by S. L. Menear
Gwen wasn’t planning an execution. She would catch the killer in the act of carjacking, arrest him, and prevent another murder. This time, she knew where to cast her line. Honoring her aunt, she wore Guinevere’s Lance, pinned to a sash around her waist. Emboldened by the ancient weapon disguised as a fancy brooch, Gwen thought of all the noble women in her family line who had fought for justice.
Barnes was clever, having escaped prosecution for almost two decades. Catching and convicting him through legitimate law enforcement tactics wouldn’t be easy, but she would find a way. Her moral compass didn’t include murder, even if she knew the target deserved it.
Gwen followed Barnes onto I-95N, a busy twelve-lane divided expressway. He darted from one lane to another, and she lost sight of him behind a big FEDEX truck. By the time she passed the truck, the white Cadillac had vanished.
“Darn it, where is he?” She sped ahead, trying to spot him.
Gwen never noticed that Gary Barnes had maneuvered behind her.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Barnes had spotted a white Mercedes roadster following him near his house. The same car one of my clients wants, but why am I being followed?
Always careful, he led his tail onto the expressway where he weaved in and out of traffic. He timed it just right to get behind his quarry and take a picture of the license plate. Then he dropped back and took the first exit her Mercedes had passed.
Barnes pulled behind a building and called his paid informant in the Miami Police Department. “Hey, Bennie, it’s Gary. I need you to run a plate for me.” He recited the info and waited. In seconds, he had the name, address, and occupation of the car’s owner. “Huh, a detective with the Palm Beach Police. Thanks.”
He called his crew and arranged for them to keep tabs on her. From then on, whenever she followed him, they followed her. Barnes noticed she always used her own vehicle. Is she doing this for personal reasons?
He called his inside man at the Miami P.D. “Bennie, I need a background check on Palm Beach Police Detective Gwen Stuart. Go way back. I’m looking for a personal connection to me.”
Thirty minutes later, Barnes got the report. “Ten years ago? Oh, right, the white Mercedes on Banyan Isle with three people.” He listened a moment. “She’s the daughter? Thanks.” Perfect, I can take care of her and get the car I need.
Gwen discovered Barnes drove a different car every day, exchanging them at a large maintenance garage in Miami. His daytime activities varied, so she had to spot him leaving home first thing in the morning, or she’d lose him for the day. She had a better idea: meet him at a sleazy bar in Hialeah where he spent most of his evenings. She would wear a wire. I’ll go there near closing time. Maybe he’ll be plastered by then and let something slip I can use against him.
Later that night, her heart hammered her chest as she parked behind the bar in a dark corner of the lot and switched on her two-hour recording device. Wearing a long, black, human-hair wig, she strutted toward the rear entrance tarted up in a low-cut top, miniskirt, and red spike heels.
She never made it inside. Two brutes rushed up and grabbed her arms.
Gwen screamed, “Let go!” and tried to kick them.
A third guy plunged a needle into the side of her neck, and in seconds her muscles became sluggish.
“Noooo!” She made a feeble attempt to jerk free.
As she collapsed onto the pavement, a man took her purse, fished out her car keys, and popped open the trunk. The other two guys picked her up and dropped her inside.
As they were closing the lid, one said, “Here’s her purse and keys, boss. I gave her just enough ketamine to leave her awake and weak.”
Gwen lay in darkness, trembling and terrified, her muscles sluggish and unresponsive. Who had taken her, and where were they going? She was unarmed and helpless. They had her purse with her Glock and cell phone. Would she end up like her parents?
After twenty minutes, the car stopped. Struggling to move, she managed to turn her wrist and check her watch—12:25 a.m. When the trunk lid popped open, the only light came from the bulb in the trunk and moonlight filtering in through the high windows inside an empty warehouse. She gasped, her eyes widening at the man who had opened the trunk.
Gary Barnes grabbed Gwen and yanked her out onto the cement floor. He dragged her ten feet from the car.
He’s smiling the same way he did the night he killed my parents.
“We meet again, Detective Gwen Stuart. This time, I’ll have a little fun with you before I finish what I started ten years ago.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she realized her fatal mistake.
He stroked her wig hair. “Good choice. I like brunettes. And thanks for the car. I needed a new Mercedes roadster for a buyer in South America.”
His cell rang. “I hope you don’t mind waiting while I take this.” He turned and walked past her car.
Gwen managed to move her head slightly, side to side, and spotted an old clawfoot bathtub nearby. A five-gallon can of gasoline sat beside it.
Oh God, he’s going to burn me alive!
Gwen struggled to clear her mind, clenched her jaw, and concentrated on moving. Her right hand slowly crawled over her sash. Fumbling, she withdrew the syringe from Guinevere’s Lance, pulled back the plunger, and filled it with air. She hid it under her hand, close beside her body as she lay on the hard concrete. Hope I can inject him if the opportunity comes. He won’t be sedated like the others were, and he might not die fast.
