The Killing Sands

by Rick Murcer

  “You look well,” Angel said with surprise in his voice.

  Hollister smiled heartily. He lifted the candy striper’s chin. “This angel of mercy is nursing me back to health.”

  “Then why in God’s name are you punishing her with that painful Shakespearian soliloquy?”

  “Why, Johnny, she adores my accent. Don’t you, Carmen?”

  Carmen squeezed out the sponge and looked up at Angel. “Si, he speak muy beautiful.” She gave Angel a pretty smile and pointed to a chair. “You sit?” Carmen blotted Hollister’s chest with a towel. Angel pulled the chair next to Hollister’s bed and sat down. “All done,” she said. “I go.”

  “Will you be back soon?” Hollister asked in a needy voice. “I can’t possibly manage without your tender care.”

  Carmen blushed and picked up her supplies. “Mañana.” She waved to Hollister and left.

  Hollister watched her until she was gone. “Had I known that Spanish women are so lovely and caring, I would have taken a bullet much sooner in my career.”

  “She’s probably fourteen, Roger,” Angel said in an admonishing tone. “This isn’t feudal England—we enforce statutory rape laws here in the colonies. How are you feeling?”

  “Other than the gaping hole in my chest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surprisingly good. Must be all the morphine they’ve given me for the pain. I think I may be hallucinating.”

  “You were lucky. The doctor said the bullet missed your heart by a hair.”

  “I’ve got nine lives, Johnny. I’m like a cat.”

  “Oh yeah? Which life are you on now?”

  Hollister counted on his fingers. “Eleven, I think—at least eleven, maybe twelve.” Hollister laughed and then stopped abruptly. He placed his hand over the wound. “God that hurts.”

  Angel noticed Hollister’s pained expression. “Take it easy. I hope that you’re feeling well enough to fill in some of the blanks.”

  “Well enough, yes, but you know I can’t divulge official information. I’ve sworn an oath to the Crown.”

  “And I saved your worthless hide. That should be worth something.”

  “Worth something? You know that I favor a hero’s funeral. That’s where the glory is. You threw a spanner into the works last night. Now all I have to look forward to is another twenty years of service to the bloody Crown.”

  “Sorry that I disappointed you, but I need to know, and this time don’t bullshit me with tales of British agents picking up with mobsters because Jack Kennedy got bored with them.”

  Hollister turned serious. “God help me. If I’m found out, I’ll tell them that I was delirious from the bloody morphine.”

  “I don’t care what you tell them. Besides, how well do you know me?” Angel said.

  Hollister considered Angel’s question. “Bloody well enough, I suppose. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with what Santo said last night. What’s England’s involvement in the feud between America and Cuba?”

  “England is America’s ace-in-the-hole ally. We were assisting the CIA. Kristina was the go-between for the CIA and the mob. She brought Bobano a Russian-made Makarov pistol, which was to be used to kill Castro. As a Brit posing as a German, Kristina was above suspicion by the Cubans. Cuba has been circumspect of CIA agents ever since the Bay of Pigs Invasion . . . American intelligence can’t get near the place, but a mobster who imports rum can get in and out of Cuba without a problem. And by using a Russian pistol . . . Well, you understand. We were asked to insert one of our people so that there were no ties back to your intelligence community. Your government has been trying to remove Castro for years.”

  “By remove, you mean assassinate. I think that’s pretty obvious from what Santo said yesterday. ‘The next time America comes for Castro, Cuba will come for Kennedy.’ Who was Santo and how did you find him?”

  “I was disturbed when you told me that someone had called your home from Kristina’s suite. You said that you tipped the concierge for a list of her phone calls. More importantly, the last thing out of your mouth was a grunt.”

  “You figured that Santo was trying to set me up for Kristina’s murder, and you broke into the hotel’s office to look for Santo’s personnel file?”

