We met in the Fall, fell head over heels in love, and married in late October. I was so happy, Turner. So happy! He was a journalism major like me. We were going to go off and conquer the world. Graduate and go to LA or New York and start our journalistic careers together.

“But then … oh hell, this is hard to talk about … about two years after we married, he began to act strangely. He would disappear for a day or two on a regular basis. But every time he came home, he was rolling in dough. Money everywhere stuffed in his pockets. More money than I've ever seen. Fresh, brand new ten and twenty dollar bills. Hundreds of them. It was … surreal."

Turner said nothing but waited. Waited patiently. For a few seconds, they stood silently in the night’s warm embrace, eyes playing across the glittering lights of the river traffic and distant city. Finally, in a gentle display of affection, a hand reached out and gripped hers. A big, warm, powerful hand. Yet a gentle hand which, with its touch, filled her with strength.

“He died, Turner. Went missing for a couple of days, got drunk apparently, and drove off the highway and hit a tree. The car exploded in flames. The coroner told me he died instantly. This happened in the middle of our senior year. I thought I was going to cry for the rest of my life.”

“But something happened a couple of days ago. Something that’s given you a severe fright,” Turner said softly, turning to look at her.

“This happened,” she said, reaching inside her small purse and pulling out her smartphone.

Her thumb worked over the face of the phone expertly. In the night, he heard the distinct sound of a phone buzzing on an answering machine. There was a soft click, and then someone, a male’s voice, uttered a single word. A word which, strangely enough, sent chills down his spine.

“Hullo?”

Just hullo. Not hello like an American would say the word. But hullo. Definitely British. Definitely distinct. Unique. A male’s voice with the slight suggestion of a British accent. It wasn’t said as a greeting. It was a question. A question with a note of confusion clearly present.

“That’s him, Turner. That’s my husband’s voice. It’s unmistakable.”

He looked into her wonderful bright eyes and saw the fear clearly being reflected back to him. She was scared. More than scared. She was on the verge of panicking.

“Just one word? Nothing else?”

“There’s two messages,” she said, looking quickly down at her shaking hand as she worked the smartphone again.

The phone recorder clicked. An interesting little buzz in the background. And then the voice. The same voice.

“Hullo … Debra? This is … this is …”

Click.

“Jesus Christ, Turner. I … I got this second message last night after coming home from work, and I just freaked out. I lost it. I haven’t been able to sleep since then.”

Turner watched her for a few moments in silence before grunting, as if making a decision, and grabbing her hand at the same time. Turning, he began moving toward the kitchen, dragging her behind him in the process.

“No food, no sleep for the last twenty-four hours. Bad for you, kid. Bad juju. Run yourself down like that and you begin making dumb mistakes. We gotta fix this, and I got just the ticket for it.”

CHAPTERSIX

The kitchen was stainless steel, red brick, and dark but highly polished old oak. A kitchen built for a man who loved to cook. The hardwood floor of the kitchen was a blond-colored oak parquet glistening warmly underneath the soft yellow glow of indirect lighting. Brand new stainless steel pots and pans, a whole row of them, hung from a rectangular oak rack/light fixture above the built in bar to one side of the kitchen. There was a gigantic stainless steel chef’s oven shoved directly into the middle of a long counter top. On the counter top was just about every device invented by man which dealt with the preparation of food. But what set the kitchen off, what captured one’s attention immediately, was the gigantic double door refrigerator/freezer sitting beside the oven. Huge. Dominating. But not finished in the stainless steel motif of everything else in the kitchen. This monstrosity had a brightly polished black enamel finish to it. Black as the blackest black one could imagine.

“Good god almighty, Turn. You musta spent a fortune putting this kitchen together. I could have paid off my college loans and bought the Golden Gate bridge with the loot you threw down for this kitchen.”

“Yes … well … even I gagged when I saw the final bill. But what the hell. Every boy must play with his toys. Rustling up some grub is one of my weaknesses, I admit. Now, here you go. Six potatoes. Start peeling while I work up the breading.”

“What out of the way, nobody’s-ever-heard-of-this-recipe before are you going to fix tonight? Russian? Chinese? Ethiopian?”

