FINAL PRICE
J. GREGORY SMITH
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright ©2010 J. Gregory Smith
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 978-1-935597-18-6
For Julie,
who always believed in me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank all the readers and professionals who endured the early drafts and provided invaluable feedback and editorial advice, especially Connie G-B.
Thanks to Justynn Tyme for the terrific cover design of the independent edition.
Thank you to the team at AmazonEncore for giving me this opportunity and for all the work to get the book ready as well as spreading the word.
Thanks to my family for their infinite patience and understanding.
Last but not least, thanks to Jeff B. for the “research” opportunity.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: No Place Like Home
Chapter 2: Pulp
Chapter 3: Overtime
Chapter 4: In the Grip of the Dragon
Chapter 5: When a Stranger Calls
Chapter 6: Chip Shot
Chapter 7: In the Fold
Chapter 8: Due Diligence
Chapter 9: Bulk Order
Chapter 10: Door to Door
Chapter 11: Lake Effect
Chapter 12: Off the Bench
Chapter 13: Smoke and Melons
Chapter 14: All in the Delivery
Chapter 15: Crunch Time
Chapter 16: Back in the Game
Chapter 17: Tea for Two
Chapter 18: Press On
Chapter 19: Reservation
Chapter 20: Soft Sell
Chapter 21: Blind Justice
Chapter 22: Brief Case
Chapter 23: Call Back
Chapter 24: In the Bag
Chapter 25: Fame and Fortune
Chapter 26: Ashes to Ashes
Chapter 27: Laughs Last
Chapter 28: Slip of the Tongue
Chapter 29: Full Disclosure
Chapter 30: No Signature Required
Chapter 31: Flock Together
Chapter 32: Flash
Chapter 33: When Life Gives You Lemons
Chapter 34: Naked Truth
Chapter 35: Luck of the Irish
Chapter 36: Columbo
Chapter 37: Suspended Animation
Chapter 38: Three’s a Crowd
Chapter 39: Early to Bed
Chapter 40: Out Like a Champ
Chapter 41: Arts and Crafts
Chapter 42: Splitting Hairs
Chapter 43: Whiff of Suspicion
Chapter 44: Mistaken Identity
Chapter 45: On the Ball
Chapter 46: Details, Details
Chapter 47: Miles to Go
Chapter 48: Gone in a Blink
Chapter 49: Click Click Click
Chapter 50: Shards
Chapter 51: Too Close for Comfort
Chapter 52: Ties That Bind
Chapter 53: Uninvited
Chapter 54: On the Road Again
Chapter 55: No Harm, No Foul
Epilogue
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Elsmere, Delaware (just outside of Wilmington)
Sweat and condensation ran down the inside of the rubber Gandhi mask, but he wasn’t ready to take it off. He locked the door to Nguyen’s Oriental Grocery and spun the sign to read “Closed.”
He giggled and skipped through the store. Aisles of canned goods sat next to fresh produce and bins of iced seafood. Fish odors mingled with ginger. He heard muffled sounds from the back room. Not loud enough to reach the street, just enough for him to enjoy.
He returned to the storeroom where he had stashed the owners. Ms. Min and Mr. Tran remained tied to chairs. The duct tape he slapped over their lying mouths held fast, more than a match for their sweaty little faces. Best of all, he savored the shine of fear in their eyes. Fabulous. Why hadn’t he tried this a long time ago?
Showtime. He squatted in front of the husband, Tran, and waggled the pistol. He held up a thin wad of bills and rubbed the insulting pittance from the cash register under Tran’s nose.
“Where’s the rest?”
The Vietnamese man shook his head.
He tore the tape off Tran’s mouth, then Min’s.
“Tell me.”
“No rest,” Tran said.
Who’s in charge here? He stood in front of the slight woman and slid the barrel of the gun along her cheek and into her mouth like it was part of him. So good. His masked head lolled back, and he let out a sigh. She yelped around the cold steel.
“Okay! I tell you!” Tran said.
He listened, found a hidden box, and removed a large roll of bills.
“That’s better.” He walked out into the store, picked up a basket, and filled it with groceries. Blood pounded through his body, and he struggled to keep his breathing even to show icy control. Ready now.
He stood in front of the couple and pulled off the rubber mask. Cool air. Their eyes opened wide, but they said nothing. It was a start.
“Good. I was worried we all looked alike to you. This,” he said as he held the money box contents, “is for all my time and sweat last week. We had a deal, but I see you bought from Marlo.”
He leaned in toward Min and affected an Asian accent. “You get good price, riiiight?”
Min remained silent. Her jaw clenched, and those dark eyes locked him out.
“Tell your husband why you cancelled the deal. What did you say to me?” She shook her head.
Stubborn little…“Say it. What about the interest rate? What did you say?” His grip tightened on the gun.
