The Deadliest Sins

by Rick Reed

  USOC, or Unsolved Serial and Organized Crime, is not a real FBI task force and is solely my creation.

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  Don’t miss the next exciting Jack Murphy thriller

  The Cleanest Kill

  Coming soon from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt . . .

  Chapter 1

  Thirty-seven years earlier

  Two days before the Thanksgiving championship game, Maximillian Alexander Day, varsity wide receiver for the Monarchs, Rex Mundi High School’s football team, stood behind the bleachers before practice. This weekend would be the playoff game against their rival, the Central Bears. He was supposed to be in the locker room with the rest of the team, checking equipment, gearing up. He didn’t care. He was waiting for cheerleading practice to take a break. He was waiting for Ginger. He could hear the raucous noise coming from school fans and die-hard parents sitting above him in the bleachers.

  He was small for an offensive wide receiver and a defensive corner back, but he was fast and strong and gave as good as he got. Last year he’d sacked Rex Mundi’s quarterback, Richard Dick, three times. This year he was supposed to protect the prick.

  In his senior year, Max had transferred from Central High School to Rex Mundi Catholic High School at the insistence of his parents. His father’s reasoning was Catholic high schools had less violence, more supervision, and discipline was enforced by the Catholic nuns. Max knew kids from Catholic high schools that swore the crucifixes hanging around the nun’s necks were actually throwing stars. According to Max’s parents, he was sorely lacking in discipline.

  His little sister, Reina, younger by one year, had been allowed to stay at Central. She was a junior this year. She was the perfect child, whereas he was the defect child. She excelled at scholarly things and etiquette. He excelled at physical confrontations and getting attention from girls. Max was known at both schools as Mad Max because of his temper and aggressive manner—and because his initials spelled M.A.D.

  Even before the ink dried on his transfer, the Rex Mundi football coach had approached him and asked if he could play as hard against the Bears as he’d played against the Monarchs. Max had said yes. He didn’t care who he creamed on the field. Truth be told, he didn’t care for sports, but he liked hitting people—hard—and he liked the varsity football letter jacket. It was a chick magnet.

  The girl he currently had his eye on was cheerleader Ginger Purdie, with her copper-colored ringlets bouncing around her shoulders and sweeping across perfect breasts as she led the cheers, urging them to victory. Max felt an urge too. He didn’t know her name last year when he was with Central, but he had noticed her. He was sure she’d noticed him, too.

  In addition to being head cheerleader, Max heard she was the queen of Rex Mundi’s junior prom and was to be queen again at the end of this semester. No surprise there. She was the prettiest girl in school. And of course, the king of the prom would be the quarterback of the varsity team, her longtime boyfriend, Richard Dick, aka Greased Lightning. Max was determined to change the buffoon’s name to Greased Monkey because Ginger would slip right through the quarterback’s hands and be picked off by wide receiver Mad Max.

  The cheers ended. Clapping and shouts and hoots came from above. Max stepped forward in time to watch Ginger bounce and jiggle and whip her curls around until she spotted him. She smiled at him and scurried off the field with every blue-blooded male’s eyes following her, but her eyes flirted only with Max. She ran to the sidelines and joined the usual team enthusiasts. Max waited for her to turn around so he could motion her over.

  The tunnel leading to the locker room where the team was gearing up was just behind him, but Max wasn’t worried about Greased Lightning. In fact, he wished the arrogant asshole was watching Ginger brazenly flirting with him. Suddenly Ginger turned, stopped bouncing, and held out one of her pom-poms toward him. The smile had faded from her face. Max smiled and motioned her to come over, and something hard struck him in the back of the head. He fell down face-first but cushioned himself with his hands and arms. He’d taken harder hits both on and off the field.

  Max lifted his face and pushed himself up to his knees. Richard “Greased Lightning” Dick stood looming over him, helmet in one hand, the other bunched into a fist.

  Chickenshit hit me with his helmet.

  Dick was tall, with blond hair combed into bangs down into his blue eyes. For a quarterback, he appeared less strong and solidly built than stringy and rangy. He had earned the name “Greased Lightning” because of his uncanny ability to hit the receiver with every pass and slip through any offense.

