Also by Mark de Castrique
The Buryin’ Barry Series
Dangerous Undertaking
Grave Undertaking
Foolish Undertaking
Final Undertaking
Fatal Undertaking
Risky Undertaking
Secret Undertaking
The Sam Blackman Mysteries
Blackman’s Coffin
The Fitzgerald Ruse
The Sandburg Connection
A Murder in Passing
A Specter of Justice
Hidden Scars
Other Novels
The 13th Target
Double Cross of Time
The Singularity Race
Young Adult Novels
A Conspiracy of Genes
Death on a Southern Breeze
Copyright © 2020 by Mark de Castrique
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by The Book Designers
Cover images © Dave Allen Photography/Shutterstock, aceshot1/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: De Castrique, Mark, author.
Title: Murder in Rat Alley / Mark de Castrique.
Description: Naperville, IL : Poisoned Pen Press, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019021336 (hardcover : acid-free paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.E124 M87 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019021336
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For my new grandson, Sawyer.
May you, too, always have a book close at hand.
slew (definitions 1 and 3):
1(noun): a large number
3(verb): past tense of slay; killed a person or animal in a violent way
—Webster’s Third New International Dictionary
the relatively rapid motion of a computer-controlled telescope as it moves to a new position in the sky
—Caltech Astronomical Glossary
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves.”
—William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Chapter 1
The noonday heat smothered me. It even rose from the sidewalk like the ground underneath was molten lava. I’d taken no more than twenty steps out of our office building when I felt my damp shirt sticking to my back.
I looked at the woman walking beside me. In the ninety-six-degree temperature, my partner and lover, Nakayla Robertson, didn’t sweat; she glistened with a radiance that only made her more beautiful. I, however, probably looked like I’d walked through a car wash.
“Do you think the restaurant has a shower?” I asked.
Nakayla laughed. “Don’t worry, Sam. Look around. You’re in good company.”
The office for our Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency was on the edge of historic Pack Square, the central landmark in the mountain city of Asheville, North Carolina. It wasn’t really square but rather a sizable rectangle stretching for several hundred yards and a magnet for tourists who clustered in small groups that moved slowly and randomly across the open terrain. Everyone I saw exuded the energy of a limp noodle. The largest crowd was concentrated near the far end where water fountains doused a play area designed for children. Splashville, as we Asheville locals called it. Even at a distance, I could see adults casting aside decorum and enjoying a cool soaking in their shorts and T-shirts.
“I heard it’s hotter here than down in Charlotte,” I complained.
“That’s the inversion effect. Warmer air’s trapping colder air beneath it. You climb into the mountains, and the temperature climbs as well. There’s no thermal movement, which is why this smoke’s stuck in the air.”
“Impressive. Are you auditioning for the Weather Channel?”
She grabbed my hand. “No. Explaining things to you is more like Sesame Street.”
The August heat wave shared the news with forest fires plaguing the tinder-dry mountains. The acrid smell of burning wood was strong enough to sting my nostrils, and the smoke’s blue-tinged haze obscured the more distant ridges. Asheville wasn’t in immediate danger from the flames, but elderly residents were advised to stay indoors to avoid respiratory complications. As a popular retirement destination, Asheville attracted seniors who’d become a significant portion of the population.
Nakayla and I were headed for lunch at the CANarchy Collaboratory. The popular brewpub was only a few blocks away and closer than our parked cars. So other than summoning an Uber, we had no choice but to hoof it on foot.
For me, the walk was a little more complicated, because I wore a prosthetic device attached below my left knee. I’d lost the limb in an attack by rocket grenades in Iraq, a physical and emotional injury that landed me in Asheville’s VA hospital. The one saving grace of the ordeal was meeting Nakayla as together we solved the mystery of her sister’s murder.
As a black woman from the mountains and a white man from the middle of the state, Nakayla and I were an unlikely team. Yet I couldn’t imagine my life without her.
“What time is Cory coming?” I asked.
“Shirley’s bringing her about twelve thirty. Cory thinks it’s just the two of them.”
Cory DeMille was the paralegal for the law firm of Hewitt Donaldson, whose offices were next to ours. Today, August 5, was her birthday, and Shirley, the office manager, had planned a surprise lunch. At a quarter to noon, Shirley secretly dispatched the firm’s one lawyer, Hewitt Donaldson himself, to use his blustery skills to hold a table for us. Nakayla and I followed about ten minutes behind. When Cory and Shirley arrived, we’d sing “Happy Birthday” off-key and resume drinking beer.
