Sweet Smell of Sucrets
A Reed Ferguson Mystery
First Digital Edition published by Llama Press
copyright 2015 by Renée Pawlish
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially Beth Treat and Janice Horne. If I've forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.
The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.
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Sweet Smell of Sucrets
PROLOGUE
I awoke to total darkness and a pounding in my brain. I blinked a few times, but the blackness remained.
“Who turned off the lights?” I mumbled. Confusion wrapped itself around me. What day was it? What time was it? And most importantly, where was I?
Feet shuffled nearby and then…SMACK!
“Hey, that hurt!” I managed to say. The right side of my face throbbed where he’d punched me. I assumed it was a “he” but in truth, I hadn’t seen “him” because I still couldn’t see anything. I became aware of something covering my eyes. A blindfold. The back of my head hurt, and a fog hung over my befuddled brain. Through a crack where the blindfold didn’t touch my cheek, I saw hardwood floor. Good. A clue. It was almost useless, but still a clue. My head dropped and my chin rested on my chest.
“So you’re awake.” The voice was deep and scratchy. Definitely a “he”. He coughed and cleared his throat. A hand grasped my hair and jerked my head up.
“Yes,” I stated the obvious. “Quit pulling my hair.”
“You don’t tell me what I wanna know, I’m gonna do more than that.”
He was close enough that I felt his hot breath on my cheek. A medicinal smell assaulted my nostrils. Menthol with a little mint, like a Sucrets cough drop. I tried to move my arms and legs but couldn’t. I slowly assessed my situation. I was blindfolded, my hands tied behind my back, my legs strapped to the legs of a hard chair. And this goon was beating me up.
“Why were you meeting Noel Farrell?” the goon growled.
“He asked me to,” I said. That was completely true.
Earlier today – if today was still today, depending on how long I’d been knocked out – a private investigator named Noel Farrell had called and asked me to meet him in Black Hawk, an old mining-turned-gambling town forty miles west of Denver, at five p.m. I’d gotten to the parking garage at the Ameristar Casino Hotel and waited for Farrell, but he never showed. As I walked back to my car, something hit me over the head and I blacked out. And now I was here.
“What did he tell you?” He was still close and I heard the cough drop click on his teeth. Then he hacked a bit and snorted.
“About what?” I asked.
I sensed his moving away. Then SMACK!
“Ugh!” I shook my head, which only served to intensify my headache.
“Farrell must’ve told you something. I gotta hit you again or are you gonna tell me what he said?”
“He didn’t tell me anything.” I felt him cocking his arm to belt me again. “No, wait. Don’t hit me again. I’m telling the truth.”
“Go on.”
A reprieve. I took advantage and talked fast. “Like I said, Farrell called and asked me to meet him in Black Hawk. He said it was urgent, and that he’d make it worth my while. I tried to brush him off but he insisted. I admit, I was curious, so I drove up here. But he never showed. I waited a while and then headed back to my car. Before I got there, someone conked me on the head and I woke up here.” I wisely neglected to accuse this goon of being the one who’d knocked me out, or to point out that he was being terribly inhospitable.
He leaned in close and coughed spittle in my face. Great. Now on top of everything else I might catch his cold.
“That’s it?” he asked, then sniffled.
“Yes.”
I heard him move away, then he began talking in hushed tones to someone else. Another thug to deal with? I caught bits and pieces of their conversation: “doesn’t know”, “check on Farrell”, “before the boss finds out”, and “beat it out of him.” Uh-oh. Footsteps scraped the floor as he approached. I caught another whiff of that sweet, menthol breath and he sniffled. I braced myself for another punch.
Then someone said, “What’re you doing?”
Was that a third voice? Or was that thug number two? My muddled brain didn’t want to work.
“I’m takin’ care of it,” the menthol breath said.
More whispering, and then, “You better and make sure it doesn’t come back on us or you’ll rue the day you were born.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sucrets approached and got in my face again. “Farrell didn’t say why he wanted to see you?”
“You keep asking, but it’s the same answer,” I said. “Tell you what, if I suddenly remember the why, I’ll call you.”
SMACK!
Ouch! Me and my big mouth.
“Then you’re not useful to me anymore.”
“Good. Untie me and I’ll go home.”
“You wish.” He chuckled, coughed once, then moved away. A moment later, both thugs approached. Sucrets said, “Open up.”
He planted his fingers on my face. His grip hurt my sore jaw as he pried my mouth open. I fought against him, but his strong hands held my head back. I was powerless. They poured something down my throat. Whiskey. It burned. I gagged and spit some out.
The other thug cursed. “Hold him!” His voice was high-pitched and squeaky. He poured more whiskey into me and this time Sucrets held my mouth shut.
I struggled and forced myself not to swallow, but eventually I lost that battle. The whiskey felt like fire as I choked it down. I took frantic breaths through my nose, whiskey blowing out. Sucrets let go and I sputtered and coughed, sucking in deep breaths and then hacking.
Sucrets yanked my head back again. They dumped more whiskey in my mouth and forced my jaw closed again. I fought against them but it was useless. Ironically, a warmth passed through me as the alcohol took effect, and I struggled less the third time. By the fourth time, most of the fight had gone out of me.
