by Rick Murcer
The Killing Sands
Anthology
Short stories by
these crime-story novelists:
Gary Ponzo
Dani Amore
Rick Murcer
Traci Hohenstein
Tim Ellis
Lawrence Kelter
Rebecca Stroud
AMAZON KINDLE EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Murcer Press, LLC
A Lethal Connection © 2012 Gary Ponzo
Bullet River © 2012 Dani Amore
The Lighthouse © 2012 Rick Murcer
The Honeymooners © 2012 Traci Hohenstein
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap © 2012 Tim Ellis
Rum Shot © 2012 Lawrence Kelter
Jinxed © 2012 Rebecca Stroud
All rights reserved
Amazon Kindle Edition License Notes
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This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover by
Katy Whipple Group
Edited by
Jan Green of The Wordverve
Formatting by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
http://about.me/BobHouston
Contents
A Lethal Connection by Gary Ponzo
About the Author
Bullet River by Dani Amore
About the Author
The Lighthouse by Rick Murcer
About the Author
The Honeymooners Jekyll Island – Book 1 by Traci Hohenstein
About the Author
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap by Tim Ellis
About the Author
Rum Shot by Lawrence Kelter
About the Author
Jinxed by Rebecca Stroud
About the Author
A Lethal Connection
by Gary Ponzo
A dead body never looks like it does on TV. There’s nothing natural about the position a person takes once they’re no longer a person. This is what Detective Mike Barton thought as he approached the lifeless frame hugging the collection of rocks along the beach in La Jolla. The man’s head faced straight down as if he’d attempted an ill-advised belly flop from cliffs above the California shoreline. The only problem with that notion was the round hole just beneath the base of his skull. Professional. One bullet. Small caliber. The bullet was still inside the man’s brain, a casualty of inertia taking hold after several ricochets.
The sun had just set, and the tide was still moving in, raising the noise level as the waves slapped at the lone group of rocks amidst a quiet stretch of sandy beach. Barton straddled a couple of large boulders, avoiding the ocean water, as his partner Nate Jenson crouched down next to the victim for a closer look.
Jenson clicked on his penlight and said, “I see the problem right here.” He illuminated the small, round entrance wound oozing red and white fluid. “He seems to have sprung a leak.”
“You’re a sick bastard,” Barton said.
“Yeah, but I’m your sick bastard,” Jenson said, flashing his brilliant-white smile against his chocolate-brown skin.
Barton examined the crime scene to assure its integrity. Yellow police tape provided an appropriate perimeter, while a forensic team unloaded equipment from a white van parked on Coast Boulevard. They would soon begin the rudimentary process of collecting evidence. A half dozen uniforms canvassed the area, asking questions to the small gathering outside the tape line; most of them were tourists taking an evening stroll along the beach and discovering a bit of excitement to spice up their vacation.
Barton stretched on a pair of nitrile gloves and sighed. This was the worst part of the process. He had to determine the man’s name and assign him an identity. This made it more personal and, therefore, more real. He reached into the man’s back pocket and removed his wallet. The man’s name was Elliot Sinclair. Barton didn’t notice anything extraordinary: credit cards, insurance card, and fitness club identification. It was only when Barton probed further that he came upon the item he dreaded most. A picture of a small girl, maybe four, smiling at the camera with the unabated zest that only the purely innocent can provide. He turned over the photo and saw writing on the back. In crayon, it read, “I luv you Daddy.”
“Why do you go and do that to every corpse you see?” Jenson said, looking over his shoulder. “You’re fifty-two, never been married, never had kids, and yet the first thing you do is look for the children left behind.”
Barton held up the photo for his partner. “You’re too guilty to smile like that. Something happens to a human being when they age that prevents them from exuding that kind of sincerity.”
“It’s called naïveté,” Jenson said. “They don’t know enough about the world yet to settle into a good old-fashioned sneer.”
“You were probably six months old when that sneer first reared its ugly head, huh?”
“Hey, I came out of the womb with street smarts.”
Barton frowned. Another cold night, another dead body. Another fatherless child. He made eye contact with a uniform canvassing the crowd along the beach. “Anything?”
The officer shook his head.
“Of course not,” Barton murmured. He didn’t expect much. This part of the cove was tucked under the cliffs and barely visible from the street. A clever spot to make a kill.
“You know what your problem is?” Jenson said.
“I didn’t know I had a problem.”
“You’re too suspicious. You treat every date like it’s an interrogation. I’ve seen you at work. You dig and dig until you find the flaw. It’s a classic case of bringing your work home with you. Next time you go on a date, give it a rest. Just shut down that investigative mind and let it happen.”
