CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Free Short Story
Previous Reviews
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
Free Short Story
MURDER ON THE EAST CHINA SEA
by
Mark Wm Smith
MURDER IN THE EAST CHINA SEA
Copyright © 2018 Mark Wm Smith
All rights reserved.
Visit the Author’s Website at:
www.markwmsmith.com
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
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Running can save you… or get you killed.
From the first toke to the final joke, Abelard Rahn finds trouble that has him running from pain in more ways than one.
Poor choice in friends launches Abelard toward a crash landing into the Scioto River. Ride along as Officer Jones and Prison guard Riley Plinters hunt Abelard through the streets of Columbus, pushing him closer and closer toward a frigid finale.
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Sneak Preview: Opening chapters of Murder of the Prodigal Father. Peak inside Connor’s search to find his estranged father’s murderer. Can he uncover the truth before he’s arrested or killed?
Reviews for
Murder of the Prodigal Father
"An intriguing mystery which left me guessing until the end." - Jill B.
"The twists and turns kept exploding in this tale of deceit and intrigue... Everyone appears to have a motive... Surprise ending was worth the read!" - Luna T.
"Slow start but not for long. I was then pulled into this mystery with an edge of my seat action story. I enjoyed the entire story and the story kept me guessing until the end." - Patricia E.
"Exciting, sexy and suspenseful. A full throttle thrill ride that will keep you on the edge of your seat right up until the end! This should be on your MUST Read List!" - Tam W.
“Have to confess, the first few pages did not grab my interest. I did continue and quickly got engrossed. Have less than an hour [per kindle] left in this book... very hard for me to put down but duty calls. Have no idea how it will end. Stay tuned for an update.” - JAD
“I loved this book. Not everyone turns out like their Father.This had twists and turns but was still an easy read.This was the first book I have read by this Author and I will be reading more that's for sure.” - Adele
“Connor Pierce leaves his family to deal with his father's death. When he looks into his father's death, he believes it was murder. Now he has to ask his friends that he left behind for their help. But in doing so, he puts himself in harms way to be possibly murdered. This is a very good story of a man that has to decide many things about his family. Things that are taboo.” - Bev
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to everyone who reads it. Plus, about five or six who won’t. Some of whom are dead.
And, of course, to Janice. Without her input, it would be less of a book.
CHAPTER ONE
TRYING TO HELP Eugene Garboski get comfortable around women turned out to be murder. And I was the most likely victim if my wife caught a whiff of the perfume my half-naked seat mate was rubbing all over me. Every time the front door opened my body snapped eyes right to see who’d spotted me.
“Damn, Connor Pierce! You’re like catnip for strippers,” Garboski yelled over the raucous dance pulse. Bulging eyes glistening with anticipation, he had stuffed his large frame inside an individualized booth along the strip club wall. Shallow breaths and strobe lights gave him the look of a twelve-year-old with his first Playboy.
Cigarette smoke from behind wrapped my shoulders, encircling the Filipino dancer’s neck. Her lithe and nearly naked body felt as smooth as the finest suede.
“Invite one over.” I nodded toward a pair of silken-haired bar girls serving the military crowd overpriced beer.
G cocked his head in a pseudo laugh, turning to gawk at the exhibition on stage.
The woman in my lap pressed her hot cheek against mine.
I groaned. Her sexual hunger tugged with tortuous insistence against the sex I was missing at home.
Slender fingers traced the outline of that desire in my khakis.
I caught her smooth, perfect wrist, pressing my mouth against its curve. The narcotic scent of jasmine raced to my brain stem. Impulse pushed my forehead into her fingertips.
Well-trained digits tantalized my hairline. Almond eyes lured me into the pulsing blast of neon.
Someone opened the door, muting Foreigner’s crushing backbeat. A patron glared with one eye at the intrusion. The runway dancer, equally luscious and petite, slipped her bra free revealing athletic breasts.
Electric bubbles churned in my groin. I closed my eyes. An unbidden image of Nansi’s angry face popped them open, shoving me backward an inch.
The girl’s expression broadened with uncertainty, exposing youthful angst. She leaned in to kiss.
I turned. My lips grazed her ear, silky black hair painting lust across my cheekbone. “Go see my friend.” I eased her from my lap.
Fire ignited her irises.
I smiled as I raised a forearm to block those perfectly manicured nails.
“G I gaijin,” she snapped, mimicking the language of the locals. She winked before gliding toward Garboski’s slumped form. He came alive and slipped his giant arm around her.
I slapped his raised palm. Regret stung. A long pull on my five-dollar beer cooled it. Clouds of smoke amplified the stripper doing cartwheels on the inadequate runway.
Shimmying flips in a hot pink g-string accentuated hard sinews. Maybe dancing for soldiers, like war in the desert, cured skin into leather.