  “Better stay down, Max-I-mill-Yun,” Dick said, stretching Max’s name out insultingly. “That’s some lame shit name. Your mom must’ve been on drugs.”

  “Maybe she was on the end of my dick,” Dennis James said. Dennis was one of Dick’s sidekicks. “I’ve been doing her since I was a baby. Maybe Mad Max is my kid,” James taunted.

  Carl Needham piped in, “Have you seen his mom, Den? I wouldn’t let my dog do her. She’s a sow.”

  Carl wasn’t on the team, but he might as well have been because the only way you could separate him from Dick was with a crowbar. Dennis James was a loser, but Carl was clever.

  Bullies never travel alone. While Max was still doubled over, Dennis and Carl hurled more insults, one grunting like a pig, the other repeatedly making motions like he was rooting in the mud. Needham hawked up some snot and spat it on the ground beside Max.

  Max stood, brushed some grit from the front of his letter jacket and his knees, smiled, and deftly broke Dick’s nose.

  Only Dennis James made a move forward but was halted by a shake of Max’s head. “Dennis, you’re such a dumb shit. If my mom was on the end of your dick when I was a baby, that means you were still in your mama’s belly. Come to think of it, your dick is probably still that small. If you talk about my mother again, I’ll tear your head off and shit down your neck.” Max walked away without a challenge.

  Dick was bent over, hands covering his nose, blood running between his fingers and down the front of his red football jersey.

  A small crowd had gathered around Dick, some pretending sympathy and shock while others were holding their own noses and dancing around gaily. Max was sorry he’d let his temper show, but Dick had it coming. Max knew he’d be kicked off the team for punching Dick out. Hell, he’d probably be kicked out of school. If that happened, his parents would ground him for the rest of the year and take away his Camaro.

  He was just about to the parking lot when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He spun around and kicked Dick in the crotch. Dick fell to the ground. The only noises he made were squeaks that came out like whispers. Carl and Dennis stood with their mouths hanging open. Dennis had his hands cupped protectively over his own genitals.

  Max turned and headed for his car. What the hell. He’d have one last night of freedom. This time he made it to the parking lot and brushed the remainder of grit from the knees of his jeans and from his elbows.

  It was a cool November night, but his temper kept him from feeling it. Max mimicked a game announcer, declaring loudly, “Oh my! The quarterback has been sacked. Looks like his nose is broke. Looks like Dick’s dick is broken, too. The game is forfeited. The game is over, folks. Max one, Grease Monkey zero.”

  He reached his car and tried to open the door. It was locked. “Shit!” he muttered. His bravado was fading, and reality was setting in. His keys were back in the locker room.

  A hand grabbed his wrist. He instinctively ducked, turned, arm cocked, ready to trade punches when he recognized his sister.

  “Are you going to hit me, too?” Reina asked.

  “Let go,” he said and shook her hand off.

  “You can’t leave, dummy,” Reina said and rummaged in her purse. She handed
Max the extra set of keys to the Camaro. She wasn’t driving yet, but she was the only one he trusted to keep the spare set. He’d come back for his stuff tomorrow.

  “Come on, sis. I’m going for a little ride to cool off. I’ll give you a lift home.”

  Reina’s arms crossed her chest. “Mom and Dad aren’t going to be happy. Why do you always do this, Max?”

  “Do what?” He sounded hurt. “You mean defend myself? Should I have let him knock me in the dirt and make fun of me? Let them insult Mom? He had it coming, and you know it.”

  “And you know what I mean, Maximillian Day,” Reina said. She only called him by his full name when she was seriously pissed. “You go back and apologize. Talk to the coach. Maybe you won’t be in trouble if you...”

  Ginger Purdie came prancing up and caressed his face. “Are you okay, Max? Did he hurt you?”

  Max grinned at her, keeping a cautious eye on Reina. “You should’ve seen the other guy,” he said and put a hand on her waist. “I’m not hurt. You’d better get back. They need you.”

  Ginger said in a pout, “You don’t need me?”

  “Of course I do. But I’m fine. The team needs your particular talents to give them encouragement, babe,” he said and gave her a firm slap on the rear.

