DEATH ON THE NEW MOON (A Troubled Waters Suspense Thriller Book 6)

by Michael Lindley

  Skipper pushed away from the bar, a look of disgust on his face at the woman's arrival. "Need to take a piss!"

  Ella said, "Oh sit down, you old fool."

  Skipper walked away and Ella sat down beside Alex. Gilly placed a bottle of Bud Light on the bar in front of her and gave Alex a wry smile, shaking his head before walking away.

  "Nearly scared us half to death, boy," Ella said. "How you feeling?"

  "I'll be okay."

  "You don't look okay." She took a long pull on the beer. "What's all this nonsense on the TV?"

  "Old news."

  "Yeah, I remember when that all came down. About broke Adrienne's heart when we all heard about the investigation."

  Alex tried to remain calm, thinking about his ex. "Ella, nice to see you," he finally said. "Look, I gotta go." When he stood, he lost his balance, nearly passing out. He fell into the bar and Ella helped him to steady himself.

  "A little early to be this tanked, ain't it?" she said.

  "Taking some strong stuff for this neck," he said slowly, trying to clear his head.

  Ella took a drink from her beer, then said, "I'm gettin' a little worried about your old man."

  "How's that?"

  "I swear some days, he don't even remember his own name."

  Alex nodded, not wanting to comment on his father's condition.

  Skipper came up behind him. "Why don't I get you home. Get some rest."

  Ella said, "I need a word with you, Skipper Frank!"

  The man just grunted and reached in to take Alex around his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you home."

  "Really, Skipper. You get your ass back down here," Ella said with her hands on her hips. "You know we need to talk."

  Alex's father just grunted again and led Alex toward the door. His legs felt wobbly and again, he thought he might pass out. From behind, he heard, "You take care of yourself, Alex."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Reverend Jerome Townsend waited inside the wide wooden doors of his Baptist church on the west side of downtown Charleston. The fifty-eight-year-old senior pastor of the church was dressed in his full Sunday robes, though most of his congregation were not present on this week-day afternoon. He was a towering man, standing six and a half feet tall, with a massive girth pushing his maroon robe out to its full capacity. His head was shaved, and his dark brown skin glistened with drops of perspiration. Three other pastors of nearby churches stood nearby huddled and talking among themselves.

  Townsend held his Bible in his right hand as he looked through a small gap in the doors at the large crowd assembling outside below the steps up to the church. A podium was placed on the top landing and several media microphones had been set-up there. Television trucks from all three local stations were parked out on the street. All would have feeds to the networks back in New York.

  Let them wait, he thought, smiling at the continued attention he was getting, hopefully soon across the country.

  Caine stood in the center of the growing crowd of reporters and onlookers in front of the church. He looked up at the towering spire reaching into the afternoon sun. Praise the Lord, he thought to himself. He looked at his watch and then scanned the crowd for cops and other potential threats. He had dressed in casual business attire to blend in with the assemblage of reporters, congregation members, community leaders and others who had come out from nearby office buildings.

  The doors to the church finally pushed open and he watched as the Reverend Townsend led his small entourage of preachers up to the podium above, about ten steps up from the sidewalk. The other men stood beside the taller Townsend and all looked out solemnly at the crowd. Townsend adjusted the microphones up closer to his mouth and then took a white handkerchief from his pocket to mop the sweat from his forehead.

  Caine could sense the anticipation in the people around him. To his left, he saw two Charleston cops walk up and stand at the edge of the crowd. He pushed back behind a taller man to hide his face, but he could still see the Honorable Rev above, preparing to speak.

  "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!" Townsend's voice boomed out through the loudspeakers placed on each side of the church landing. Reporters stood next to their camera people, preparing to take notes.

  Caine had his hands in his pockets and felt the reassuring press of a small 9mm semi-automatic he was carrying under his shirt at the small of his back.

  "Thank you all for being here today," Townsend continued. "Our community and our state face a grave crisis."

  Caine watched the heads of the other church leaders nodding beside the big man.

  "As many of you know, forces are at work to bring the evils and depravity of gambling to our cities and towns. It's bad enough that our honest citizens are already tempted by the offshore casino boats to throw away their hard-earned money. This is a scourge and disgrace the people of South Carolina can ill-afford and we should all be outraged that our politicians are even considering this legislation."

  Caine pressed closer as Townsend paused for effect, looking out across the crowd of faces, nodding to several that he recognized in the front. He thought to himself, This guy is good. A few "amens" could be heard through the crowd.

  "We as honest, God-fearing people need to stand up against this evil!"

  More "amens" and nodding heads all around Caine.

  "I have a list of names, brothers and sisters... names of our elected and so-called community leaders who are signing on to this abomination," Townsend said, his voice echoing off nearby buildings. "I want you to take a copy of this list." He held a sheet of white paper high over his head. "I want you to go to these people in their offices, their churches and their homes and tell them this is unacceptable! We will not stand by and let this invasion of our moral principles take over. We need to be heard and vote with our voices and our wallets to tell these people we will not support their businesses, we will not vote for them in the next election, we will shun them from the doorsteps of decent people!"