At the rate I was perspiring, I’d need a couple of pints for fluid replacement.
Reaching the restaurant, we had to step over dogs sprawled across the floor of the outside eating area. Asheville is so doggone dog-friendly, most stores set out bowls of water for canine customers. One of our favorite spots, the Battery Park Book Exchange & Champagne Bar, claimed to have had more problems with humans than dogs. Nakayla and I shared custody of a bluetick coonhound appropriately named Blue. Most days, he came to work with us and often enjoyed hanging out after hours at the book bar while Nakayla and I read and drank wine.
We knew Blue would have been welcome at Cory’s party, but the dog days of August were more than just a saying, so we’d left him in the comfort of the office air-conditioning.
I spotted Hewitt Donaldson as the sole occupant at the head of a long table. He had a pint of Perrin Black Ale in front of him.
I nudged Nakayla. “Looks like Hewitt’s gotten a head start.”
“I’m sure you can quickly catch up.” Nakayla led the way, weaving her slim body through the crowd.
Hewitt stood, gave Nakayla a hug, and shook my hand. “Glad to see you. I was starting to get some hostile looks for holding down such a large table.”
I counted the chairs. Seven. “Who all’s coming? I thought it was just the five of us.”
Hewitt shrugged. “Shirley just said get a table for seven.” He looked at Nakayla as if she might have an explanation.
“Cory’s got other friends,” she said.
“Fine,” Hewitt said. “But you know me. I like to know the witness list in advance.”
I laughed. “It’s a lunch, not a trial.”
Hewitt was Asheville’s premier defense attorney and a personality with no equal in the local legal community. His courtroom successes had made him the bane of the district attorney’s office. Hewitt, now in his late sixties, had come of age in the sixties. His penchant for Hawaiian shirts and sandals, his long, flowing gray hair, and his booming voice made him a recognizable celebrity. The looks he described as hostile were probably nothing more than curious stares at what appeared to be Asheville’s oldest hippie.
He sat back down. “I know Cory has friends. But I don’t want any arguments over who’s paying the bill. Shirley’s the organizer, and I’m the bankroller. So order up some drinks and appetizers.”
We did as he asked. Nakayla went for a pale lager, and I chose the same black ale as Hewitt’s. Chicken wings and nachos had just arrived when Shirley led the blushing birthday girl to the table. Hewitt immediately launched into the birthday song, which was quickly picked up by every diner in the place. A round of applause capped the performance, and Hewitt patted the seat closest to him as the signal for where Cory was to sit.
He slid her a menu. “Now that you’re old enough, order whatever you want to drink.”
“Yeah, right,” Cory said. “We’re celebrating the twelfth anniversary of my twenty-first birthday.”
I hadn’t thought about her age, and I realized, other than Hewitt, the rest of us were no more than a year or two apart. But we were very different in other ways. If one had to select the grown-up in Hewitt’s law firm, the clear choice was Cory. She wore the corporate clothes and looked like she’d be one of the government’s attorneys sitting behind senators at a congressional hearing. Hewitt’s idea of corporate wardrobe was a ratty sport coat, food-stained tie, and his hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Shirley could only be described as some energy force hovering on the edge of our astral plane. Her curly, ink-black hair seemed to swallow light, not reflect it. She wore heavy white makeup and dark eye shadow that made her face look like it was floating in the void of hair. She claimed to experience going on out-of-body travels like the rest of us experience going to the grocery store. She was a wisp of a woman who looked like she could be blown away by a breeze. She was also the smartest one at the table, and even Hewitt was afraid of her.
Ten minutes later, Shirley looked at her watch and then at the two empty chairs. “Well, I think we should go ahead and order.”
Hewitt frowned. “Who else were you expecting?”
Instead of answering, Shirley turned and looked toward the front door. “Oh, good.” She stood and waved her hand, catching the attention of two men just entering.
“The police?” Hewitt stammered. “You invited the police?”
“Thanks, Shirley,” Cory said. “I’m glad they’re here.”
Hewitt and the police were like oil and water, but the two men approaching our table were in a special category. As adversarial as homicide detectives and defense attorneys could be, there was grudging respect across the gulf between them. Lead detective Curt Newland and his partner, Tuck Efird, had been instrumental in working a case in which Cory had been shot and two friends murdered. The team effort had saved my life and mellowed Hewitt’s antagonistic attitude toward law enforcement.
