Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set

by Robert Burton Robinson

  It had been enough to kick in Marty’s weird sense of justice. He had murdered numerous people over the years, without remorse. But for some reason, this young girl’s story had pushed his buttons. He wanted to restore Carla’s innocence, to whatever degree possible. And he was determined to kill Andrew—with maximum brutality.

  Marty had asked Carla to call Andrew and say she was quitting. When Andrew tracked her down, Marty was waiting nearby. Just as he started to hit Carla, Marty whacked the side of his head with the butt of his pistol. Andrew fell to the ground, disoriented.

  Marty stood over him, and shot him in the leg. Then the other leg. Then each foot. Then each arm. Finally, as Andrew pleaded for his life, Marty shot him in the stomach. Then he and Carla walked away, leaving Andrew to bleed to death.

  So, when Marty called up Carla and asked for a favor, she gladly agreed. In truth, nobody was going to carry out a hit on Buford if he killed Marty. But Buford wouldn’t know that for sure. He would worry himself to death about it. Hey—he might even be afraid to hire hookers.

  It wasn’t as good as killing him, but it did make Marty smile, as he took another bite of chicken fried steak.

  **********

  John X had one eye on the tennis match, one eye on his phone. It had been an hour. Marty was taking his time. He hoped he would come soon, while the lobby was still deserted.

  He checked the display on his iPhone, and saw Marty walking toward the entrance of the hotel. So, he moved into position. Some women were walking from the back of the hotel, toward the elevators. No sooner than the women had passed by, Marty walked into the left elevator.

  But somebody else had just come into the lobby. John X could hear a woman’s heels on the ceramic tile. And she was walking toward the elevators. Was his plan about to be ruined? Marty pressed the button. It was time to shoot him, but the woman was nearly to the elevators. If he took the shot now, she would see Marty go down before the doors closed. She would be blocking his escape route. She’d scream.

  The elevator doors started closing. But then, Marty saw the woman approaching, held out his arm and stopped the doors just before they came together.

  John X was surprised that Marty had acted like a gentleman, holding the door for the woman.

  The woman said thanks, but pointed down the hallway. She didn’t need an elevator.

  Marty pushed the button again as the woman walked down the hallway. This is perfect, thought John X. He aimed his gun at Marty’s heart. It would be a surgical hit. He was an excellent marksman.

  Just as the elevator doors began to close, Marty’s eyes saw through the greenery, directly into the eyes of his assailant.

  John X squeezed the trigger.

  Marty could see the bullet coming toward him, headed straight for his heart. The doors were closing—but not fast enough. It was like a movie being filmed in nanosecond frames. Each frame brought the bullet closer. If he could have moved even a micrometer per frame, he would have avoided certain death. But all he could do was watch, as it moved ever closer to his chest.

  John X felt nothing but exhilaration, as he watched the impact of his perfect shot thrust Marty’s body backward against the elevator wall. The doors closed—on Marty’s coffin, he thought. Cool!

  27 - SLEEPING TOGETHER

  Greg had never spent the night in a hotel room with a woman that was not his wife. And he was feeling some guilt, even though they would be sleeping in separate beds. It was a special situation, and it was all quite innocent. But he wondered what people thought when they saw Cynthia and him walking through the lobby together.

  A college-aged boy passed them as they approached the elevators. The punk checked out Cynthia from head to toe, and then made a second pass specifically for legs and boobs. Then he gave Greg a nod that said: I don’t know how a dog like you got this chick, man. But, you must be good. Real good.

  They stepped into the elevator with a well-dressed, older couple. The man smiled at them. His wife checked for wedding rings, and when she saw none, gave Greg and Cynthia a disapproving stare.

  Greg was embarrassed.

  Cynthia ignored the woman.

  Unlike some women who continued to wear their wedding rings long after their husbands died, Cynthia had already taken hers off. She didn’t want it to be there reminding her of Troy’s abuse or his death. Not that she could forget any time soon.

  As Greg and Cynthia walked out of the elevator and toward their room, Greg made the mistake of looking back at the older couple.

  The husband was trying to get their door open, struggling with the key card. The wife was still shaking her head at Greg.

  Cynthia said, “I’m beat. I need a long, steamy shower. So, you might want to take yours first. ‘Cause if you go after me, there may not be any hot water left.”

  Greg usually took his in the morning. But maybe a hot shower would begin to melt away the layers of stress that had been piled onto his body over the past few days. “Okay.”

  His mind seemed to revert to that of a teenager as he entered the bathroom. Should he lock the door? Of course not. She wouldn’t come in. But what if she did? And what would that mean? There was an amazingly beautiful, sexy woman outside that door.

  As the heat flowed down across his naked, wet body, his thoughts brought arousal. Arousal that was quickly muted by the fear of irresistible sin.

  When he walked out of the bathroom in a complimentary hotel robe, Cynthia was sitting on her bed. She was watching one of the cable news channels.

  “Your turn.”

  “Thanks. Nice robe.” She went into the bathroom.

  “Yeah. There’s one for you too.”