“Let what happen?”
“Love, man. Let love happen.”
“I’ll get right on it.” Barton grinned. It was all he could do to combat the truths that Jenson was throwing at him. He looked back to the photo. The fatherless girl would not be smiling tonight. Her life had just taken a terrible turn that she didn’t deserve. When he looked up, he saw Jenson shaking his head.
“You ever think about adopting?” Jenson asked.
Barton stepped around the corpse, and Jenson followed.
“I’ve thought about it,” Barton said.
“Because you’d be a good dad.”
Barton waited for the punch line, but when it didn’t come, he said, “Thanks.”
Jenson looked down at the dead man. “You notice the angle? He was shot by a lefty.”
Barton nodded. “That always helps, doesn’t it?”
“He’s not the same killer we’re looking for,” Jenson said.
Barton understood. There had been a rare killing spree along the affluent La Jolla coastline. Several homeless men h
ad been murdered as they hunkered down for sleep in the dunes below the cliffs. The prototypical suspect would be a chemically unbalanced homeless person trying to secure his own territory. But this changed everything.
“No,” Barton said. “The victim is different.”
“And what’s he still doing with his wallet?”
It was a good question. Why would a wealthy-looking gentleman still have a wallet full of money and credit cards if the killer was homeless? A random thought entered Barton’s mind. He didn’t like the sound of it, so he tried to wash it away by searching for evidence. A serpentine trail dragged out in the sand twelve inches wide moving away from the crime scene. As if someone raked the sand to cover up their footprints.
“I noticed that myself,” Jenson said, following his stare. “Like the killer was covering up his tracks.”
Barton folded his arms across his chest. The waves were lapping up to the corpse, but not compromising its integrity just yet. The tracks in the sand were about the same size as a large purse. That random thought began to develop some steam.
A voice called Barton’s name from the darkness of the beach. A police officer waved him over.
Barton glanced at Jenson. “I’ll be right back. Keep on searching the area, okay?”
“You got it, boss.”
Barton ducked under the police tape and approached Officer Sam Welch. It was getting dark and Barton didn’t recognize the officer until he was right next to him. Welch was tall and mildly overweight. He stood next to a much smaller young man who wore baggy shorts and a skin-tight tee-shirt.
“This here is Jimmy Hall,” Welch said to Barton. “He has something to tell you.”
The kid pulled a handful of long hair behind his ear and shuffled his feet. He was obviously out of his element.
“It’s okay, son,” Officer Welch assured him. “Just tell this gentleman what you told me.”
Jimmy Hall shrugged. “Can’t you tell him?”
Welch smiled a paternal smile. “He’d like to hear your words.” Then he placed a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Look, you can’t get in trouble by being honest. No matter what you say to Detective Barton, he will never judge you one way or another.”
Barton waited for the kid to settle down. He knew Welch wouldn’t waste his time if it wasn’t relevant.
“I live up in those condos,” the kid finally said, pointing up above the cliffs. “My folks are gone for the weekend, and I was walking past the sliding glass door when I saw something.”
Barton stood there in the moonless night with his eyebrows raised.
“Well,” the boy continued, “I watch a lot of those cop shows on TV—you know, CSI, that type of show.”
“Yes,” Barton said. “Very fine shows.”
The kid dug a bare toe in the sand. “And it seems that whenever someone talks to the cops they automatically become a suspect.”
Barton nodded. “Sure, I understand your concern. Let me ask you this—did you kill that guy over there?”
Jimmy jumped back with his hands up in absolute horror. “No, of course not. Dude, I would never do something like that.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Barton said. “I have no reason to doubt you. You are officially not a suspect.”
“Really?” the kid asked, somewhat dubious.
“Look, Jimmy,” Barton said, with his palms up. “I know you’ve been smoking weed, and I know you’ve tried to cover it up with some lemon-flavored breath mints. And I don’t really give a crap. I’m looking for the person who murdered this gentleman over there. I know it wasn’t you, so why don’t you help me out and tell me what you know?”
The kid seemed to cower at the mention of his smoking habit, and Barton realized he was dealing with a somewhat paranoid witness. He decided to try another direction.
“You know,” Barton added, “Officer Welch and I like to puff on the chronic now and again ourselves. We’re all pretty much okay with the stuff. Right, Sam?”
Barton looked at Welch and found the cop winking back at him.
“You bet,” Welch said. “It’s used medically all the time. It reduces stress.”
“See, that’s what I always say,” Jimmy said, coming on board for the ploy.