  "Amen!" the man next to Caine yelled out. He had heard enough and started slowly making his way to the back of the crowd, keeping his head down. Asa D was right, he thought, this guy is a problem. He better hope his place in heaven is assured.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It was late afternoon and Hanna was reading through some additional case law Molly had assembled for the court hearing tomorrow in Calley Barbour's abortion ruling. There was a light knock on her open office door, and she looked up. Staring back at her was a face she hadn't seen in over twenty years, other than in pictures in the press and a documentary film the man had produced. She felt her chest go empty as if the air had been sucked out. She stood slowly, her hands pressed down on her desk.

  "Hello, Hanna." The voice was warm and familiar. For many years, she had imagined reuniting with Sam Collins. Memories of their time together in college in North Carolina were occasional guilty pleasures; the fun times, the quiet times, the lovemaking. He had been her first and then he had left her for work in Europe. She had seen him once a couple of years later, but then he had never come back... until now. All of this was racing through her mind as she looked at his face, clearly older as he was now in his forties, but still youthful, strong, deeply tanned with a couple of day's growth of beard, his light brown hair long over his ears and down to his shoulders, swept back in an unkempt yet natural way that seemed washed with the sun and salt of his many travels.

  "Oh my God!" was all she could manage to say and then quickly regretted sounding so foolish. She watched as Sam came into her office and across the space between them. She remembered the slow easy pace of his movements.

  "You look incredible, Hanna," he said, smiling and coming around the corner of the desk holding out his arms.

  She turned to him and let his arms encircle her waist and pull her in. Tentatively, she reached her arms up around his back and lifted her face for him to kiss her on the cheek. "Sam, what are..." she started.
r />   "Just in town for a few days. Had to look you up."

  Hanna pulled back to look up at him, his eyes a few inches above hers, still a deep piercing green with flecks of brown. "Why are you in Charleston?"

  "Got an assignment to do a photo essay on homes along the Battery for one of those coffee table magazines."

  She was still trying to gather herself, to calm a heart that was racing. She tried to tell herself it was the shock of seeing him after so many years, not some long-held infatuation she couldn't shake.

  He pulled her close again and softly said, "I'm sorry it's been so long."

  She heard the words but didn't respond, resting the side of her face on his shoulder, feeling the smooth cotton of his t-shirt, a plain navy blue. His shorts were rumpled white linen and his tanned bare feet were barely covered with brown leather flip-flops.

  "Hanna?"

  She pushed back again, struggling to gather her composure and stop acting like a schoolgirl. "You just caught me by surprise," she said.

  "I'm sorry I didn't call. I don't have your cell, so I left a message with your front desk. I heard you were running a legal clinic here in town. I guess you didn't get the message yet."

  Hanna looked down at the pile of message slips Molly had left for her earlier, still unread. She felt his hands reach for hers and he stood back to look at her. As she looked down at their hands together between them, she heard him say, "Where has the time gone? I swear I was just in Chapel Hill a few days ago with you."

  She looked up into his face and saw a warm smile that she had remembered so vividly all these years. She felt her emotions ebbing from surprise to confusion. A sudden sadness came over her as she thought of their last times together and how it had all unraveled.

  Sam broke the silence between them. "I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight. We need to catch up… obviously," he said, almost apologetically.

  Pulling her hands away and stepping back, she stumbled into her desk chair and turned to catch herself on the desk. She heard him laugh quietly and say, "Still as graceful as ever."

  "Sam, I'm sorry. This is just such a surprise... it's been so long."

  "We can catch up on all that tonight. Please join me for dinner. I want to hear so much about what you've been doing, about your son..."

  "You know about Jonathan?" she asked, both surprised and happy that he had been keeping up with her life.

  "Social media," he replied. "I'm a terrible stalker."

  She looked back at him, nodding and thinking that she too had kept close tabs on his many travels and women, including his wife. She looked down at his left hand and didn't see a wedding ring. What's happened to the French woman? What was her name? Angela?

  "I'm sorry for barging in like this," he said. "I know you must be terribly busy. Your front lobby looks like Grand Central Station. Please, let's get some dinner tonight. You pick the place and I'll meet you there. How about seven?"

  Her next thought was Alex and what he would think about her reunion with the first love of her life and having dinner with the man... and what he would think if he knew how much she still had feelings for him.

  "Seven o’clock?" she managed to say.

  "Does that give you enough time to get through all those piles?" he asked, looking down at the clutter of her desk.

  In an instant she decided that of course she had to see him tonight, to learn more, to fill in some of those many years apart. To talk about their last time together? "Seven will be fine. How about the Peninsula Grill? It's not far."

  "I'll find it." He leaned in and kissed her again on the cheek.

  She felt the wet trace of the kiss on her skin as she watched him turn to leave.

  Sam stopped and looked back at her. "It really is wonderful to see you, Hanna."

  She smiled back but didn't respond, her mind and emotions still swirling from the surprise of his visit.

  "Seven o'clock then." he said.