  “Guilty as charged. I obtained his home address and full name, which was Santo Bayo. I made a call to 10 Downing Street and was able to identify Santo Bayo as a member of Castro’s Revolutionary National Police. I went to pay him a visit last night. I was examining some prescription bottles when I was shot. You know the rest.”

  Angel chuckled. “You didn’t have to break into the office for Santo’s address. All I had to do was tip the valet. So the CIA enlisted the mob to kill Castro? How does that wash?”

  Hollister shrugged. “All I can say is that it wasn’t the first time they’ve tried that angle—I guess they were going back to the well. I already mentioned Momo Giancana and his relationship with Judith Exner and JFK. That was the same dynamic. Apparently JFK wants Castro dead and doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. ”

  “Sounds like his hands are already filthy.”

  “And I’ve said far too much. Have I satisfied your infernal curiosity? There’s only so much I can blame on the morphine.”

  “One more thing, Roger. If Kristina was above suspicion, why was she killed? Santo was ranting about warnings. Was Kristina’s death a warning?”

  “I believe so, old boy. Kennedy was sleeping with Kristina. By killing her, the Cubans were demonstrating that they could get as close to Kennedy as they wanted to—close enough to kill.”

  “Santo said that the first warning was his work too.”

  Hollister averted his eyes. “I feel the morphine wearing off.”

  “Avoiding eye contact, Roger? That’s your tell.”

  “My tell?”

  “You avert your eyes when you want to avoid a subject.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Johnny?”

  “It all adds up. Santo worked at the Beverly Hills Hotel until about a year ago. I found a pill in Kristina’s room just before I went to Santo’s house. It was under the bed, buried in the carpet. It’s a sedative. I don’t know why Kristina allowed Santo into her room, but it seems pretty clear that he fed her lots of rum to mask the taste of the sedatives.”

  “Perhaps she invited him up for some Latin love—he was a big, strapping fellow.”

  “You Brits, so goddamn droll.”

  “Sorry.”

  Angel shook his head sadly. “I guess she never saw it coming—the thing with barbiturate overdose is that you fall asleep and then your heart stops. She was yawning one moment and dead the next. You said that you were looking at prescription bottles just before you were shot.” Angel reached into his pocket and showed Hollister the pill he found in Kristina’s room. “Did you find any of these?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to look at the actual tablets. What is it?”

  “Chloral hydrate.”

  “Yes. One of the prescriptions was for chloral hydrate. The other was for Nembutal.”

  Angel’s mouth dropped. “Nembutal? Now there’s no doubt.” He blew out a deep and troubled sigh. “Santo was living in Los Angeles last August, and he said that he was responsible for the first warning. I called a pharmacist friend of mine last night to help me identify this pill. He knew what it was immediately. He knew what it was because chloral hydrate was found along with Nembutal in the autopsy of a celebrity. You know who Kennedy was seeing.”

  “You’ll have to take this one to the grave, Johnny.”

  “Just say it,” Angel demanded.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say except . . .” Hollister paused, examined Angel’s unwavering expression, and knew that he had to divulge the answer. “Last night you shot and killed the man who murdered Marilyn Monroe.”

  About the Author of Rum Shot

  Lawrence Kelter is the best-selling author of the Stephanie Chalice Mystery Seri
es and other works of fiction. A resident New Yorker, he often uses Manhattan and Long Island as backdrops for his stories. He is the author of three novels featuring street savvy NYPD detective, Stephanie Chalice: Don't Close Your Eyes, Ransom Beach, and most recently, The Brain Vault.

  Early in his career, he received direction from best-selling novelist Nelson DeMille, who put pencil to paper to assist in the editing of Kelter’s first book. DeMille said, “Lawrence Kelter is an exciting new novelist who reminds me of an early Robert Ludlum.” Kelter was also a member of a private writer’s workshop led by the late soap opera legend, Ann Loring. His novels are quickly paced and routinely finish with a twist ending.

