Then he coughed a disgusted chuckle and frowned. “I’m sure they found Da Stang by now, and the Captain should be getting his package tomorrow.”
* * * *
Palmer had taken his wife out for dinner the night Trotter called and left the message. After listening to what Trotter had left on his machine, Palmer called Dailey. “Walt, Trotter left a message that something big is going down tonight at the docks. Take your own car and drive past there. Our LTDs and Crown Vickies stick out like sore thumbs. Let me know how you make out.”
An hour later, Dailey called his Captain. “Frank, I found his Mustang, and there’s blood, but there’s no sign of Jack.”
Forensics investigators concluded Detective Jack Trotter was a victim of a surprise ambush, probably forced from his car at gunpoint. His snitch must have set him up, and someone hit him over his head with a pipe or a bat, but they did not shoot him. At least not at the docks. Nobody reported gunshots and the investigators found no powder residue, slugs, or bullet casings at the scene. Palmer said, “I bet it took at least four cowardly bastards to take Jack down, and I know that big sum bitch went down swinging.” Palmer used Trotter’s ‘sum bitch’ out of respect for his friend, his co-worker.
Then, since Trotter was right handed and he wanted his death to be even more believable, he used his left hand and wrote a note that read, “Palmer…If that big monkey was the best narc you have, then I am going to become a rich man in your town. The sharks thank you too.” He sent that note along with his badge to Palmer. He was careful not to leave any prints or DNA on either item.
Convinced that Trotter was murdered and then dumped in the ocean, Palmer had the flag in front of the precinct flown at half-mast in honor of the ex-marine.
Trotter’s colleagues were not the only grieving souls, however. Once Judy Sloan had learned about his death on the nightly news, she went into a severe state of depression knowing she would never see the studdly ex-marine and his tight buns strut past her window ever again, which she so desperately depended on to spark her imagination. She now felt all alone, deserted, betrayed; she no longer had the means to escape into her make-believe world where she was beautiful and lusted after; where her sex-life was romantically breathtaking. Consequently, because of the sudden loss of her ‘flesh for fantasy,’ she resented Craig for still breathing and ended up loathing her fat little husband. After a long six months of no ‘sugar,’ but ‘constant migraine’ complaints instead, Craig moved in with a widowed co-worker and filed for divorce.
* * * *
“He’s going to be sad, Jack. You and Frank were close. It sounds like he really cared about his men.” Amber had a twinge of sadness in her voice.
“Yeah, I know. I do feel bad about that. Even worse than I did when I cut that mole off your sister’s face.” Then he laughed to change the mood, and the subject; “I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall when she woke up. Knowing that little Irishman, he’s going to have fun with her.”
* * * *
Ironically, a fly did find its way into the cell with Amy. However, the unfortunate little two-winged bastard that pestered Miles all evening, as he ate his pastrami on rye bread, found himself later entangled in a spider web, high in the corner of Amy’s tiny cell. The yellow banana spider’s fangs quickly pierced deeply into the fly’s soft body, and began sucking every bit of life from the insect. The fly’s horrendous fate was an exact facsimile to Amy’s overall feeling of her dilemma, once she awoke, and the harsh reality of being behind bars slammed her in the forehead with all the force of a blacksmith’s sledgehammer striking his anvil.
“Hey!” she hollered, getting Miles’s attention.
He came to her cell. “How in the fuck did I get in here?”
“Well, Missy! You finally slept it off, did ya? It’s like this; the police put you in here for being drunk, fighting, and crashing Fontaine’s retirement party,” he stated, factually.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I am Fontaine. It was my God damned party. How in the Hell did I crash my own party? Let me out of here. Now!”
“No, Missy, it was not your party. The bash was held in honor of Fontaine because she retired. And you definitely weren’t invited.”
“Of course I was not invited. I’m the one that did the inviting. I am Fontaine I tell you. Now let me the fuck out of here! Open this door! Right the fuck now!” Her voice grew louder as her patience wore thin; she frantically shook the cell door.
“Fontaine herself was here. And she explained how you think you are her.”
“Look!” Amy’s patience was on the verge of becoming non-existent. “I am…Fontaine, you asshole! And if you don’t let me out of here right now, you won’t be able to get a security guard job at the mall when my lawyers are done with you.”
“Let me show you something, Missy.” Miles went to the bulletin board and retrieved the picture of him and Amber. “This is Fontaine.” He held the snap shot close to the bars for her to see. “Ain’t she a beauty? She came down to press charges on you for impersonating her and fighting at her party.”
Amy’s jaw hit the floor, her eyes the size of pizza pans. She knew instantly the girl in the Polaroid standing by Miles was indeed her twin. Yes, Amber and Amy were identical twins, except for the beauty mark on Amy’s cheek, of course. However, another tiny difference also did exist that only Amy knew about, but she never told a soul. Tiny indeed, but it was a colossal difference to Amy. She discovered the dissimilarity when they were only six years old and their mother took her twin girls to the mall for ear piercings. After the earrings were in Amy’s ears, she looked in the mirror to admire them, and she noticed her left ear was slightly lower than her right ear. Nevertheless, she also noticed Amber’s ears were exactly level, making Amber the perfect twin, not Amy. Moreover, she hated her sister for that fact.
“What a fucking bitch!” She rubbed her temples and gritted her teeth. “Look, God damn it. I’m telling you…I am Fontaine! The bitch in that picture is my twin sister pretending to be me. Why won’t you believe me? I am Fontaine, damn it! Open this fucking door!”
