Murder.com
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
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MURDER.COM
by
DAVID DEUTSCH
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2015 by David Deutsch
Cover design by Yocola Designs
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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 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 author's work.
For Judah and Bea
Acknowledgements:
A huge thank you to Gemma and Jackson for believing in and bringing Max Slade and Imogen Whitehall to life.
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CHAPTER ONE
I had just walked through the door of my house, kicked off my shoes, poured myself a generous four finger scotch, and sat down on my couch when there was a knock at the door.
"Did you see what happened?" my neighbor asked, pushing her way into the house.
"No, I—"
"What? How could you have missed it?" she asked, staring and waving her hands at me.
I excused Imogen's rude behavior mainly because she was dressed in a slim-fitting outfit accentuating her fantastic body, and, more importantly, she had a lovely English accent. Not to mention I was in love with her.
"Missed what?"
"Max, the house down the block. The police are all over the place."
"What the heck happened?" I asked, taking a sip of Glenfiddich 18.
"You really are clueless sometimes."
"Well, I need a bit of liquor in me before I'm thinking clearly."
"What happened? How could you have missed it? Something big, around the corner!"
I let this information pour over me as my second sip of scotch warmed a path down my throat.
"Did you hear what I just said?" Imogen asked.
"How do you know?"
"I live here. It was hard to miss the screeching sirens. Come on!"
Imogen pulled my arm, almost making me spill my drink. I grabbed my coat and my drink, threw a leash on my black lab Jabber, and we all strolled down Seymour Drive. When we came around the corner, about a quarter of a mile down the road, I saw police tape boxing in the understated colonial mansion. How had I missed this? There were official emergency vehicles everywhere, flashing lights, and uniformed men darting every which way. A white van was in the process of unloading an empty gurney.
"Looks like we just made it," I said, standing with Imogen behind the police tape.
"Do you know whose house this is?" Imogen asked.
"Ted Baxter's."
"You know him?"
"You could say that. I've had a history with him over the years."
I indeed had a history with Ted. We were both venture capitalists. Very good ones. And ones that ran in the same circles. Although I tried to limit my circle time with him.
Imogen and I, along with a few other neighbors, milled around just outside the yellow-taped perimeter. After chitchatting with some people whom I had never met, nor seen before, nor had any desire to see again, I waved over one of the uniformed police officers.
"What happened?" I asked.
"There was a death in the house. You a neighbor?" he asked, walking over, one hand resting on his holstered weapon.
"Yes, I live around the corner. Is there anything that I should be worried about?"
"As I have told some of your other neighbors, nothing you should be concerned about."
"Well, I see some guys running around here in suits. I'm no cop, but they certainly look like detectives to me."
"Move back, sir." The cop sternly directed me with his words and his hands. This conversation was over.
Every time I'd ever asked a cop what had happened, they have never answered. It was always nothing to see here, move along. They were all the same. They never wanted to open up.
We hung around for a few more minutes, saw a gurney—no doubt the one that we saw when we arrived, now with a white sheet covering a body being loaded into a white van. One of the neighbors had told me that a man had died. Apparently, he had gotten further with the police than I had. I knew that had to mean Ted. He had lived there alone with his wife. We watched the door shut. The show was over. I wasn't going to hang around and chat with the neighbors any more than I already had, so we decided to head back to my place.
When we arrived home, I let Jabber off her leash and poured myself a drink.
"What do you think happened?" Imogen asked, concerned, watching me fix my second scotch of this short evening.
I took a sip.
"If I had to guess, I'd say that Ted was murdered."
Once they threw the sheet over your body and you were loaded into one of those white vans, you usually didn't make it out for dinner. I was confident we wouldn't be visiting Ted in the hospital anytime soon. And I could not care less.
"Oh my!" Imogen raised her hands to he
r mouth. "Why in the world would someone do that?"
"I could give you ten reasons off the top of my head," I said, walking over to my couch, ready to sit down.
Imogen glared at me. "Max, you're such an asshole sometimes. Don't you care?"
"Sure I care. But I figure he's out of his misery."
Imogen stared at me as if bewildered. Just about to sit, I decided to head back over to the bar in the corner of my living room.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked.
