The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)
Page 22
At this point, the only way out would be to turn around or finish the Walk, since there were no emergency exits on this last stretch of the path.
“Patrice,” I called out, competing with the waves crashing below.
I finally got her attention. She turned back and waved.
I caught up with her, stepping over loose rocks, nearly falling. “Why didn’t you wake me this morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep, Hank, so I started out early.” She glanced behind me. “No sign of Luke?”
I gazed past her at the rocky beach, or more specifically, at an object near a large boulder a few feet from the water. Whatever it was, it sparkled in the morning sun. I kept my eye on it as I negotiated the rocks and stepped onto the sand. The closer I got, the stronger the glint from the object became.
A shoe? As I inched closer, I realized it wasn’t just any shoe. It was a red, open-sided pump, with a three-inch heel and a rhinestone buckle.
My head darted about, eyes hunting for the owner. How many women wore expensive heels along a rocky trail or the beach? Who would walk along this beach at all without a lifeguard present? I had a sinking suspicion the shoe belonged to the blond with whom Luke DuPont had shared a table at The Nautical Pub. My flimsy hope was that she’d only lost it.
Patrice stared at the shoe, expressionless, then knelt down to peer at it more closely. She removed a hanky from her belly bag and handed it up to me. With the hanky, I lifted the pump to the sun, squinted at it, but didn’t find any blood. Aside from the heel angling off to one side, the shoe was intact. Spying a large boulder near the water, I jogged over to it, but Ms. Size Seven was nowhere to be found.
I wrapped the heel in the hanky and handed it to Patrice, who glared at it. I suspected she was thinking about the owner—or rather, her fiancé and the owner.
Scanning the shoreline without binoculars, I could only see sand, and nothing floating along the coast.
“Let’s have a look around.”
For the next hour we trudged across boulders, pushed through high, unpruned hedges, and wound up at Bailey’s Beach at the east end of the walk. I looked down and understood why the locals called it Reject’s Beach. No one in his right mind would attempt the descent to the glacial boulders, riprap, and Armour stone to the water.
We retraced our steps to where we’d found the shoe. Patrice said, “Hank, it looks like foul play, but I swear Luke wouldn’t be a part of something like that.”
Her comments seemed way premature, as though she felt the need to protect Luke. I wasn’t about to accuse anyone at this point. Besides, one shoe in the sand might be nothing more than a wild night on the beach. But I’d keep that thought to myself. I did hope the blond was still alive and willing to help us find Luke.
“Let’s not speculate,” is all I said. As a detective from another state potentially holding evidence to a crime, I had to make an executive decision. “We might have to visit the locals soon. I mean, the shoe could mean nothing, but given Luke’s disappearance…”
Patrice said nothing, gave a reluctant nod.
I drew my cell phone from my pants pocket and asked Patrice for Luke’s phone number. I let it ring until his voicemail greeting came on, and then hung up. As we retraced out steps back, I kept dialing, praying his phone hadn’t run out of juice. As we approached Gull Rock Tunnel, I stopped and dialed once again. This time, the ring from his phone sang out ever so softly.
“You hear that?”
Patrice looked around. “No.”
One more call. “Now?”
“Nothing.”
My eyes searched the crevices between the rocks. “There!” I took off, pressing the call button again.
“I hear it!” Patrice ran past me, jumping over a few smaller, flat rocks. “Call again.”
I did. She stopped. “I see something shiny.” She stuck her hand between two rocks and scooped up the phone. Emotionally charged, she was neglecting protocol. Her damn fingerprints were all over the thing now! She didn’t stop there. Next to the phone was another object, silver, and round in shape. A medal?
She held up the phone in one hand and the medal in the other. I called one more time.
“It’s his—Luke’s—and this is his St. Christopher medal.”
With her fingerprints on both.
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Acknowledgments
Next to completing my first novel, nothing gives me more satisfaction than to thank all those involved. If not for my family, friends, and professional acquaintances, I would not be writing this.
This book exists thanks to the efforts of Roz Greenberg at Tekno Books, who validated my writing and presented it to Five Star Books. And as for Tracey Matthews and the gang at Five Star for putting it all together, and of course, my copy editor, Gretchen Gordon, a big thanks.
My deepest appreciation to Mike Vogel, a great friend and mentor, who persistently reminded me that less is best. A special thanks to Nelson DeMille for his generosity in reading part of the manuscript. He guided me away from the landmines. Another big thank you to my editor, Alice Duncan, for identifying errors and cleaning up my work. Thanks to my friends at MWA, for their support and encouragement. Thanks also to my budding writer friends at the Writer’s Group of Abacoa, particularly Judy Lucas, our commander in chief.
During the first draft, Anne Barnett helped with her critical eye. Thanks, sister. And for the final cleanup, thanks to Marla Berger.
For their technical support, I’d like to thank the folks at the Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office. Thanks to Keith Hernandez and Richard Dimarino, from DHQ Solutions, who gave my website a fantastic look. A special thanks to Charles Johnson who constantly saved my work from crashing.
I could have never come this far if it were not for my wife, Sonia, my muse, researcher, and toughest (affectionate) critic. Many times, she kept my frustration in check. Thanks, honey, now on to the next book. And thanks to my son, Mark, whose love and support kept me going, and whose psychology background kept the book authentic.
I’m sure I missed a few folks, and I apologize in advance. You know who you are. Thank you all.
And finally, thanks to Paul Lichtenberg, where it all began.
Also by Fred Lichtenberg
The Hank Reed Mystery Series
The Art of Murder
Murder on the Rocks
Mental Case
About the Author
Fred Lichtenberg is a native New Yorker who lives in Jupiter, Florida. After spending a career as a Field Agent with the IRS, Fred changed gears from crunching numbers to creating fictitious villains and heroes. The Art of Murder, the first in the Hank Reed Mystery Series, begins with the murder of an outside celebrity living in a small community on Long Island. Fred has just completed Murder on the Rocks, his second book in the Hank Reed Mystery Series. Murder on the Rocks takes Hank Reed from Paris to Newport, Rhode Island, Boston, and New York City, in search of a missing person presumably involved in a whistleblower investigation. The book should be available in April 2019.
Fred has also written several stand-alone novels: Double Trouble: Mistaken identity grips this thriller when an identical twin separated at birth enters a dangerous game of cat and mouse with the mob. Deadly Heat at The Cottages: Sex, Murder, and Mayhem: A humorous South Florida story with a wacky host of characters all living in a retirement community, where people are literally dying to move in. Murder 1040: The Final Audit, is an action-packed suspense thriller that plunges readers into the complex realm of one of America’s most shrouded government agencies.
Fred also wrote Retired: Now What? A humorous bent on finding life into the golden years.
In addition to writing mystery novels, Fred has written short stories and a
one-act play titled The Second Time Around … Again, about finding love in a nursing home, performed at the Lake Worth Playhouse.
Fred is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers.
www.fredlichtenberg.com