Curt Newland, or Newly as everyone called him, was a veteran detective of the Asheville Police Department. He and I shared a bond in that I’d been a chief warrant officer in the U.S. Army and conducted hundreds of investigations. I knew how tough his job was. I’d also solved the murder of his former partner and was as close to being an honorary police officer as a private investigator could be.
Hewitt forced a smile and stood to welcome them. He raised his glass and toasted the two detectives. “To Asheville’s finest. Join us. My treat.”
“All right,” Tuck Efird said. “How many to-go boxes can I get?”
“As many as you can carry. But you have to leave right now.”
Everyone laughed.
“Nah,” Efird said. “We owe it to Cory to stay and add some class to this group.”
Newly sat beside me. “Sorry we’re late. I was on the phone with Sheriff Hickman in Transylvania County. They’ve come across a body in the cleanup from the forest fire.”
“That’s terrible,” Cory said. “Someone didn’t get out in time?”
“No. It’s skeletal remains that were exposed when an earth mover dug up ground trying to build a firewall.”
“A cold case,” Hewitt said. “But that area’s way out of your jurisdiction.”
“Correct,” Newly said. “But Hickman wants us to go through our missing person files. We could be talking forty years back.”
“Assuming the skeleton’s human,” Efird said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Efird laughed. “I mean it could be some alien from outer space. The body was discovered at PARI. The UFO nutters are going to be coming out of the woodwork.”
A loud crash cut off Efird’s next words. We all turned to Cory. Her glass lay toppled on its side, beer spreading across the table like a tidal flood. Her face had paled as white as raw cotton. Hewitt grabbed her wrist to steady her.
“It’s him,” she whispered. “It has to be him.”
Chapter 2
“Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute,” Newly said. “PARI for short. That’s what it’s known as now.”
Hewitt nodded. “A NASA tracking station back in the day.” He turned to Cory. “We’ll learn what’s going on even if I have to file a petition under the Freedom of Information Act.”
We sat around Hewitt’s circular conference table. Newly and Tuck Efird’s news about the human remains had jolted Cory and brought an abrupt halt to the birthday lunch. Nakayla and Shirley had escorted Cory back to the law offices while Newly, Efird, and I waited for Hewitt to settle the bill.
Efird was upset that he’d somehow upset Cory, and he wanted to know what Hewitt knew. Hewitt had declined to comment at the restaurant, saying he would talk it through with all of us if Cory was up to it.
Now that we were assembled, Hewitt asked Cory, “Do you want me to tell what I know?”
She took a sip of water and licked her lips. “Yes. You pro
bably know more than I do.”
“Well, for one thing, you weren’t born yet.” He swept his gaze around the table. Each of us gave him our undivided attention.
“I’d finished my first year of law school. This was the summer of 1971, and I was clerking at the U.S. District Court here in Asheville. I worked out of the Federal Building at the corner of Patton and Otis. Like now, there were a bunch of federal agencies housed there, including the IRS and the FBI. One of the big events of the summer was an Apollo moon launch. Apollo 15. It was the first to use the lunar roving vehicle that would extend the reach of the astronauts’ physical exploration. The Saturn V rocket lifted on July 26, and the lunar module touched down on July 30 shortly after six in the afternoon. I remember because just about all the federal offices stayed open late to watch the live signals.”
Hewitt paused to take a sip of water and then cleared his throat. “I also noticed an influx of FBI agents coming and going from the Western North Carolina Resident Agency. When I asked about the increased presence, I was told unofficially they were traveling back and forth from the NASA tracking station located deep in Pisgah National Forest.”
“Tracking what?” Efird asked.
“The astronauts. Huge radio telescopes had been constructed in the middle of the forest. It was one of nine such sites spaced around the world. As the earth rotated, NASA would jump from station to station so they’d never lose contact with the crew.”
“Go slow for Tuck,” Newly said. “He thinks the world’s flat.”
The remark drew a smile from Cory and eased the tension in the room.
“Hey, old man,” Efird said. “You should remember this as well as Hewitt.”
“I was five,” Newly said. “But I remember watching it on TV.”
“The tracking stations made that coverage possible,” Hewitt continued. “The moon was showing its half phase, so the Pisgah station was active at night. The lunar landing was the focus, although signals from the orbiting Apollo capsule were coming in as well. During the time the station was the main communication link, everyone at Pisgah was fully engaged in operations. It was after the torch was passed to the next station that the problem surfaced.” He looked at Cory and shook his head sympathetically.
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