"How can you just stand there stone-faced? You said you knew the guy."
"I know a lot of people, my dear. Scotch on the rocks?"
I knew her drink. After five years of dating, I should. But I liked to ask. I liked the banter. It kept the romance alive.
"Scotch and soda."
"Ah, yes." I mixed the drink and brought it over to Imogen. "Have a seat," I said, motioning over to the white Italian leather art deco couch adorning my retro living room.
Money could buy you a lot of things. Not all of them nice. The one thing it couldn't buy you was taste. Luckily for me, I had both. But some of the people around here were lacking on the taste front. They decorated their homes like they lived in a manor house. I couldn't stand stuffy, stately looking rooms. Never could. I was not landed gentry. I didn't have a valet, footman, cook, and scullery maid. No use pretending that I was. I wouldn't be fooling anyone.
Imogen sat, took a sip of her drink, and put her feet up on the ottoman while staring at the pitch-black television screen. I sat down next to her, put my feet up, and took a long sip of my scotch.
"Who would do such a thing?" Imogen asked.
She looked puzzled. She looked concerned. There was nothing to worry about. Ted was dead. And, I hated to say it, the world was a little bit better of a place.
"Perhaps things will become a little clearer in the morning. Care to discuss it over breakfast?" I asked.
My phone rang. I answered it, excusing myself from Imogen's company, and walked into the kitchen.
"I need your help," the voice on the other end of the phone said.
Kitty. She was alive. Which meant it was indeed Ted who was dead. Why on earth would she be calling me? I would assume she'd be a tad occupied at the moment. Considering her husband had just died.
"How did you get my number?"
"I saw you outside of my house. Can you help me?"
"I'm not sure what kind of help you need, but surely you need to talk to the police first."
"I already did that. I need to talk to you."
"Then go ahead and talk."
"Not on the phone. Can I come see you?"
"Not tonight. I have company."
"Same old Dutch."
Dutch. She never called me by my name. I took a sip of my drink. It was much better than this conversation.
"I'll be over tomorrow morning," she said, and disconnected our call.
I strolled back into the living room.
"Who was that?"
"Work."
"Oh."
"You staying a while?"
I didn't know why I bothered to ask. That was typically what lovers did. They spent the night. But I liked to pretend I was still on the chase for her affections. She liked to play hard to get.
"I guess."
"Well, why don't you kick off your shoes and get comfortable." Imogen was halfway through her first drink.
"Max, you're terrible."
"I know you mean that in the best possible way, my dear." I leaned over and gave her a kiss.
CHAPTER TWO
Imogen woke me around nine in the morning. I was lying soundly in my bed, wrapped in my down comforter—a cozy cocoon. I was barely awake, quite content to make this morning a leisurely one.
"I've made breakfast, luv."
"That means I have to get out of bed to eat it."
"If you think I'm bringing you your breakfast in bed—"
"I wouldn't have it." I started to rise. "Certainly not after you took all the trouble to make it."
I figured that French toast, eggs, bacon, and hash browns were best eaten at a table.
Jabber was standing by the side of the bed, nose cold as ice, nuzzling my leg, tail wagging. I reluctantly pushed the covers off me, exposing the inner sanctum of my warm sanctuary to the elements. Rolling into a seated position and wiping the sleep from my eyes, I gave her a pat on her head as I stood.
I met Imogen in the kitchen. Jabber followed me.
"Cereal? That's what you cooked up?"
"Who said I cooked anything?"
Annoyed that I would be dining on cereal with soy milk, since Imogen forbade me from bringing dairy into the house due to her dairy allergy, I sat down at the table. She joined me.
I'd gotten used to soy. Or maybe I'd just convinced myself that I'd gotten used to soy. Imogen has claimed that I could, indeed, bring dairy into the house. She's even gone so far as to purchase it. But why bother? If she was allergic to it, I didn't need it. Sure, soy didn't taste like milk. And it certainly didn't taste like cream in my coffee. But we all must make sacrifices for love. Mine just came at the expense of an enjoyable breakfast.
"I did make coffee," Imogen said.