Whatever. It didn’t hinder her fluidly executed cartwheel. She ended split legs, scoring a round of applause from the mix of Air Force, Army, Navy and Marine enlisted. Sergeant Falkney always said, only two places you’d find them together and peaceful—strip bars and battlefields.
I chuckled.
She spun, a human gyroscope, lifting herself into a naked handstand, silken hair cascading over her angelic face.
The men roared. Dollars showered her. Twirling onto her feet, she scooped bills under petite breasts with the dignity of a Wall Street Banker as she trotted offstage.
The vulnerable moment stirred a minor chord in me.
Foreigner ended and ACDC thrashed out a highway for the next girl. The front door opened. A Security Police poked his Air Force blue beret inside.
I tucked my chin, reaching for Garboski.
My friend was gone. So was our girl. Slipped away while I was ogling the stage.
A glance suggested the SP chose t
o keep the peace by remaining out of sight. A handful of patrons were certainly AWOL from a barracks’ lockdown. My legs primed to find G, likely with his pants around his ankles, and drag him home screaming at my paranoia.
Someone grabbed my shoulder. My heart hit my rib cage. I jacked my elbow over the booth.
“Whoa, Cowboy!” A grinning kid with a Marine high-and-tight caught the projectile before it cracked his nose.
“Sorry, dude.” I relaxed and lifted my beer. “Too many longnecks.”
He scooted forward, unable to hear over thumping bass and screaming guitars. “You catch that MP?”
It took me two bars of lead guitar to make the connection. The kid was a Marine. Theirs were Military Policemen not Security Policemen. “Ah. The SP.” I nodded. “Blue beret.”
“Copping a peek?” He flashed perfect white teeth at his joke, completely ignoring my observation.
I snorted. “Hard to tell since that school girl.”
High-and-tight nodded, dropping his jaw. “Yeah.” His eyes darkened to a spooky gray. “Three American’s wasn’t it?”
“GI’s.”
“Only fourteen fucking years old.” He slammed his throat full of beer. His large Adam’s apple pumped it down in one rotation. “Bastards.”
I glanced at the entrance. “Weird seeing a cop out here.”
“That’s what brought me,” the youngster said.
I scowled.
The kid curled his lip. “What the hell, dude? I’m no narc.”
I blinked and shook the smoky burn out of my eyes. “No, no, man. Sorry. A little nervous is all.” Deciding on a half truth, I flashed my wedding band. “Feels strange being in a strip bar.” My thumb poked at Garboski. “Buddy needed a wingman.”
He smirked. “Yeah. Well I wouldn’t cheat on my girl.”
Shame wrapped me up like a feather boa. “I’m sure you’re a stand-up guy.” Anger puffed my chest. “I'm here for the cheap beers and colorful music.”
Devil Dog inflated his shoulders. Gripping the bottle up high, he took a pull. When the glass bottom settled on the table, his endearing smile had returned. “No trouble, Cowboy. Just saying.” He leaned close. “My girl back home, someone raped her. Couldn’t take a man after. I joined the Corps to keep from losing my poop.”
“Awe, shit.” Embarrassment crawled over my skull.
“Don’t wilt, bud. Not your story.”
“Sorry to hear it though. Damn disgrace.”
High-and-tight hoisted his beer. “Might be too many gets me running my mouth.”
We clinked bottles. Confessing my fear of Sharon’s lawman husband crept toward my lips.
A victorious whoop at my ear blasted it into hiding.
Arching backwards, I twisted to belt the offensive idiot.
Garboski’s huge face grinned at me. “She was awesome.” He sighed a full breath and sank into his booth with the deflation of a balloon.
“Jackass,” I shouted. The Marine was standing when I turned to apologize.
“Head,” his lips told me before he scuttled toward the back.
A glance at my watch shocked me sober. I spun to grab Garboski.
“What the fuck!” G shouted before I could latch on. His hands fondled his chest through his torn open shirt front.
“Dude? She turn you into a public sex freak?”
“She stole my sister’s medallion!” he shrieked, eyes as wide as Quentin’s after he’d peed his pants on a school field trip.
“That engraved piece?”
He nodded robotically.
“You just left it in your room, you knucklehead.”
“The little wench led me back there by its chain.”
“How the hell could she get the damn thing over your thick head?”
“Fuck you, C-man. You never have to work a lick for a chick.”
“Shit.” The rear of the club was muddied by a cloud of cigarette smoke. My head told me to run. My heart poured lead into my boots. Resignation leaked out with a sigh. “All right, buddy. Move your ass. Let’s go get it.”
Garboski had his feet under him when my Marine friend pressed himself into our mission. “What’s up?”