  She giggled and bounced away.

  Reina said, “You’d better stay away from that one, Max. Mom won’t approve, and you’re already going to be grounded for the rest of your life.”

  “Grounded only works if you get caught sneaking out.”

  “Uh oh!” She pointed across the parking lot where Dick, Needham, and James were jogging toward them. Two or three other seniors had joined them. “You can’t fight all of them. Get out of here.” She moved off toward the approaching boys. “I’ll slow them down,” she said. “As usual.”

  “Thanks, sis,” Max said, got in his car, fired up the Hemi engine, and threw a rooster tail of gravel behind as he accelerated out of the lot.

  Max took back roads to Kratzville Road, where he stopped, debating where he would go. Home was northwest. He could take Kleitz Road, but he didn’t want to go home. He would maybe go downtown to the riverfront. He could sit in his car, watch the water, calm his mind. His thoughts turned to Ginger. She was pretty, but he didn’t really care for her. She was just a way to get at Dick and the rest of the “popular” kids. Snobs. Every one of them. And he truly hated that smug asshole, Richard Dick. He sacked Dick every chance he got during previous practices. Dick needed to be brought down a peg or two. Punching him in the nose was worth missing the championship. Kicking him in the balls was priceless.

  Max turned south on Kratzville Road. The back of his head was smarting. His fingers found a painful knot on his skull where the helmet had hit him. It hurt, but he smiled at the memory of Dick’s nose exploding under his fist. “Bet you didn’t expect that, Dick,” he said out loud and chuckled.

  He was approaching Gloria’s Corral Club at Allens Lane. The normally bustling crowd was elsewhere on Sundays. He considered running the red light, but with his luck tonight, a cop would be sitting in the parking lot of the convenience store across the street. It was dark-thirty, and the streets were deserted.

  Headlights flashed in his rearview mirror. He recognized the black Chevy Impala SS coming up fast. He let it come up beside him. Dick was behind the wheel. His nose was still bleeding. Needham was up front and giving him the bird while Dick laid on the horn. Dennis James was hanging out of the passenger window, hurling insults and threats about what they would do to him if he got out of the car.

  Max ran the red light, cut sharp right, narrowly missed the Impala’s front quarter panel, and sped down Allens Lane. The Impala peeled out and made a sharp right, but it was a boat compared to the Camaro and swayed side to side before gaining purchase of the road. Dick stamped on the gas. The Impala was fast, but it was no match for the Camaro.

  Max slowed to let them catch up. He let the Impala kiss his rear bumper before he braked hard and swerved into the oncoming lane. His tires smoked as he skidded forward, but the Impala whizzed past. He could see Dick’s shocked expression before the Impala went airborne over the railroad tracks and into the section of road the kids had dubbed the “double dipper.” Max’s car came to a stop just feet from the first dip. Some of his classmates had gotten drunk one night and found out about the dangerous railroad crossing the hard way. Max had counted on Dick forgetting in the heat of the chase.

  He watched the Impala fly through the air, all four tires off the ground on the first drop, and by the time the car bottomed out on the second set of railroad tracks it was airborne again. This time the Impala came down even harder. Sparks of metal shot from beneath its chassis, and it slewed side to side, running off the right side of the road. Dick steered sharply to the left, overcorrecting, and slid sideways into a shallow ditch on the left side of the road. The Impala slammed into the Railroad Crossing sign and sheared it off.

  Max slowly drove past and watched his pursuers clamber out of Dick’s car. He pumped a fist in the air, yelling, “Yeah! Who’s your daddy? Whose mom is stupid now, ya’ bunch o’ dicks?” He circled back to Kratzville Road and pulled into Locust Hill Cemetery to check his own front end. Even crawling over the tracks at the double dipper, his front end had scraped the pavement. He was at the front of his car when saw a single headlight turn in to the cemetery and come at him.

  Dick’s car rolled to a stop in the grass beside him. The front bumper of the Impala was canted like a lopsided grin, and one headlight was missing. He laughed.

  Richard Dick and Dennis James emerged from the Impala with beer bottles in their hands. Needham got out with a tire iron.