"Gold star for you."
Coffee and cereal with soy milk does not a breakfast make. I would have prepared a proper meal. Pancakes. Breakfast burrito. Fried eggs. Something that requires fire. Cooking. Maybe that's because I liked to think of myself as a chef, but without formal training I was more like an advanced home cook. That was why I'd outfitted my kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances, including a top-of-the-line double oven. It wasn't just there to look pretty or to prove that I could afford one. I actually used it. And I cooked a mean lasagna.
Imogen walked over to the coffee pot on the counter by the oven. She prepared my coffee the way I always took it at home, with soy and two sugars. I needed the sugar to offset the soy. She knew that about me. All the more reason to propose one of these days.
"Here you go." She placed the coffee down in front of me. Hers was already sitting at the table, with a dash of soy.
"Thank you, Imogen."
"So, is anything clearer this morning, Max?"
"The only thing I can focus on right now is trying to ingest some caffeine as soon as humanly possible into this old body of mine."
"Since when is forty old?"
"Since I turned forty."
"Bloody hell, speak for yourself, Max."
I ate my cereal and soy while Imogen peppered me with questions about Ted, none of which I could answer. My phone buzzed, and it was a text message from Kitty saying she'd be at my place in five minutes.
"You might get some answers to this thing in a few," I said.
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to have a visitor shortly. Why don't you stick around?"
"Sure. It's not like I have anything else to do today."
That was true. Besides being a total knockout and having a lovely English accent, Imogen was loaded. Family money mixed with her own hard-earned cash. Like me, Imogen was an investment banker. But unlike me, she'd worked at a proper investment bank before she'd retired five years ago at the ripe old age of thirty-five. I, on the other hand, had made my money from selling dotcoms. Then, once I had some money to play with, I'd started a venture capital firm, and now I spent my days with twenty-somethings that were busy asking me for money to fund the next big thing while Imogen got to work on her tennis game. I was a bit jealous. But I couldn't seem to walk away from work.
"I suggest we both put on some clothes. I don't think anyone wants to see me in my skivvies. But I'm sure plenty of guys would love to get a glimpse of you right now."
"As Moneypenny would say, I'm for your eyes only, Max."
We both threw on some clothes. The best I could muster up was a pair of creased khakis and a blue polo shirt. Imogen was remarkable. She always managed to look like she had just stepped off the runway. Within seconds she had on beautiful cream-colo
red tailored pants and a white button-down blouse that looked like it must have been specifically designed for her. Just another reason why I loved her—the art of the quick change and her willingness to allow me to grace her well-dressed arm.
"Where did you find that outfit?" I asked, since it was different than the clothes that she had on last night.
"Seriously, Max, you really are clueless sometimes. I've taken over half of your closet, or haven't you noticed?"
I hadn't noticed. I didn't know what that said about me. The doorbell rang. In walked Kitty Baxter, all five feet ten of her picturesque frame. She had long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and was dressed in a cream skirt and blue button-down blouse that made her look like a walking Chanel display window. Apparently skirts, pants, and blouses are the uniform of beautiful, well-to-do ladies. I, in stark contrast, looked like a schlep.
"Dutch!" Kitty exclaimed as she grabbed my shoulders and gave me two air kisses.
"Hello, Kitty!" I said, feigning excitement.
Kitty immediately noticed Imogen standing off to her left. She looked at her mischievously, like a kitten sometimes looks at a ball of yarn.
"Allow me to introduce my friend Imogen Whitehall," I said.
"Friend?" Imogen asked.
"Lover?" I asked.
"Getting there."
"Girlfriend," I said, playfully.
Kitty didn't need any insight into my romantic life.
"I guess. For now."
"Kitty Baxter, please allow me to introduce my girlfriend Imogen Whitehall."
Imogen, seemingly shocked by the revelation that this woman was married to the recently deceased Ted Baxter, froze for a moment, staring into space.
"Well that was certainly awkward," Kitty joked. "Pleasure," she said as she extended a hand to shake.
Imogen, now back to her charming self, extended her hand.
"He's incorrigible," Imogen said, shaking hands.
Murder.com Page 1