Turner’s lips pulled back into a sarcastic grin as he moved to one side, opened a top cabinet door, and pulled down two brightly polished stainless steel bowls. He then walked to the black fridge, found a half gallon of milk, three eggs, and two bottles of beer before answering.

“I could fix something exotic. But it’d be a toss-up as to whether you’d like it or not. The goal is to feed you something. Give you some strength. Make you feel like your old self again. So tell me, if you didn’t worry about your figure, what is the one thing you’d eat every day if you had the chance?”

Debra lifted her head and laughed. Laughter that came out of her easily and casually. Standing over one of the double kitchen sinks, her hands working on peeling potatoes, she glanced at the big man beside her and giggled again.

“Who says I worry about my figure, you big dummy. You know I can eat like a horse and not gain weight. You’ve commented on that to me often enough. Besides, you know what I like. Especially the way you fix it.”

“Yes I do,” the dark-haired, forever sardonically grinning Turner nodded, pouring two cups of flour into one of the silver bowls. “Country fried steak, mashed ‘taters, and fresh green peas drenched in a specialty sauce only I know how to make. And biscuits. Can’t forget biscuits. I’ll fix it so well you’ll be licking your plate before the night is finished. Maybe put six, eight pounds on that skinny frame of yours.”

She laughed again. And felt an immense weight lift from her soul in the process. This always happened when she was around Turner. There was something about the man, his quiet confidence maybe … or maybe his casual, boyish banter … or maybe just the silent assurance that there was nothing out there so daunting that he couldn’t fix … which made her feel so relaxed and safe when she was near him. Whatever it was, she was already feeling better. And dying for the first bite of the country fried steak.

“So, here’s the deal,” he said, now using a number of different powdered peppers and other ingredients to dash into the bowl of flour in front of him. “I want you to tell me everything about your husband. Everything that comes to mind. His name. His likes. His dislikes. His friends. Everything. Let the newspaper reporter do the talking now. Not the woman who once loved her husband. Can you do that for me?”

She could. And did.

It took most of the night. With long stretches of silence as the two ate ravenously and drank a bottle or two of good German beer each. But eventually she told all. Answered all of Turner’s questions. Shed some tears on his shoulder. And then trotted off to bed while he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen before grabbing a bottle of beer and going out and into the envelope of darkness of the balcony to think.

CHAPTERSEVEN

“Dammit boy, you look like hell.”

He grinned, flopped down into the old squeaky office chair and sat back as he looked at his partner. Frank was almost physically grinning. Almost. The best the big oaf could do was have the corners of his lips twitch a couple of times and put this sour-looking mask on his face only he could read. On the outside, his buddy and partner in homicide looked his normal self. On the inside, Turner knew Frank was laughing his ass off at him.

Turner’s grin widened as he nodded and took a long, deep breath.

“Didn’t get any sleep last night. Debra came over and we had a long talk.”

“Yeah, right. A long talk,” Frank growled, the corners of his lips twitching again. “I bet there was a lot of talking going on underneath the sheets. But not an intelligible word was said.”

Turner shook his head and then told his partner everything she told him the night before. Told him about the supposedly dead husband. How he died. How the dead body was so severely burned it couldn’t be properly identified. Told Frank about the mysterious phone calls. About the sudden oceans of money that would crop up mysteriously. Everything. As he talked, Frank’s facial expressions changed subtly. He became serious. Serious and a little angry. He considered Debra as part of the inner gang. She was Turner’s girlfriend. He knew Turner had deep affection for her. Knew the two made a good pair. A matched pair, if anyone asked him. She brought a kind of balance in Turner’s life. Therefore, she was important to keep her close and protected. To keep his partner protected.

“What’s this guy’s name?” Frank asked.

“Watson. Thomas Watson. An Englishman.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, eyeing the ersatz-looking movie idol and waiting patiently for an answer.

“Thought I might call up the department that investigated the crash and see if they will send me a copy of the report. Might also call in a marker or two from our friends in the FBI. See if they have anything on this Watson either before or after his supposed death.”

Frank grunted, nodding.