  Novels by Lawrence Kelter

  The Stephanie Chalice Mystery Series

  Don’t Close Your Eyes

  Ransom Beach

  The Brain Vault

  Palindrome

  Kiss of the Devil’s Breath

  Season of Faith

  Saving Cervantes

  By Executive Order

  Jinxed

  by Rebecca Stroud

  PROLOGUE

  Monday, September 19 - 7AM

  For an officer of the law, Scott McBride had no qualms about breaking it on a regular basis.

  But he was also a born and bred beach boy. So when the sun started to peek over the eastern horizon, he and Jinx, his seven-year-old German shepherd, crossed the street, crossed the dunes, and headed to the sea.

  Glancing up and down the shoreline, Scott made sure the sand was virtually empty of humans. Sighting a lone fisherman up towards the pier, far enough away to pose no problem, he threw the tennis ball as far as he could and grinned as Jinx bounded after it with unbridled enthusiasm.

  He hadn't bothered to bring his surfboard, as he knew the waves would be nonexistent, which they were. So he simply squatted and waited for his girl to return the ball for another toss…or ten.

  As this part of the beach was a “no dogs allowed” section, Scott nevertheless risked the wrath of one of his fellow officers so that he could give Jinx some much-needed exercise—and joy—before he started another long day at work. Another long day she would spend alone. Besides, he felt the ordinance was silly anyway, especially when he noticed a feral feline slinking through the sea oats.

  Ah, bureaucracy…ain't it the cat's meow, he thought, as he threw the ball again.

  * * * * *

  Erin Gray stood on her tenth-story balcony, sipping coffee. Leaning on the rail, a soft breeze blew her long, red hair behind her in a gleaming trail of gold. She lifted her face to the morning sun, then returned her gaze to the beach…and smiled at the sight of the man tossing a ball for his dog. Sparkles of light glinted off the water, dancing around the pair below.

  From her bird's-eye view, they both looked like gorgeous creatures. The man: tall, tan, and lanky. Sun-bleached hair. The dog: a huge black-and-silver shepherd with perfect conformation. Her smile widened at the picture-postcard scene.

  Although Erin was well aware that dogs were not allowed on “her” beach, she couldn't care less when she saw canines romping with their people along the shore. A recently ordained veterinarian, Erin loved all animals and she had the lineage to prove it.

  Raised on an Ocala thoroughbred farm, she'd been surrounded by various domestic and wild creatures while growing up. Her natural inclination to protect those who could not do so themselves had steered her straight to the University of Florida's veterinary program, where she had excelled. A part-time opening at the new SPCA clinic in Cocoa Beach had lured her in without a second thought as she didn't need the money. She came from tons of it, so it was a win-win situation for her: Erin helped and she healed and she donated over half of her earnings to various local humane organizations.

  Plus, she had the additional bonus of the glorious view below her and she wouldn't trade this early show for anything. Besides, Erin was just as guilty as the man. Every evening, right before dark, she took Bo—her ancient mutt—for a short stroll along the water's edge. She took another drink of coffee and thought she just might have to change her routine. Dogs were, after all, a great conversation starter.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Six Months Later…

  Thursday, March 22 - 1PM

  Luki Hasan tuned out the perky real estate agent as he surveyed the penthouse. Way more space than he'd ever need—or use—but this was all a ruse anyway. All he wanted was to get in, get his revenge, and get out before his brain exploded with the rage that had been building since last week's call from his father.

  Born in Saudi Arabia to a richer-than-rich oil man, Hasan had come to the United States six years ago to attend Embry-Riddle in Daytona Beach. He'd graduated with honors and a pilot's license and decided to hang out in Florida for a while, contemplating where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do with his life.

  Part of the answer came when he received the news that his twin sister had committed suicide. Raped at eighteen by one of his father's American cronies, Lana had paid a hefty price for her perceived adultery. A strict Muslim, Amir Hasan had beaten his daughter senseless, leaving her with disfiguring physical scars and emotional wounds that never healed.

