“This gripping escapade into the inner workings of a traumatized mind is both entertaining and exciting as Jeff and his half brother, Richard Alpert, who were never close before, find themselves working together to follow the clues leading to the banker’s murderer. A high-powered drama filled with interesting characters that add dimension to a tightly paced story with a good kick at the end.” -- RT Magazine
MURDER ON THE MIND
By
L. L. Bartlett
Copyright © 2005 by L. L. Bartlett. All rights reserved. This book may be reproduced in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published by Five Star/Cengage Publishing, 2005
WorldWide Mystery Edition, 2007
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The Jeff Resnick Mysteries
Murder on the Mind
Dead In Red
Cheated By Death
Bound By Suggestion (2011)
Dedication
For Ian,
the best brother in the world.
Acknowledgments
Over the years many people have read and commented on Murder on the Mind. Thanking them all would probably be impossible; however, several of my first readers immediately come to mind. Ed Whitmore, Alison Steinmiller, and Vivian Vande Velde gave me my first effective feedback, and for that I am truly grateful. For several years my critique partner, Liz Voll, had an opportunity to comment on my work. Marjorie Merithew was instrumental in editing the draft that snagged me the attention of my agent. And my staunchest cheerleaders are my current critique partners, Gwen Nelson and Liz Eng. I’d like to give a broad thank you to my Sisters in Crime chapter, The Guppies: The Great Unpublished, although that name is a misnomer as many of its members have achieved their dreams of publication. Thank you all for encouraging me in mine.
* * *
Murder On The Mind
By
L. L. Bartlett
CHAPTER 1
Something walloped me in the gut. A hit without substance—without pain. It sucked me from the here and now to a vacant place where a hollow wind brushed my ears.
I waited.
There. In my peripheral vision: Coming out of the mist. An animal. A deer. A buck.
I blinked and was back in the bar, bending over the felt-lined table.
“You gonna shoot or not?” Marty growled.
My fingers tightened around the cue, which stopped their sudden trembling. I held my breath as I made the shot. The cue ball kissed the six and sent it into the left corner pocket. I straightened, trying to hide the unexpected panic churning my insides. “That’s another five bucks you owe me.”
Marty chewed the unlit stub of his cigar, fumbled with his wallet, and dug out a crisp five-dollar bill, slapping it onto the table. “Double or nothing.”
Uh-uh. I needed to get out of there. Think about what had just happened to me.
“I’d love to, but I start a new job first thing in the morning.” I snatched up my winnings and replaced the cue stick on the wall rack. O’Shea’s smoky, blue-collar friendliness had been a haven from boredom and loneliness, reminding me of the taverns back home in Buffalo, only it was pool, not darts, that drew the Sunday night crowd.
“Go ahead, leave,” Marty grumbled, gazing down the length of his cue. “But be back here—same time next week. Me and the boys are gonna win back everything you’ve taken from us.” His break shot went wild. He should’ve stuck with darts.
“In your dreams,” I said, and shrugged into my leather bomber jacket.
“Are y’leaving so soon, Jeffrey?” Pretty Annie McBride, an Irish lass of about twenty-five with a killer smile, hefted a tray of drinks as she served a couple at a nearby table.
“Have to, darlin’.”
“An’ when are y’going ta ask me out? I’m not getting any younger, y’know.”
I eyed her appreciatively but considered my thin wallet. “Soon.”
“I’ll be collecting Social Security at this rate.”
“Forget him, Annie,” said Ian from behind the bar. “Find yourself a nice Irish boy.” He winked at her.
“I’m half Irish,” I countered to a round of laughter from Ian and the regulars. “My mother was an O’Connor—you can’t get much more Irish than that.”
“Never you mind them, Jeffrey,” Annie said. “But don’t wait too long, or I will find me some nice Irish lad.” Annie smiled kindly and headed for the kitchen. I watched the door swing shut behind her.
Marty and another patron were already engrossed in a new game as I headed for the exit. “G’night, all.”
A chorus of goodbyes followed as I left the pub.
I set off at a brisk pace, heading for my apartment three blocks away. A March thaw had melted the snow, but the temperature had plunged back to freezing and the bracing air soon cleared my head. The pub had been overheated and reeked of stale beer and sweat. No wonder I’d zoned out.
I thought of the cash in my wallet. Maybe my good luck at pool would stay with me when I started the job at Metropolitan Life. My unemployment benefits were about to end, so I’d been desperate to take the entry-level insurance claims job.
Hands stuffed in my pockets, I watched my feet as I walked. After I got that first paycheck, I’d ask Annie out. It had been months since I’d had any feminine companionship, and celibacy is highly overrated. I just hoped Annie’s friendliness wasn’t a put-on to get a good tip.
Traffic was sparse as I crossed Third, the sidewalk empty as I headed past the caged-in businesses that lined the street. I was usually cautious, but thoughts of the new job and what had happened at the bar distracted me as I dodged the miniature skating rinks on the cracked pavement. The next day would be nerve-racking. New names, new faces. Probably a backlog of case files, too.