They backed off and I sat there, chin on my chest, face wet with whiskey and snot. It didn’t take long before I felt woozy.
“How much more?” the other thug asked.
“At least another,” Sucrets said, then coughed.
“It’s all good,” I slurred.
They got another good dose into me. They backed away and talked in low tones, but I was oblivious. A relaxed feeling settled over me and my jaw stopped aching. It was kind of nice, but it didn’t last. The next thing I knew, they were untying my legs. I made a feeble attempt to kick them. Then Sucrets jerked me to my feet.
“Where are we going?” I asked as he steered me forward. I tripped and he grabbed me before I fell. He stuck his arm behind my back, up under my arms, and he half-walked, half-dragged me across the room.
“This way, buddy,” he said.
A door opened and cold wind hit me.
“Get him out here,” Squeaky said.
Through the crack in the blindfold I saw snow on the ground. I tried to look up but my head flopped around like a rag doll.
“Where are his car keys?” Sucrets asked.
“I left them in the car,” Squeaky answered.
“Aw, you brought my car, how “nishe”.” My voice sounded funny, all the words full of a “sh” sound. Shound…
They steered me though powder snow for about twenty yards. A car door opened.
“Wait,” I said. “This i
s like North by Northwest, where the bad guys make Cary Grant drive drunk, hoping he’ll crash the car.”
“Same idea, but you ain’t Cary Grant, bud,” Sucrets said.
“No one is,” I snorted. I was trying for miffed. My mother did miffed really well, but I didn’t think I was succeeding. Well, I was drunk, after all.
“Get his ass in the car,” Squeaky said.
“Where are we?” I tried to see around the blindfold, but wasn’t having any luck.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sucrets said. He forced me into the driver’s seat. My hands were still tied behind my back so I leaned forward. Through the blindfold slit I saw the steering wheel.
“Having me drive drunk is such a cliché,” I said. Hey – finally a word that comes out pronounced perfectly, even when you’re drunk. Too bad everything else was a slurred mess.
The driver’s side door slammed shut and I was momentarily alone. Then the passenger door opened and a heavy body slid into the seat next to me.
“Put this on,” Squeaky said to Sucrets.
I had no idea what that meant until they untied my hands. I stretched my arms, then yanked off the blindfold. It was night, but the car’s dome light seemed glaringly bright to me. I squinted as I looked around. Sucrets sat next to me in my 4-Runner, a black ski mask covering his face. Just his eyes and mouth showed through slits in the mask. He clicked the cough drop on his teeth as he sneered at me. He was big, with a thick chest and large hands. One of them held a gun, and it was trained on me.
“Hurry up,” Squeaky said. He was leaning on the passenger door, and his face was covered with a ski mask as well.
I turned and glanced through the rear window. I thought I saw a big house and a couple of small lights through tall evergreen trees, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Hands on the wheel,” Sucrets instructed. He jiggled the gun. “Don’t make me shoot you.”
“Ten and two,” I said, gripping the wheel. “What about my seatbelt?”
Sucrets let out a short laugh. “You won’t need it.” He looked back at High-pitched. “I got it from here.”
“You sure this is going to work?” Squeaky asked.
“There’s plenty of spots on the road with steep drop-offs. With the snow and icy roads, he’ll crash,” Sucrets said.
High-pitched stepped away from the 4-Runner and slammed the door. Sucrets reached out and started the car, then put it into gear. “Drive.”
We were parked on a snow-covered road that glowed silver in the moonlight. Evergreens towered on either side of us, along with the occasional barren aspen. The 4-Runner started moving.
“Where’s the gas pedal?” I muttered. My feet connected with the gas and we lurched forward. “You know that Cary Grant survived, right?”
“No one messed with his brakes,” Sucrets said.
“Oh, that’s cold.” I tapped on the brakes, and sure enough, they felt soft. Then my foot slipped and hit the gas pedal. We picked up speed. I concentrated on the road. It seemed to wind every which way. I hit the brakes again, but nothing happened. “There’s no brakes.”
“Good,” Sucrets said. “You keep driving. Here’s where I get off.” He opened the passenger door and a blast of cold air hit us. He threw me a wicked grin, and then he was gone. The door swung out, then back. It latched with a loud click.
I looked in the rearview mirror. Sucrets had rolled to a stop on the side of the road. The last I saw of him, he was standing up and brushing himself off. Then I careened around a bend in the road and lost sight of him. The 4-Runner slid and I instinctively hit the brakes again. And, of course, nothing happened.
The road zigged and zagged. And the 4-Runner careened along helplessly. They needn’t have disabled the brakes. The road was icy enough as it was and I was having plenty of trouble steering.
“What’s with this road?” I slurred to myself. “It won’t stay straight.”
The car continued to pick up speed, and I couldn’t stop it. A grove of tall, leafless aspen trees loomed on the left side of the road, dark skeletons against the white snowy backdrop. I couldn’t control the 4-Runner. Was this going to be it for me? I wasn’t even forty. I didn’t have kids. I hadn’t written a bestselling novel about my detecting adventures.