Barnes returned and flipped open a switchblade, holding it in his left hand. “Did you notice the tub and gas can?” He sneered. “It’ll save your relatives the cost of cremation. But first, I’ll cut off your clothes and enjoy making you regret going after me.” His evil eyes danced with anticipation.
“Please,” Gwen whispered, fighting for control, her heart racing. “Answer one question.” Each minute she delayed him increased her strength.
He kneeled between her legs and leaned forward close enough for her to smell his whisky breath. “What?”
She cringed. “Why did you shoot me and my parents? You already had the car.”
He laughed, licked his lips, and leaned inches from her face, his hands braced on the floor. “I enjoy killing people.”
Summoning all her strength, Gwen seized the moment and stabbed the short needle into his left carotid artery. His evil eyes were inches from hers as she pushed the plunger to the stop, injecting him with a lethal dose of air.
His knife clattered to the floor as he grabbed at her hand, but it was too late.
Crippling pain shot through his chest as his face contorted. Barnes stiffened, eyes bulging as he clutched his chest and keeled over onto his right side, gasping and writhing in agony.
Gwen’s body shook as she pulled out the crystal syringe and breathed in quick gasps. She slid the syringe inside the brooch and felt around for his knife. Mustering her strength one more time, she grasped the hilt, reached across herself, and plunged the knife into the exact spot where the needle had entered his neck, masking the needle mark. She pushed it in as far as it would go, soaking his shirt with blood seconds before his heart stopped.
As she watched him die, she thought about her parents. Ten years of repressed anger and hatred turned to numbness in an instant. Her fierce passion for justice, inherited from noble women across the centuries, had been satisfied without violating her moral code. She shuddered and burst into tears.
Gwen lay trapped beside his body, unable to move anything but her arms. Praying the ketamine would wear off fast, she gazed down at the ancient weapon that bore her name and considered the ironic turn of events. Guinevere’s Lance had saved her life, despite her refusal to act as an executioner.
As she lay on her back beside the dead serial killer, a terrifying reality hit her. What if his buddies come before the drug wears off?
She strained, listening to every sound and constantly testing her legs. I have to get out of here!
It was thirty minu
tes before she gained enough control to stagger to her feet. She sucked in a deep breath and looked at the man who had orphaned her ten years ago. His murderous rampage was over.
Not wanting to explain any of this to the police, Gwen ensured she’d left no trace of herself on the knife, the body, or the floor. Better to just put it behind her. She slid her hand under her shirt and turned off the recorder. Insurance I hope I’ll never need.
She stumbled back to her roadster. Her purse with its contents intact lay on the passenger seat. During the drive home, Gwen relived the horrific scene in the warehouse.
Never killed anyone before. I feel sick.
Her gut twisted. She pulled off the road, opened the door, and stumbled around to the passenger side. Dropping to her hands and knees on the grass, she put her head down and vomited.
Wiping her mouth, she realized her nightmare was finally over. She had slain the dragon in self-defense.
No matter what the future held, she’d never be the same.
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Page Ahead for an Excerpt From:
Dropped Dead
Afterword
Banyan Isle is a fictitious residential barrier island on the east coast of South Florida, north of Singer Island and south of Juno Beach.
The Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach and its famous Seafood Bar are real places, and so are the many beautiful ballrooms in the hotel. The ceilings are spectacular works of art, and the entire property is a delightful blend of Old-World elegance and modern luxury with several fabulous restaurants, a beach, four swimming pools, tennis courts, and a golf course.
All the restaurants in the story, except for those on fictional Banyan Isle, are real and are as described. The Kravis Center for the Performing Arts in downtown West Palm Beach is real, and I’ve enjoyed concerts, operas, ballets, and plays there.
There are many pilot communities in Florida, but Aerodrome Estates is a fictitious place. The nearby international speedway with the two-mile, ten-turn road course is real.
Pura Vida Divers on Singer Island is a real dive shop with top-notch personnel, dive equipment, and instruction. I’ve never dived below 100 feet, so PADI Tec Deep Instructor Justin Newton from Pura Vida Divers advised me on the deep-water dive scenes and agreed to be a character in the book.
There are several Aero L-39 Albatros fighter-trainer jets owned and operated by pilots in South Florida. When the Soviet Union broke apart, Russia sold many of their Czech-manufactured jets to private U.S. citizens for reasonable prices. The sleek, tandem-seat fighter jets are often seen at airshows.
Jett’s Timber-shepherd puppies are based on Timber-shepherds I had for fourteen years. Their names were Pratt and Whitney, named after my favorite aircraft engine manufacturer. They never had an accident in my house, and they took a protective stance when a stranger approached me their first day at our home.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for my many blessings.
Because of the pandemic, I was unable to enjoy my favorite restaurants and writing spots. But that didn’t stop Niko Bujaj, the kind and generous owner of The Islander Grill and Tiki Bar on Singer Island, from bringing care baskets to my home to ensure I never ran out of essentials, like toilet paper, hand sanitizer, masks, and gloves. He did the same for many others, gratis. And I can honestly say his restaurant is my absolute favorite. The food is always delicious, and the live music provides a fun atmosphere for dining and dancing. Thank you, Niko.