  His father's message had been short and succinct. According to him, Lana had shed her burka, written “whore” across her breasts with charcoal, and hung herself—stark naked—in the grand salon of her father's mansion. End of a sad life and an embarrassing story. Praise Allah, Daddy had said with a soft sigh of relief that Luki heard quite clearly thousands of miles away.

  * * * * *

  Florida's fickle weather was behaving itself by providing warm temps for the onslaught of spring breakers flocking to Cocoa Beach. Because of the less frantic pace surrounding this small beach town, it was fast becoming popular with college kids from all over the country. Especially around the pier which housed bars and restaurants and shops and, best of all, the aura of a happening place. There was also a plethora of inexpensive motel rooms to be had where partying could go on into the wee hours of the night.

  “It sounds perfect!” gushed 22-year-old Christy Anderson to her roommate, Wendy Stephens, as they sped down I-95. “I know you're skeptical but, trust me, my parents come down here every winter and just love it! Love it, love it!”

  “We shall see,” Wendy said as she stared out the Corvette's window, hoping Christy was right.

  “Oh, Wen, come on. I mean, just think of all the cool dudes we might meet.” Christy glanced at her friend. “Really, if we don’t have a fabulous time, I'll pay for your trip.”

  “In that case, I hope you got us a suite at the Hilton.”

  Thursday, March 22 - 8PM

  Twilight was upon them as they walked hand-in-hand in the gathering darkness, content to watch the dogs splash in the water, having a grand time.

  Distracted, Erin glanced up at her penthouse. “Looks like I have a new neighbor,” she said.

  Noticing the change in tone-of-voice, Scott asked, “And does that bother you?”

  “Not really. Other than I came home for lunch to take Bo out and saw the guy getting a suitcase out of his car. I don't know, he seems kinda spooky. But he is very good-looking.” Erin grinned.

  “Well, I'm glad you think he's spooky since I really don't need any competition this early in the game.”

  “Not to worry.” Erin's big brown eyes met the emerald green of Scott's, and she planted a light kiss on his lips. “Not to worry at all. Let's go in now, and I'll prove it.”

  * * * * *

  Hasan watched the pair from his fully-furnished condo, part of the reason he'd been so quick to pay the exorbitant rent. All he'd had to do was bring his clothes, and not many at that, as he had no intention of living here very long.

  His head started to throb, and he turned away from the sickeningly sweet view. He could think of little else but that his innocent sister had died for no reason while the “unclothed, unclean, and unholy” women of this country paraded around, blatantly flaunting themselves.


  Swallowing his intense anger, he checked his watch. Time to shower, shave, and get to work.

  * * * * *

  After 85-year-old Lenore Rosenberg saw the happy couple return to the building, she moved to her front window. A recent widow who was also stricken with severe arthritis, her sleeping habits were sporadic at best. So, by day, she sat in her rocker and watched people on the beach; by night, she monitored the parking lot. Therefore, she had a front row seat to any action surrounding SeaSide condominiums. Not for the first time, she mused how it beat the hell out of the idiot box.

  * * * * *

  Amy Blair was working her ass off. A waitress at Bananas on the Beach, she absolutely despised the month of March. Although only twenty-three herself, she never could get used to how much her peers drank when they were on spring break. Not to mention that said peers weren't exactly huge tippers.

  Oh well, she thought, as she filled another tray with four pitchers of beer. At least she had a job, which was more than she could say for a lot of people. Turning to deliver the order to yet another table full of college students, she almost dumped the whole thing down the shirt of one of the best-looking men she'd seen in ages.

  “I am so sorry!” Amy said and backed up a few feet. “Did I spill any on you?”

  “No problem, darlin'…may I ask your name?” He flashed a dimpled smile of perfect white teeth and Amy felt her heart skip a beat. Four hours later, she was in his arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday, March 23 - 7AM