  "See you there." She watched him walk out the door and away down the hall. She sat back in the comfort of her chair and let her head fall back, looking up at the cracked white plaster on the ceiling above her. And what will Alex think about all this?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Alex was dozing on the front screen porch of his father's house, nestled down into the cushion on an old wicker chair. His feet were stretched out on a small ottoman. It was nearing dark and the night air was alive with the relentless chorus of birds and tree frogs in the big live oaks surrounding the house.

  The sound of a car door slamming woke him from a dream where he was running toward his fallen partner, Lonnie Smith, yelling out something unintelligible, ignoring gunfire from some unseen assailant, wanting only to reach the man and protect him. As he was shaking off the last fragments of the dream in his mind, he heard, "Alex, is that you?"

  It was a woman's voice and he opened his eyes to see a shadowed figured standing below the steps outside. He started to sit up but the pain in his neck flared like a white-hot iron laid across his skin. He fell back, cursing to himself.

  "Alex, it's Amelia... Amelia Richards."

  Alex managed to stand, wincing at the pain. He started toward the front door to the screen porch thinking, why in the world would Beau Richards' wife be here to see him? He had helped to send the man away to prison this past year after it was found that Richards and his son, Connor, were behind a significant drug smuggling business as well as several other illegal operations. This woman's husband had also hired a local lowlife to kill him when he started getting too close to the Richards' crime enterprise. He hadn't seen Amelia Richards since the final day of the trial when her husband was convicted and sent away to the state penitentiary.

  Alex switched on the front porch light and he could see her waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. He pushed open the screen door. "Amelia, what are you doing here?"

  "Do you have a minute?" she asked, her voice resonating in the faint Italian accent of her birthplace. She was a tall and stunning woman with a dark complexion and soft hazel eyes. Alex had always been surprised at her marriage to the much older Beau Richards. He guessed she must be in her thirties at most. Her long brown hair was pulled back and tied in a thin blue ribbon at her neck. Her bare shoulders and arms were exposed by a flowered sun dress that hung to just above her knees.

  Alex gestured for her to come up on the porch. He held the door as she went by him and he could smell the perfume and scent of her shampoo as she passed. "Have a seat," he said, leading her over to the grouping of wicker furniture. They both sat down. "How have you been, Amelia?"

  "Some days better than others," she replied, her accent a surprising sound in the Low Country of South Carolina.

  "Are you still staying out at the ranch?" Beau Richards owned a large ranch out east of town with a beautiful home that Alex had visited on a couple of occasions.

  "For most of the year," she said softly. "In the hot months here in the summer, I go home to Italy to see my family."

  Alex thought again about the night this woman's husband had tried to kill him personally when the hit man had failed. Alex had overcome Beau Richards, leading to his arrest and eventual incarceration. "What can I do for you, Amelia?"

  "I heard you were in town and thought you might be down at Gilly’s with your father, but I didn't see you there."

  "I came home a while ago." He placed his hand on the bandage on his neck. "Need to get some rest."

  Amelia said, "I heard about your injury on the local news. Such a terrible tragedy losing all those men."

  Alex didn't answer.

  After an awkward silence, Amelia said, "I need your help with something."

  "I'm not much good for anybody at the moment," he said, touching his neck again.

  "It's been very difficult since my husband went away."

  "Look Amelia, I'm sorry, but your husband was involved in some very bad business and deserves to be where he is today.
"

  "Oh, I know," she said quickly, pushing back in her chair and crossing her legs. "When I first met Beau, I had no idea what he was involved with. At the end, I was surprised at all he was doing."

  Alex was finding this difficult to believe but at this point, it didn't matter. There had been no evidence Amelia Richards was involved personally in any of the illegal activities of her husband and stepson, and she was not arrested or charged when her husband was sent away. "What do you need help with?"

  "My husband was working with some very dangerous men, I'm coming to find," she answered. "The drug business, you know?"

  "Yes, we traced it back to a gang that operates across the South and a cartel in Mexico. 'Dangerous' is an understatement."

  "I've been visited on several occasions by a man who says he represents the business interests my husband was involved with," she said. "He is a very frightening man."

  "Is he one of the Mexicans?" Alex asked.

  "No, he's an American," she said, pulling up the fabric of her dress and kneading it with her hands. "Do you know of a man named Asa Dellahousaye?"

  Alex leaned back in surprise. "Dellahousaye came to see you?"

  "No, one of his men."

  Alex had long suspected the man known as Asa "D" was behind the drug business along the Atlantic coast if not beyond, but they hadn't been able to firmly make the connection in the Beau Richards case. The mention of the man's name caused his temper to flare as he thought of the killer this man had unleashed on his fallen friend and colleagues, let alone his own near-death experience. "And how do you know this man works for Dellahousaye?"

  "They've been to our house before... back before Beau was arrested."

  "And what do they want?" Alex asked.

  "Soon after my husband went away ..." She paused to collect herself as her voice broke and then became very soft, as if someone might be listening. "When he went away to prison, just a few days later this man came to see me. He thinks Beau has records and money. I told him the police took everything, but he insisted there must be a hidden safe or cache of papers and money."