As the snow flew past, I thought about my girlfriend, Willie. Our relationship was solid. I’d asked her to move in and it was working out. The condo sometimes seemed a bit small, but waking up with her by my side each morning made up for that. And just this past summer she’d met my parents for the first time and it had gone well. Which was saying something, considering my mother. She could really be a challenge. But the two were practically best friends. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but they seemed to enjoy each other’s company. I could picture a future with Willie in my life permanently. And that didn’t mean because she was putting flowers on my tombstone once a year.
And my poor mother. If I died like this, driving drunk – even though “coerced drunkenness” fell into the “technically it wasn’t my fault” category – she would be mortified…after she got over her grief. The way I died would feed into one of her worst fears, that I was doing drugs. It was an argument I’d lose, and not just because I wouldn’t be able to talk to her from beyond the grave. She never believed me, anyway.
I shook my head. “I’m not ready to die!” I said loudly.
With that, I concentrated hard on driving. I took in a deep breath, then regretted it as the sudden influx of oxygen made me lightheaded. I gripped the wheel harder and stared at the road. I was having trouble figuring out exactly where it was because of all the snow. Suddenly I saw tire tracks that veered to the left.
Go that way, I thought and whipped the wheel around counterclockwise.
The 4-Runner crossed into the oncoming traffic lane, not that you could see the lane.
“Overcorrection!” I yelled as the 4-Runner slid toward the other side of the road.
I spun the wheel in the opposite direction, expecting the car to come out of its skid. Instead, it kept going. I braced myself as the car plowed off the road and down a ditch. The 4-Runner slammed into a tree with a sickening crunch of metal. I pitched forward and the airbag suddenly deployed, slamming me squarely in the face.
“Ow!” I groaned. I pushed myself back. “Oh man! This was a brand new car.” Then I promptly passed out.
CHAPTER ONE
“Hey buddy.”
Wait, who was that? I tried to speak, but my mouth felt like it was crammed with cotton balls.
Someone touched my shoulder.
“Whew. Smells like he’s had a little too much to drink,” another nasally voice said.
I pried my eyes open and saw something white that was stuck to my face. I moved a bit, pushing fabric out of the way, then saw the 4-Runner dashboard. What? Images flashed in my mind like a movie. I’d been driving in a snowstorm. I’d crashed and the airbag had deployed. But where the hell was I? I turned my head to the left. A man with a square face and steel jaw leaned on the open car door and peered down on me. He had on the green-shirt-and-tan-pants uniform of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. His heavy overcoat hung open and snow was on his hat. His nameplate said Blankenship.
“Where am I?” I asked, my voice thick. My nose hurt like hell.
“On Golden Gate Canyon Road, west of Golden,” he replied.
“How much have you had to drink?” It was that other voice, the one that belonged to Blankenship’s partner. He stood looking over Blankenship’s shoulder. He was wiry with a wrinkled brow and glasses perched on a thin nose. He reminded me of a history professor I’d had at Harvard.
“I don’t know,” I said. My right temple ached and something warm oozed into my eye.
“Hey,” Blankenship said. “Look at that face, all bruised and bloody.” He shook his head. “That’s what an airbag can do.”
“It wasn’t the airbag,” I mumbled.
“Who knows what kind of injuries he’s got,” the professorial one s
aid. “Better leave him there, wait until the paramedics arrive.”
“I’m okay,” I protested. To prove it, I swung my legs out of the car and proceeded to stand up. Then I promptly toppled over into Blankenship.
“Yeah, you’re okay.” He propped me back up against the 4-Runner and pressed a hand to my shoulder to keep me upright. “Help is on the way.”
“Not very smart to drink and drive,” the professorial one said, one hand on his gun. “And in a snowstorm. Brilliant.”
“Officer…” I peered closely at him. “What is your name?”
“Ingle.”
“Officer Ingle, I…” I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts. “They made me drink.”
Ingle shook his head. “Figures. Always blame someone else.”
“It’s true,” I went on. “There were two of them. They opened my mouth and poured whiskey down my throat.” I passed a hand over my shirt. It was wet and reeked of alcohol. “See, I tried to fight them off and they spilled it on me.”
Ingle exchanged a glance with Blankenship. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s true,” I said, gathering up all the self-righteousness I could.
I stared at them, attempting to be cool, but by the looks on their faces, I could tell I wasn’t succeeding. I glanced around. A few inches of snow covered the road and ground, and our breath created little fog clouds. I shivered. Sirens sounded from afar.
“Here comes your ride,” Blankenship said. “We’ll take you to the ER, get you patched up, and take a blood sample. Although I can tell right now that you’re going to get a DUI.”
I waved my hand in protest and the movement caused my stomach to roil. I bent over and wretched. So unlike my cinematic inspiration, Humphrey Bogart. I’m sure he never ralphed on his shoes.
“Hey!” Blankenship backpedaled away from me.
“I’m okay,” I said, then dropped to my knees.
The sirens grew louder, and a moment later an ambulance pulled up and stopped behind the 4-Runner. Doors opened and slammed shut. A couple of paramedics approached, half-rolling, half-dragging a stretcher through the snow.
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