  Greg turned off the TV and got into bed. The soft sounds of Cynthia bathing would be more relaxing than the news. Twenty minutes into her shower, he dozed off. When she came out of the bathroom, she was surprised to see him sleeping. They were both worn out. It was only 9:15, but it had been a long, tough day. She turned off the lights, and was asleep in two minutes.

  At 3:15 AM, something woke Greg from his deep sleep. For a second, he was confused, trying to figure out where he was. Then he realized Cynthia was moaning in her sleep. The corridor light shining under their door illuminated the room like a nightlight.

  Greg saw her getting out of bed, and thought she must be headed for the bathroom. He quickly closed his eyes for a few seconds—she was wearing only a bra and panties. They would have brought a change of clothes with them if they had known it would be an overnight trip.

  When he opened his eyes, he thought Cynthia would already be in the bathroom. But she had stopped at the foot of the bed, and was reaching for something that was not there. She picked it up anyway, holding it as though it was a hair dryer, or a hammer. She turned her fist sideways, and made a quick, violent motion in the air from left to right, parallel to the floor.

  Then it hit him: she was reliving Troy’s murder. But why was she reliving it if she wasn’t the one who did it?

  She quickly stepped back, threw the invisible object down, and began crying, “No, no, no! Oh, my God, no!”

  Greg jumped out of bed to rescue her from the nightmare. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Cynthia. It was just a dream.”

  She jerked around to face him, nearly catching his nose with her elbow. Now she was awake. She grabbed him with both arms and pulled their bodies tightly together.

  Later he would remember how wonderful her body felt against his. All he could think about now was how he hated seeing her afraid. “Are you okay?”

  After holding him tight for a few more seconds, she said, “Yeah. I’m okay now.”

  She sat down on her bed, and he sat across from her, on his bed.

  “It must have been a horrible nightmare.”

  “Yeah. What was I doing? Did you see? Was I walking around the room, or what?”

  “Just a few feet.”

  “It was the same dream I had last night. I dreamed I walked up behind Troy while he was
passed out in the chair, picked up his knife, and cut his throat. Then I woke up and found him murdered—just the way I had dreamed it.”

  He moved over to her bed and sat down beside her. When he put his arm around her, she leaned her head toward him, and rested it on his shoulder. As her tears dripped one by one down his chest, Greg whispered a prayer for her.

  When she began to feel heavy on his shoulder, he knew she was falling asleep. He eased her down onto the bed, and draped the blanket over her. She looked so lovely, and appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Greg wondered how long it had been since Cynthia had a good night’s sleep. He bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  **********

  Something was annoying Buford. Some noise. He just wanted it to go away and leave him alone. But there it was again. What was it? He didn’t know, but he had to put a stop to it—now.

  He shook himself, and his eyes opened to a hazy darkness. Where am I? Why am I naked? What is that noise? It was his cell phone. He located it on the nightstand. When he sat up, his head began to throb.

  “Hello?”

  “I’ve already called you three times.”

  Buford’s eyes were beginning to focus as he tried to read the alarm clock. 5:08 AM. That can’t be right, he thought.

  “It’s done. I need payment.”

  Then it clicked—the man on the phone was John X. So, Marty was dead. Good. “Okay. But, I may have something else for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman are coming to my office at 8:30 in the morning. They’re from Coreyville. I want you to be on standby, near my office. And be ready to follow them when they leave.”

  “Hey—that sounds like a job for a private eye. I don’t do that stuff.”

  “Look—I’ll pay $5,000 for you to be on call. Then, if I need you to take care of them, I’ll pay $10,000 each.”

  Now you’re talking, John X thought. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “So, be ready, and I’ll call you after they leave.”

  “Got it.”

  Now Buford was wide-awake. But how did John X get his private cell number? He didn’t remember giving it to him. He hoped nobody had been listening in. Then he remembered what had happened the night before. The young blonde hooker had been so hot. He had really wanted her. But she had tricked him, and drugged him. Was she crazy? Doing something like that to the powerful Buford Bellowin?

  He could have her tracked down and thrown in jail. She would be sorry she had ever messed with him. On the other hand, it might be difficult to explain what he was doing with her in a hotel room. She might even be under-aged.

  So, he still had his phone, but what about his wallet? He found it on the floor and checked the contents. It looked like everything was still there. All the cash and credit cards. He was amazed she didn’t take the cash—nearly $500. But where were his clothes?

  Then he remembered the message she had given him from Marty: that Buford would never be safe again if he tried to have Marty killed. Stupid Marty. If the girl hadn’t drugged him he could have called John X and cancelled the hit. Not that he would have.

  But now that Marty was dead, Buford wondered if someone was out there just waiting for a good opportunity to kill him. How would they do it? With a sniper rifle? Poison? A bomb? Maybe he should hire a bodyguard.

  No. Marty was bluffing. He wouldn’t have had enough money to pay for a hit. Marty was practically broke. Buford had only given him enough for a hotel room and meals in Coreyville. But—how had Marty paid for the hooker to drug him?

  28 - BIG SHOT ATTORNEY

  It was no problem getting past the guards this time. A call was made to verify the appointment of the two visitors from Coreyville, and Greg and Cynthia were on their way to the elevators.