Officer Miles held back a laugh but smiled. “Now you’re saying the girl in this picture is your…twin?”
“Yes, God damn it. That’s Amber. She fools everybody all the time. Everybody thinks my twin is me. But her beauty mark is a fake. She even did the concert in Seattle and everybody thought it was me. She fooled you too.”
“Let me see if I got this straight,” Miles humored her, “This girl posing with me is your twin, but her beauty mark is fake, and yours is real. And when she sings at a concert, everybody is fooled into thinking she is you, Fontaine, but you are…actually, the real Fontaine?” He scratched his head and raised his eyebrows.
In a much calmer voice, Amy said, “Thank God you finally understand. Now let me out, I need a cigarette.”
“There are only two small problems with your story. One…I saw her beauty mark last night and hers is definitely real. You obviously made yours with a cigarette. And two…” Amy’s hand shot to her cheek and she felt the scab. Her eyes widened wider and her jaw fell open. “There’s no way you two are twins, you don’t even look like her. She has long blonde hair and yours is short and black. Your blonde wig fell off, Missy. You’re not fooling anybody.”
Amy ran her hand over her head, and when she discovered how short her hair was, she grabbed the ends, pulled what little she could around her face and saw it was indeed black.
“That fucking bitch!” Horrified, her hand went back to her cheek. “Amber cut it off. She actually cut off my beauty mark! Then she burned me and cut my hair. Then she must have dyed it, and put a wig on me.”
“And just when did Amber do all this to you?” Miles asked while trying not to laugh.
“After the party was over. I was drunk. That’s when she did it. And I bet that fucking Trottson helped her. They must have drugged me.”
“That’s another problem we have,” Miles continued. “Upon searching
you last night, we found drugs. Cocaine to be exact, in your possession.”
Amy rolled her eyes and inhaled deeply. When was she going to wake up from this never-ending hellish nightmare? She thought she did up all her stash. Apparently not. What was going to be next?
“I want to call my lawyer.” Then she remembered how she fired Glessner…“I wouldn’t hire you again if you were the last fucking attorney on this planet and I needed a God damned dog license! You’re nothing but an incompetent asshole.” Yes, he was another one she lit up at her party.
Miles brought the phone to her. “You’re entitled to one call.”
“I need to think for a minute.”
“I thought for sure a big shot singer like you would have an attorney, Miss Fontaine. Boy! Is Nurse Ratchet ever going to have a real fun time picking your brain!” Miles said with a smirk.
“Fuck you, too! I am Fontaine! I am! I am! I am! Asshole!” She jumped up and down like a two year old throwing a temper tantrum, then she sat on the bunk and put her head in her hands. Her mind raced. Who can I call? Why did Amber do this? Then a real sick feeling hit her in the pit of her stomach. “My money!”
“What day and time is it?” she hollered at Miles, who went back to his desk, processing papers.
“It is exactly nine thirty on a Sunday night. Now you be a good girl and keep quiet while I do your transfer sheet,” Miles told her.
“Where are you sending me?” She desperately wanted to know. Amber was probably going to hit the bank tomorrow morning and wipe her out!
“You’re going to the psyche ward for an evaluation, Missy.” His reply really set Amy off. She screamed, “NO! You got to let me out of here! You asshole. Amber is going to wipe me out!” She called Miles every name under the sun and would not shut up. She was frantic, beyond the point of hysterical.
Miles turned the radio up to drown out her hollering, just in time to hear the DJ make an announcement, “Coming up next is The Beach Queens singing their brand new release, ‘Won’t Ya Be My Lover Boy?’” He played the tinny little radio loud enough that Amy heard the announcer, too. When the reggae beat reached her ears, she shut up and remembered when and where she heard that distinct bass line before. Moments before tossing it in her trash can.
Amy collapsed onto the bunk, and her worst case of dry heaves ever, violently kicked in.
* * * *
Trotter and Amber were finishing the tuna fish salad sandwiches she had made for Tuesday’s lunch when the courier rang the bell. “I need Amy Fontana to sign for packages. They’re registered from The Cayman Islands Art Galleria, and I need to see a photo ID.”
“Gladly!” She showed him her California driver’s license and signed. “Thank you. G’day, mate!”
After Trotter helped the driver stack the dozen boxes in the living room and the big brown truck drove away, Trotter extended his hand to Amber. She took his hand and they slow danced around the boxes, then Trotter said, “I think tonight would be an excellent night for lobster, and possibly…cheesecake?”
“Now that it’s all said and done with,” she said, looking up into his big blue eyes, “I’m really in the mood for some damn good cheesecake! And I hope we can find a place here down under that serves lobster as tasty as Jimmie’s.”
“Cheesecake for an appetizer?” He hinted. Hoping. Understandably, their love life had suffered the past couple of weeks.
“Yeah…an appetizer!” Amber said in a slow and sexy voice, locking the door.
As former patrons of Jimmie’s Crab Shack smiled commendably, while applauding and nodding in approval!
*THE END*
About the Author
Living in Western Pennsylvania all his life, JT Baroni has always had a fondness for word games and works of great literature. Having penned several song lyrics, JT sought out a greater challenge-writing novels. After his first novel, a paranormal thriller, was successfully published, he decided to try his hand at romance. Born of Greed is the result.
His home is Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a small town outside of Pittsburgh. JT and his wife Becky are both proud members of the Lions International. They share their house with their son, Skyler, and a psychotic AKC Boxer named Butkus.
Secret Cravings Publishingwww.secretcravingspublishing.com
Born of Greed Page 27