“I was thinking the same thing. We’re in agreement. That wasn’t Watson’s body that became a crispy critter in the crash.”

Turner shrugged then cleared his throat.

“She swears that’s his voice on the phone. She firmly believes it. So much she’s afraid to answer her phone, fearing there will be another message. I told her to not go into work today and stay at my place. Asked a friend of ours to keep an eye on her while I’m at work.”

“Who?”

“The Weasel. Willie Brisco.”

Frank nodded. Willie Brisco was the best second-story man and safe cracker in the city. If you wanted something that was difficult to get and didn’t want anyone to know about it, you called Willie. Several times he and Turner picked up Willie and hauled his ass into jail. Twice they came to bat for the ugliest man in the world when he was accused a crime … a murder … he didn’t commit.

Willie was a thief. But there wasn’t a violent bone in the man’s body. Willie owed the two a favor or two. Probably was glad to pay up on his debts. He’d keep an eye on Debra.

“You know, there is one guy you’ve forgotten to mention. A guy who’s got connections all the way to England.”

Turner eyed his partner balefully, took another deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Yes. There was his grandfather. His only living relative. The old spymaster himself. Walked into his life not too long ago and announced he was his grandfather. Startled him enough with this revelation. But then floored Turner when the old man gave him about thirty million dollars for an inheritance. An inheritance his dead grandmother wanted to give him so long ago. But couldn’t.

Grandpa never revealed the Federal agency he worked for. Actually directed, was more the truth. The NSA. The FBI. The NRO. The DEA. A whole can of gummy worms for agencies neatly tucked away in the dark world of the Federal government. Turner suspected it wasn’t so much an entire agency as it was a sub-branch coming out of a much larger agency. Twice the old man mentioned in passing his unit couldn’t legally work within the contiguous borders of the States. For some reason that made Turner think CIA. The CIA was officially restricted to work only in foreign countries. The FBI handled the internal spy-hunting business here in the States.

The old man hunted spies and other denizens of the night who might be considered very dangerous. He had ways to gather Intel which were mind boggling to imagine. Yes, if he called Gramps, he was sure he’d help. And he would. Except … he didn’t want to.

“I doubt I have to call, buddy. Gramps probably knows already. I’m halfway expecting him to either drop in, or give me a call, sometime this afternoon.”

Frank snorted, nodded his head, then reached forward and picked up a thin-looking folder and tossed it onto Turner’s desk before sitting back in his chair. Turner reached out, gathered it up, and opened it.

“Forensics report on our cowboy. Kinda interesting.”

The dead man was between thirty-five and forty. Clean bill of health. But with a number of scars on his torso which suggested he had, at one time, lived a violent life. Violent as in he was someone who had been shot twice and stabbed twice. That made Turner grunt in interest as he continued reading. The man had no teeth. None of his own. He had dentures replacing the teeth which had, by the looks of the X-rays, been removed rather haphazardly. The dentures were European. But odd. There were no identifying marks or lettering on the plates which would allow Forensics to track down their origins. Identifying the dead man through his dental work appeared to be a dead end.

The man had, at one time, gone through some extensive cosmetic surgery. His face had been completely rebuilt. Rebuilt, not because of some traumatic damage, but because someone wanted to create a new image for this man. Turner’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he glanced up and at his partner.

“Yes. That’s interesting,” the red-headed giant nodded, the corners of his lips twitching. “Tell me, who volunteers to go through all that shit, and something nasty hasn’t happened earlier to warrant it.”

It was as if the man was telepathic. Frank knew exactly where he was in his reading. Turner dropped his eyes back onto the forensics report.

The man’s fingerprints had been removed by acid. There was not even one squiggly mark of a print available from any of the fingers. Again … another dead end for identification. The bullet which drilled through the man’s chest cavity was massive. Terminal damage was done to the lungs, liver, kidneys. There was no heart. Apparently, the exiting bullet took the heart with it as it passed through the body and completely severed the man’s spine.

“Jesus, somebody really wanted this guy dead.”

“Somebody who knew how to shoot a freaking cannon, by the looks of it,” nodded the red-headed freak. “But why? And who?”