“Hey, dude, got some spare change?”
A large, silhouetted figure blocked the sidewalk.
Aw, shit.
A gust of frigid wind grazed my cheek. I jammed my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, tried to get past him.
“Hey, asshole, I’m talkin’ to you!” The hefty teenager stepped into the lamplight, grabbed my jacket. Another figure emerged from the darkened doorway of a closed deli. Though shorter, the other kid brandished a worn baseball bat, looking just as threatening. I avoided his glare and the challenge in it.
In spite of the freezing cold, I broke into a sweat as I pulled away from the kid’s grasp. “Hey, guys, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then give us your money.”
Damn. I’d just won fifty bucks at the bar and now a couple of two-bit punks were going to shake me down for it. But I’m not stupid.
I thumbed through my wallet. “You can have what I got.”
“Is that all?” the shorter kid asked, slamming the bat into his palm. “You got a ATM card? We gonna go visit your bank.”
“I’ve been out of work for months. There’s no money left.”
The big guy grabbed my left arm in a vise-grip. “Lester, why don’t you introduce our friend here to Reggie.”
Lester flaunted the wooden bat so that the logo burned into it was visible in the lamplight. A Reggie Jackson special, decades old but just as lethal as the day it was made.
“C’mon, guys, I gave you everything I had.”
“Reggie wants to teach you a lesson,” Lester said.
I took a step back, yanking my arm from the linebacker.
Across the street, a hooker ducked into one of the doorways. Distracted, I almost didn’t react as Lester swung the bat. I dodged, catching him with a satisfying kick to the groin. The bat went flying and he sank like the Titanic.
His friend snatched the bat, heading for me like a killing machine. I stepped back, raised my left arm to fend off the blow, but he caught me. The audible crack of bone sent me staggering. Skyrockets of pain shot up my arm.
The bat came down again, slamming into my shoulder, knocking me to my knees.
Icy water soaked through my jeans.
The bat came at me from the left, crashed into my temple, and my head hit the pavement. My vision doubled. Stupidly, I tried to raise myself as the bat connected with my skull once more.
Damn, I thought just before losing consciousness. I wasn’t going to make it to my new job in the morning.
I drifted from painful reality, lost in some misty wilderness. I’d escaped one nightmare . . . but escaped to where?
Tangled sensations enveloped me—rising dread, irrational fear. The mist began to evaporate, and I focused all my senses on the emotion.
From out of the void, a figure approached, surrounded by an aura of smothering emotions. Hatred, revenge—it spewed these and more. Unable to bear the torrent, I tried to turn away. The figure—a hunter—stalked its prey, but instinct told me I was not the quarry.
It paused in its search. The intensity of its rage choked me—kept me from taking a decent breath. I thought I’d pass out when the stalker moved away. Horrified, yet fascinated, I couldn’t tear my gaze from the dark, retreating figure. What was being hunted? Why couldn’t I see it, warn it?
The danger lingered.
I shuddered, afraid of the bizarre, gruesome death I knew was to come.
The figure faded into the surrounding emptiness, and I began to relax.
I was only dreaming, after all.
CHAPTER 2
“He’s different,” Richard said.
Hidden behind the butler’s pantry door, my head half-shaved like a punk rocker, eavesdropping on a private conversation . . . yeah, I’d say I was different.
“Of course he is,” Brenda said. “After what happened, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”
Broken arm, fractured skull. Emotional wreck. Working on paranoid, too. I leaned in closer, straining to hear.
“He’s keeping something from me.”
Richard didn’t know the half of it.
“What?” Brenda asked, over the clatter of silverware dropping into a kitchen drawer.
“He mentioned nightmares back at the hospital. I should’ve pressed him on it, but I don’t want to push him too hard. He still doesn’t trust me.” He fell quiet for a moment. “Something strange happened at the airport. I was looking for the claim checks. He knew they were in my wallet, but he hadn’t seen me put them there.”
“A logical place for them. Or maybe he’s psychic,” she offered offhand. The top dishwasher rack rolled out, glasses clinking.
Silence. I could imagine Richard’s stony glare.
“I’ll call UB Medical Center tomorrow,” Richard said. “See if I can find a doctor to treat him.”
“Then what will you do with him?”
“Nothing. He’s here to recover.”
“What if he wants to go back to New York?”
“Then he can go.”
The dishwasher door closed.
“Bull,” Brenda said. “You want him here. You want to turn his life around, remake him in your own image. But he’s your brother, not you. For years he’s made his own life without you. He’ll need to make his own life again. Don’t be disappointed when he no longer needs you.”
Trust Brenda to be pragmatic.
“Want sausage or linguine for dinner?” she asked.
Tiptoeing back to my room, I closed the door. I leaned against it, closed my eyes, unsure what I was feeling. Panic came close.
Yeah, I was different.