Barton smiled. “So, can we be friends and discuss what happened to this poor guy over there?”
“Sure,” Jimmy replied. “When I went past my balcony, I noticed this woman following him.”
Now Barton was interested. “Go on.”
“And she was really close, almost like she was pushing him,” the kid said.
Barton’s mouth became dry. He didn’t like where this was headed. “Along the beach, here?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Jimmy pointed to the collection of rocks at the base of the cliffs. “She sort of led him there, then pointed something at his head. The next thing I know . . .”
Jimmy seemed unsure of the right words to choose.
“You’re doing great, kid,” Welch assured him.
“I heard sort of a pop. I think she shot the guy in the head with a gun, because the next thing I knew, the guy did a forward face plant right into those rocks.”
“Did you recognize the woman?”
“No, I could barely tell it was a woman from where I was.”
“Could you give me a description?”
“Well, not really. I mean she was kind of husky.”
“Husky?” Barton asked.
“Like I said, they were a ways away, but she seemed to have a large gut, almost like she was pregnant.”
Barton didn’t know what to think of that, but he scribbled a couple of notes, then asked a few more questions before thanking the kid and letting him go.
As soon as the circle disbanded, Jenson approached Barton holding up a clear-plastic evidence baggie. With his free hand, Jenson shined a flashlight on the baggie to expose a plain, silver earring sitting at the bottom of the bag.
“A little gift from our killer,” Jenson said with a satisfied smile. “He may be a pro, but he’s a little careless.”
Barton took a couple of steps away from the crowd surrounding the corpse, and his partner followed. “Listen, Nate, I need to tell you something.”
Jenson cocked his head. “Go ahead, chief.”
“You know how you’re always teasing me about not having a girlfriend, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, before we partnered up three years back, I had a steady girl. We even lived together for a couple of years.”
Jenson smiled at the thought. “Okay. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is . . .” Barton rubbed the side of his face. The waves were creeping in and forcing them to step closer to the cliffs. “She was a professional killer. Hired by top executives from different countries all over the globe to rub out certain rebel dissidents threatening democracy.”
Jenson’s mouth opened slightly. “You knew about this while you were living with her?”
Barton nodded.
Jenson shook his head. “How?”
“I was trying to let love happen,” Barton half-grinned.
Jenson had a questioning look on his face. “Why are you telling me . . .” He glanced down at the baggie in his hand. The lone earring. “Oh.”
“We have a witness who believes he spotted a woman shooting Mr. Sinclair.”
“Then I just have one question.”
“Yes,” Barton said, knowing his partner too well. “She’s left-handed.”
“Wow,” Jenson said, scratching the back of his head. “I can’t believe you really had a girlfriend.”
“Shut up,” Barton said. “The only issue is, the witness said the woman was heavy, like she was pregnant. Sheila was rail thin. She almost made the Olympic swim team. And as far as being pregnant . . . well, that was never going to happen. She never wanted to have children. That was a big issue between us.”
“Sure, she may have been an assassin, but not having your baby,
that’s a deal breaker, huh?”
Barton gave his partner a shove.
They stood there with their own thoughts, considering the next move when something happened that would change Barton’s life forever.
The cell phone rang in the pocket of the dead man.
Barton looked at his partner. They both hesitated. They’d seen everything over the years, but not this.
“Better answer it,” Jenson said, sealing up and tagging the evidence bag.
Barton stepped under the police tape, reached into the man’s jacket, and opened the cell phone with his gloved fingers. The LED display announced the caller as “Private.”
Barton touched the talk button and said, “Hello.”
“What are you doing?” a woman’s voice said.
“What do you mean?” Barton asked.
There was a frustrated breath, then, “I’m sitting here at Weatherby’s for an hour thinking you’re going to show. Now if you’re not man enough to meet me . . . then . . .”
The line went dead. Barton recognized the voice. A loose thought ran through his mind. A bad thought. Weatherby’s was just three blocks away. He handed Jenson the dead man’s cell phone. “Tag this.”
Barton ducked under the yellow police tape flapping in the wind and began walking away from the scene.
“Where are you going?” Jenson asked.
“To chase a lead,” he called back.
“You need me?”
Barton shook him off. He dug his hands into his pockets and leaned into the stiff ocean breeze. As he trudged deep steps into the sand, he spied a young couple lying down on a large beach towel, groping each other like zombies trying to eat through their lover’s mouths to get to their brains. Barton turned away and began a slow trot, lifting his knees in order to overcome the thick sand. Soon his trot became a sprint. After a few minutes, he realized he had gone too far, missing the staircase to the road. He stopped and leaned over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.