“Dancer stole his necklace. Gift from his sister,” I said. “We’re going back.” I nodded the way he’d come. “Join the party?”
“Sure.” His grin declared a battle cry.
“Let’s—”
A scream reverberated above the clamor. Shouts in Japanese and Tagalog silenced it. The music stopped. An American voice yelled, “Somebody killed a dancer!”
My hackles leaped to attention. Grabbing my partner by his shirt buttons, I dragged him toward the door. “Sorry, bud,” I hollered at the confused Marine. “Gotta run.”
Garboski tugged against me.
I yanked his monster frame close. “G! We have to get the hell out. Nansi finds out I was in a titty bar, she’ll have my balls.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE KIDS AND I were up before Nansi finished her shower.
While sipping iced coffee from a narrow can, I stood on our porch catching glimpses of blizzard blue sky kissing Air Force blue ocean. A thick banyan tree in our yard impeded the view. Two-year-old Penelope tickled her brother in its shadow. I tried letting the innocence of their play penetrate my cynical shell. They scampered over the exposed roots and around the four foot trunk. Their squeals splashed over the Highway 58 traffic dividing military housing from local businesses outside Kadena’s security gate.
“Daddy help,” Quentin cried. “She’s ‘tentless.”
Flashes of last night’s cop poking his dark blue beret into the strip club hijacked their joy. The morning paper drooped in my fingertips, its headline story haunting us. Words exploded like popcorn hiding within the giggles and wiggles of children’s play.
Gate Two Street Murder… Dancer killed… Security Policeman patrolling… taking names… Air Force Office of Special Investigations.
Pop, pop. The phrases filled my head with fear. I glanced at the picture of the club called "Rover's." The backsides of six law officers occupied the foreground. It appeared flat and surreal in the photograph. Sharon’s mysterious husband was OSI. An investigator. Now every lawman matched the image she’d tipped facedown in her bedroom. I studied the story again.
After the shouting died down, an SP from Kadena Air Base took control of the site where the dancer was laying dead in a pool of her still warm blood. The SP called in law enforcement from the local Prefecture to help process the scene of the crime. They interviewed everyone present, taking the names of the dancers, employees, the other men and women that remained. Several witnesses said patrons disappeared after they heard a scream and the barroom music stopped. An OSI officer claimed his office was in charge of finding those who left before they were able to secure the premises. The Okinawan Crime Scene Unit collected evidence which an unnamed source says included an engraved necklace on a broken chain.
My heart seized. I read on to keep it beating.
The coroner processed the body before the area was closed. They released the building to the owner. They hope to release the girl’s name later this week. Military and Security Police presence had already increased in the off-base establishments frequented by military personnel after the recent rape of an Okinawan school girl by three GIs.
The sky rumbled. Blue darkened toward gun-metal grey.
If Nansi had held her purse strings. Blaming my wife’s gambling clinked like a Japanese coin against the bottom of my empty skull.
“Guys!” I crumpled the newspaper. “Inside.”
“But we’re playing soldiers, Daddy.”
“Inside, boy,” I commanded. My scowl reminded me of Dad's. Shame rippled across my neck. Pounding the can of coffee onto the porch’s screen ledge scattered the feeling. I pushed outside and tossed Penelope over my shoulder.
Her shriek of delight brightened my mood.
“Rain, boy. Momma don’t like wet rascals smudging her furniture.” I
hoisted Quentin by his belt.
“Airplane me, Daddy!” He poked his arms out and blew a raspberry propeller.
We flew to the porch.
“Disembark, pilot.” I tilted him into a landing.
He jerked the door open, then darted inside. “Take cover!”
I let Penelope drop like a Pararescue jumper, stopping her short of terra firma. “Bloop.”
“Daddy!” she shrieked.
A kiss to her forehead sent her rocketing after Quentin.
The first gush of spring rain pummeled my hair and flooded my shirt.
I paused beneath the covered porch. My nostrils filled with recollections of swimming in the lagoon that served as our city pool as my father watched. The memory felt like paternal supervision. But my dad didn't protect us from storms. Imagining him alone in an empty apartment with a whiskey bottle tucked in his arm wracked my shoulders.
CHAPTER THREE
I PICKED UP the phone before it finished the first ring.
“Connor?” A throaty murmur. Female.
I turned to the wall. “Why are you calling?” my own harsh whisper ricocheted back. I cringed.
“I overheard Logan,” she continued. “They found a necklace. He mentioned your name. Watch your back.”
The click of her terminated call nearly floored me. Sharon phoning my house. In the morning. Dangerous sign. Worse, her investigator husband mentioning Garboski’s necklace.
“Damn it!” I said too loud.
“Damn it, Daddy,” Penelope echoed from the living room floor.
I scowled as gently as possible. “Nice language, little girl.”
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