Many thanks to authors Jeffrey Philips, Nancy Cohen, Ray Flynt, Dallas Gorham, Laura Burke, Richard Brumer, and D.M. Littlefield for their helpful advice.
My sincere thanks to the good people at Pura Vida Divers on Singer Island, Florida. The owners previewed and approved the dive chapters, and PADI Tec Deep Instructor Justin Newton advised me on correct procedures and equipment for deep dives. He also helped me include the varied sea life my divers would encounter at depth and was a good sport about being a character in the novel. I highly recommend their dive shop to anyone for a safe and rewarding dive experience.
A big thank you to marine biologist and long-time scuba diver Kip Peterson for his sage advice. Author Jeffrey Philips is also a long-time scuba diver who retired from Pura Vida Divers. His critiques of my dive scenes were very helpful. Thank you, Jeffrey.
I especially want to thank my brilliant critique partners, mystery authors Fred Lichtenberg and George A. Bernstein, for their hard work and helpful insights that always improve my writing.
I am grateful to my beta readers, Robert Metz, Suzanne Berglind, and Tina Chippas for their valuable insights and helpful observations. Thank you.
Dropped Dead
A Jettine Jorgensen Mystery, Book 2
Just when I thought my life had returned to normal, the strangest thing happened.
My dog nanny, Sophia, who had become a trusted friend, strolled beside me as we followed my four-month-old Timber-shepherd puppies across the broad back lawn. A cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic Ocean on my six-acre estate on Banyan Isle, a residential barrier island off the eastern coast of South Florida.
She pointed at the dogs and laughed. “I love to watch them wrestle and play.”
“They’re smart too. I think it’s the timber wolf in them.” I watched as they stopped under a tree and stared up at something.
“That’s odd. Look how still they’re sitting with their noses in the air.”
I glanced up. “Buzzards are circling.”
“Something stinks, but it doesn’t smell like a dead fish.” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe a hawk left his kill up there.”
I called, “Here, Pratt! Here, Whitney!”
The puppies, named after my favorite aircraft engine manufacturer, looked back at us, hesitated, and ran to me.
Pratt, a honey-colored male, and Whitney, a black and tan female, were agitated about something. Each dog gave a sharp bark then bounded back to the tree.
Sophia frowned. “Might be an intruder hiding. Where’s the armed guard?”
“I think he just started his check of the front yard, and I didn’t bring a weapon. I thought the danger ended last month.” I pulled out my cell phone in case I had to call for help. “I wasn’t expecting trouble, especially this early in the morning.” The ground was still moist with dew.
“No worries.” She pulled a Glock from under her shirt at the small of her back. “I’ve got us covered.”
At five-nine, I towered over her four-ten, slender frame. Sixty, she seemed too tiny for the weapon in her hand, but she wasn’t afraid to use it. The feisty daughter of a late New York Mafia kingpin feared nothing.
The massive banyan tree, its canopy spreading over multiple trunks, was like a small forest. We eased under it to where the puppies sat, their noses skyward.
I looked up and gasped. “Holy cow, I wasn’t expecting this!”
Glassy blue eyes, wide open in a macabre look of terror, stared down at me. His clothes ragged and torn, a man in his late twenties, tangled in stout branches, had his arms bent at odd angles. A thin line of dried blood ringed his neck. But it wasn’t until my gaze traveled to his lower legs that murder was evident. His feet formed the most bizarre pieces of the puzzle, mired in cement-filled buckets wedged between branches.<
br />
Sophia, accustomed to encountering corpses during her Mafia days in New York, commented, “Looks like somebody meant to fly over and drop him in the ocean but hit fifty yards short.” She shook her head. “Reminds me of my family. I don’t approve of what they do, but they’re pros. They wouldn’t have missed the water.”
My stomach churned. “This is terrible. His family will be devastated, and what will the police think when I call in another dead body?”
“Who cares what the cops think? You don’t know the guy in the tree, right?”
I studied his face. “Oh geez, I didn’t recognize him at first.” Memories of awkward teenage kisses and fun dates to the movies flooded my brain. We had been classmates at Banyan Isle Prep School all four years and briefly dated in our junior year.
“Who is he?”
“Chad Townsend. His parents live five houses down.” My voice caught. “Haven’t seen him since about four years before I joined the Navy.”
“A sad waste of a handsome man, and his parents will be crushed.” Sophia put an arm around me. “I’d be devastated if anything bad happened to one of my sons.”
I bit my lip and hit the number for Mike Miller, my old boyfriend from college days, now a detective with the Banyan Isle Police. Six years ago, he stopped speaking to me because I joined the Navy. Recent events had forced him to talk to me again, and his cold attitude toward me had thawed now that my stint in the Navy had ended.
I put my phone on SPEAKER for Sophia. “Mike, it’s Jett.”
His deep voice answered, “You sound upset. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated, not sure how he would react, considering the murders here last month. “Sorry about this, but I found a dead guy in one of my trees.”