  “You think that’s funny, asshole?” Dick yelled and flung a full beer bottle. It busted on the Camaro’s hood and splattered Max with beer and fragments of glass. Max was on him in a flash. He didn’t care if there were three or five or a hundred. Loudmouths were cowards. He was going to kick some ass.

  * * * *

  Car 34 cruised west on Diamond Avenue. Officer Ted Mattingly had worked third shift, West District-One for two years. He liked the hours, liked the job, and liked being out from under the glare of supervisors. He had a patrol routine, and this was part of it: shining his spotlight on the fronts of the few businesses, looking for signs of break-ins or drunks passed out on the parking lots.

  He made a circuit going north on First Avenue from Dunkin’ Donuts, left on Diamond Avenue, and north on Kratzville. The only deviation in his patrol tonight was to cruise through Locust Hill Cemetery. There were no gates barring the way. Young and old couples alike sometimes parked behind the mausoleum to smoke dope and do “other things.”

  He wouldn’t normally care where people got naked, but there were reports lately of vandalism and break-ins to some of the vaults. Last week someone had started to dig up a grave. They got about two feet down and abandoned the project. That was the problem with kids today. They were too lazy to even finish a job. The crazy little bastards were probably doing black magic or summoning up demons with the bones.

  Mattingly saw the front end of a Camaro parked in the middle of a cemetery lane and hit his bright lights to illuminate the interior. The lights caught a shape in the driver’s seat. It didn’t move, so he tapped his siren a few times. He could only make out a shoulder, and there was something splattered across the windows. He hoped it wasn’t a drunk. He’d just had his car cleaned by a jail trustee from the last go-round with a vomiting drunk.

  Mattingly radioed dispatch to report his location and bleeped his siren several more times. He got on the intercom and called out to the occupant. Nothing. He radioed dispatch again.

  “Car 34.”

  “Car 34, go ahead with your traffic.”

  “Car 34, I’m going to be out of the car checking on this vehicle. Send me a backup.”

  The dispatcher asked, “Do you want that Code
3?” Code 3 means emergency lights and siren and busting ass.

  “Code 3,” he confirmed. He had just left Dunkin’ Donuts on First Avenue and knew there were three police units there drinking free coffee and eating their way through a mountain of donuts. He also knew that unless he called a Code 3 run they would still be sitting there until he called dispatch to give them a disregard.

  “Ten-four, Car 34,” dispatch said and put his request for a Code 3 backup on the air. Car 32 and Car 37 responded immediately.

  Mattingly kept an eye on the Camaro for any movement. The driver appeared to be slumped over the steering wheel. The windshield and the driver’s window were coated with something dark. Maybe vomit, but maybe blood. He wasn’t looking forward to going up there, but he knew he’d take a chiding for a month if he was wrong about needing backup. Someone might be hurt. Better safe than sorry.

  He got out of the car, flashlight in one hand, Model 10 Smith and Wesson .38 revolver in the other, and eased up to the driver’s side of the Camaro. Bits of something white mixed with the stuff coating the windows. He tapped on the window with his flashlight before opening the driver’s door.

  “Jesus,” Mattingly said and vomited across the hood of the car.

  Chapter 2

  Present: Two days before Thanksgiving

  Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick was in full dress blues, sitting in his personal Lexus sedan, scribbling notes on a yellow pad. He had driven his own car to work this morning, dismissed his driver, Captain Dewey Duncan, and was now parked in the lot of Rural King on the west side of Evansville. He wasn’t worried about someone recognizing him, but he’d parked on the far side of the lot just in case. He dreaded what he was about to do but knew it needed to be done in person. He was totally out of his element.

  His palms sweated, and his iPhone was slick in his hand. He thought back to the night that brought him to this situation. It wasn’t his fault things had totally gotten out of hand. He pinched the sides of his nose, remembering how it had bled all over his football uniform. He remembered the feeling of humiliation. He could still feel the crunch of cartilage, the nostrils swelling shut, and the way his nose still canted from the little bastard’s sucker punch. He’d had raccoon eyes for days, but Max had gotten much worse when they caught up with him in that cemetery. The thought of what they’d done to Max brought him out of his reverie.