  Greg checked his watch as they walked toward Buford’s office. They were a couple of minutes early. He was nervous about what he would say to Buford.

  Cynthia was not totally convinced Buford was connected to the Coreyville murders. But she trusted Greg.

  The suite was very formal and impressive. Lawyers seem to think expensive offices convey their power, knowledge, and success. Greg wondered if the building had been engineered to handle the weight of so much mahogany and oak.

  Millie offered them a seat, and said, “I’ll tell Mr. Bellowin you’re here.”

  She walked to the end of the hallway, knocked, and entered Buford’s office. “Your mystery visitors from Coreyville are here. Shall I show them in?”

  “Let me guess. It’s a leggy redhead and a balding, plain-looking guy.”

  “Well, I don’t whether I would call him plain-looking.”

  “But I’m right about the redhead?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Wait five minutes, and then bring them in. Oh—and, this is very important: don’t tell them I know who they are.”

  Millie looked puzzled. “Okay.”

  “We, uh—wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  After Millie had shut the door, Buford realized he had said too much. If anyone ever found out he was able to guess who was coming to see him from Coreyville, it would make him look highly suspicious. If he was not involved in the Coreyville trial and murders, why would he think Greg and Cynthia would be paying him a visit? It was their only possible connection.

  Millie told Greg and Cynthia it would be just a few minutes. Greg decided to have a cup of coffee while they waited. He had taken only two or three sips when Millie walked over to where they were sitting.

  “Okay. I will take you to Mr. Bellowin’s office now.” Greg dropped the cup in the trashcan as they followed her down the long hallway.

  Buford looked surprised when Millie brought Greg and Cynthia into his office. “Millie told me that a couple of old friends were coming by to see me, but—I’m afraid I don’t know either of you.”

  Cynthia noticed that Buford’s secretary seemed confused by his statement.

  Greg said, “I’m sorry, Sir. We told your secretary that we were old friends because we thought it was the only way to get an appointment with you today.”

  “I see. So, are you even from Coreyville?”

  “Yes, Sir. That part is true. We have something really important to talk to you about. I hope you’ll give us a few minutes, even though we got in on false pretenses.”

  “Well, you were resourceful—I’ll say that for you.” Buford laughed. “I’ve got to give you a few points for that. And, you are from my hometown. So, sure—I’ll hear what you have to say. Can you do it in ten minutes?”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Greg couldn’t believe how much respect he was giving the apparent mastermind of a murderous rampage. “I’m Greg Tenorly and this is Cynthia Blockerman.”

  Buford shook hands with his visitors, taking a long glance at Cynthia’s cleavage, and offered them a seat. Millie walked out and closed the door.

  “So, what can I help you with today?” Buford sat down behind his desk.

  If the executive desk was the yacht of desks, then Buford’s desk was a battleship. Cynthia wondered what Buford was trying to compensate for.

  “I’m serving on a jury in a murder trial in Coreyville, and—”

  “—wait. If this is about an ongoing trial, it would be illegal for me to discuss it with you.”

  Great, Greg thought. Is this how he’s going to slither out of it? “No. Actually, I wanted to ask you about something not related to the trial.”

  “Okay. But, be careful.”

  We’ll never get anything out of this slimy snake, Cynthia thought, as she tried to maintain a pleasant demeanor.

  “Yes, I will. I don’t know whether you’ve heard about it, but several people have been murdered in our town this week.”

  “Wow. I’ve always thought of Coreyville as a safe, quiet little community. That’s pretty shocking.”

  “So, I got a call from a woman yesterday. And while she was talking to me, s
omebody shot her.”

  “You’re kidding me? Is she dead?”

  “Yes. The killer shot her right after she told me who was behind all of the murders in Coreyville.”

  Cynthia was watching Buford for even the slightest reaction.

  Buford didn’t like where Greg was headed, but what could he do? He had to press on, showing interest, but no particular concern for himself. Besides, Marty was dead. Case solved. Maybe they hadn’t heard yet. “So, what did she say?”

  “She said the person behind all of the murders was YOU.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. What’s the name of this woman who told you that?”

  “Dorothy Spokane.”

  It was slight, almost imperceptible—but Cynthia saw it. A quiver of the lip and the lower eyelids. Greg was right!

  “Whoa. Now we’re talking about someone who’s involved in your trial, right? Isn’t that the trial for the murderer of Sam Spokane?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because it’s in Coreyville. And I’m a lawyer.” He must regain control of himself, Buford thought. He must not appear to be nervous. “And I worked for Sam as a teenager. So, I knew Dorothy. I’m so sorry to hear about her. But I can’t talk about it anymore.”

  “So, you don’t know why she would say that you’re involved in the murders?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to leave now, before we cause a mistrial.”

  Buford hurried Greg and Cynthia out the door. “Maybe we can visit some other time, when it doesn’t put a trial in jeopardy. Goodbye.”

  **********

  It was easy for John X to locate Greg’s big, red Bonneville in the parking garage. He knew he had the right car, even before he checked the license plate. He didn’t know whether Buford would want him to chase Greg and Cynthia, but he would be prepared. He took the box out of the paper bag and carefully, almost lovingly, removed the device from the box.