I stretched out on the single bed in that shabby little room and thought about what happened.
After six months of unemployment due to downsizing, I’d been about to resume my career as an insurance claims investigator. Until the mugging.
Ten days later, I was four hundred miles away, in Buffalo, New York, moving in with my older half-brother and his live-in-lover. Broke and dependent on their kindness, I was lucky to have somewhere to go.
Dr. Richard Alpert hadn’t changed much over the years. Silver now mixed with the dark brown hair around his temples, and in his full mustache. New lines creased his face, but along with the brains, Richard had the looks and, as sole heir, he now possessed the Alpert family fortune.
The flight from LaGuardia to the Buffalo-Niagara International Airport had taken fifty-seven minutes. With my skull-pounding headache, it felt like fifty-seven hours. Brenda Stanley, the pretty black woman behind the security barrier, waited for us. At thirty-four, a year younger than me, Brenda’s an old soul whose eyes reflected the depth of her compassion. After a quick kiss and embrace with Richard, she turned to me.
“Jeffy Resnick, you look like shit. You need to gain ten pounds, and I’m just the one to fatten you up.”
She was right about the weight loss. Ordinarily I’m just an average guy. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a respectable five-eight in height. More comfortable in denim than a suit and tie. Now my jeans hung from my hips. A sling hid the lightweight summer jacket—the only one Richard could find back at my apartment. A knit cap covered my partially shaved head.
Brenda frowned and, careful not to press against my broken arm, gently hugged me. She stepped back. “You two aren’t fighting, are you?”
“Brenda,” Richard admonished.
“Well, I know how it is when the old man and the kid get together.”
Because of a twelve-year age difference, Richard and I had never been close. Our reunion in the hospital in New York days before had been rocky. We’d called a truce. Now to see if we could live with it.
“We’re not fighting,” I assured her.
“Good. You two get the luggage,” Brenda said. “I’ll bring the car around. Those parking lot thieves are gonna hit me up for five bucks. Highway robbery,” she muttered, already walking away.
“Come on,” Richard said, and started off, following the overhead signs to the baggage carousel.
“Why don’t you marry Brenda and make an honest woman of her?” I asked, struggling to keep up.
“I’ve been trying to for years. She says it would break her mother’s heart.”
“Marrying a rich, white doctor?”
“It’s the white part that’s the problem.”
Richard had filled me in on the most recent details of their lives. I’d met Brenda only once several years before, when they’d come to Manhattan on business. I liked her right away. They had been colleagues at The American Patient Safety Foundation, a think tank outside of Los Angeles, where Richard evaluated new medical equipment. Brenda was a registered nurse and his assistant, although neither she nor Richard had worked much with patients.
Budget cuts ended both their jobs, and they moved back to the old homestead in Buffalo. With the inheritance, Richard didn’t need to work and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do next. He seemed quieter, more introspective—if that was possible. I’d have to ask Brenda later.
We arrived at U.S. Airway’s baggage carousel, already in motion. Suitcases, boxes, golf clubs, and skis slid past the already thinning crowd. Richard patted his pockets.
“They’re in your wallet.”
“What are?”
“The c
laim tickets.”
A quick look in his wallet revealed the missing claim checks. Richard eyed me suspiciously. “Jeff, you were inside the terminal when the skycap gave them to me.”
Was I? I shrugged. “Lucky guess. But you don’t need them in the Buffalo airport. C’mon, let’s go home. I’d rather barf in familiar surroundings.”
* * *
“And on your right is the Vietnamese grocery store,” Richard announced, sounding like a tour guide. He’d been giving a running commentary since we’d pulled out of the airport, while Brenda drove the streets like a native.
“Where’s the snow?” I asked. It was, after all, March, and Buffalo is famous for chin-high drifts.
“It melted,” Brenda said. “But it’ll be back.”
Shrunken, dirty mounds of the stuff still littered the edges of parking lots and streets. I took in the seemingly endless ribbon of strip malls. “Video stores, head shops. Looks a lot shabbier than I remember.”
“That’ll change in a heartbeat,” Brenda said. Sure enough, we approached the Grover Cleveland Golf Course, crossing the city line into Amherst, the suburb where Richard lived. The neighborhood dated back to the twenties, the houses built and maintained by old money.
Brenda turned right into LeBrun Road, driving slowly, letting me digest the neighborhood changes. As she pulled into the driveway and parked the car, I got a good look at the house. The three-story brick Tudor looked the epitome of good taste. A gray slate roof and leaded bay windows overlooked the winter-matted carpet of lawn and the privet hedges bordering the sidewalk.
Richard retrieved the luggage from the trunk, letting me soak in the house. My nails dug into my palms.
“Come on inside,” he called, sounding jovial.
“Can we go around front for a grand entrance?” I asked, taking my duffel from him.
“Sure.” Brenda took out her key, leading the way.
I’d lived in that house during my teens and had never been through the front entrance, always using the back door, feeling like the unwanted guest that I was.
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