“Too high.” Sounded like a puff of wind. He made her repeat. Musical this time.
He reached into the basket and held up a can of bamboo shoots.
“How much?”
“Take, you take please.”
“No. How much? How much for this?”
“One—one dollar seventy-nine cents.”
“Tooo high.” He mimicked her and dropped the can in her lap.
He turned to Tran and held up a head of lettuce. “How much?”
“Dollar ninety-five.”
“Tooo high.” He continued until the basket was empty. He pressed the gun into their necks when they tried to beg.
“Now, be quiet while I leave.” He re-taped their mouths.
He stepped behind Tran and picked up a ripe melon. He jammed it over the barrel of the Ruger .22 pistol. Min saw and tried to scream. She made muffled noises along with the muted pops when he fired into the back of Tran’s head. Only the pulp marked where the tiny slugs entered. Where was the blood? Tran’s head shook and his body twitched.
There! Blood and melon juice ran down Tran’s neck. Tran shuddered once more and was still. Min thrashed and her throat bulged with smothered screams. He gripped the back of her chair to steady it. She stopped moving and tears slid down her face.
He leaned over and whispered in Min’s ear, like a lover. “Tooo high.” He took more care with his aim and shot her twice in the base of her skull, the way he used to finish off alley cats as a kid.
Just as well. He knew she wasn’t up to being a widow.
CH
APTER 1
No Place Like Home
Newark, Delaware
It was two o’clock in the morning, and Paul Chang knew his mother would get out of bed before long. Her caregiver, Shu, opened the door the instant Chang rapped on the thick wood. He might sleep even less than Chang.
“Good morning, Master Paul.” Shu made a deep bow. He looked thinner and balder than ever.
“Hello, Shu.” Chang returned the bow, and his back muscles howled. Long shifts in the cruiser made him feel brittle. Too much target practice and not enough stretching. He never should have stopped his training with Shu.
“What have I told you about opening the door to anyone without checking?”
“I only open for you, Master Paul.”
“But I could have been a bad person, understand?”
The old man smiled. Why did he waste his breath?
“You have good heart, no matter what anyone say.” Shu nodded to the stairs. “She will be awake soon.”
“Let’s get started.”
“Too much.” Chang winced at the old man’s tug. Shu always forced Chang’s legs until he thought the tendons would tear.
“Keep anger in muscles, no room for stretch.” Shu pulled again.
“It’s the job.” Chang braced for the stick. Shu struck him on the shoulders with his shattered bamboo practice sword.
“Man who keep eyes closed, always blind. Anger from here.” Shu rapped the side of Chang’s head.
He tried not to provoke Shu for the rest of the workout, and the tightness between his shoulders eased. Time to get back to work soon; he might escape Mother tonight after all.
The intercom in the basement crackled, and his mother’s voice shattered the peace.
“Shuuuuu!”
Chang mounted the stairs and allowed his gaze to pass over the ancient treasures. The silk prints alone were worth more than the house. They belonged in a museum, but Mother was deaf to the suggestion.
He forced himself to walk the few feet to the bedroom door where his mother waited. He knocked. No answer. He smelled sandalwood from the incense cones she burned night and day.
“Mother?” he called out in Mandarin. “It’s Paul. Are you there?”
“Where else? Open it.” Her sharp voice cut through the panels. She spoke English with a heavy accent. Chang took a deep breath and turned the knob.
The tiny woman perched in her large bed in a bright blue silk bathrobe embroidered with a print of a tiger and a dragon locked in combat. She wore her hair pulled back in a bun as usual, and though she had wrinkles around her eyes, Chang still didn’t see much gray. Gray on the inside.
“You sound American. So speak American.”
He switched back to English. “I thought it might be nice to practice.”
“Why bother?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Why you wait so long to see me?”
More broken links in the chain of her mind.
“I was here last week.”
“You have so much time? Why you not work now?”
“It’s the middle of the night for everyone else but you, Mother. Even bad people need to sleep.” The graveyard shift was just fine with him. Fewer people to deal with, and he couldn’t sleep anyway.
“Why you get such bad times? You going to get fired, like in New York?”
“I wasn’t fired. I left the force, and they helped me start over in Delaware. Everyone agreed it was for the best.” Better than jail, but that didn’t concern her.
The same questions every time. Each visit the scorn played out like a video loop. The old woman rolled back Chang’s forty years, shrank his six-four height, and turned him into a little kid again.
She made him think about how after his first growth spurt the other Chinese kids reveled in playing “Chase the Water Buffalo.” He didn’t know how to defend himself then, and a short kid would bait him. When he tried to retaliate, other kids jumped him from behind. If he ran, they chased him like a pack of animals. Eventually he’d fall down, usually in an alley, exhausted and unable to fight back.
When he limped home, covered in cuts and bruises, his mother told him his cowardice shamed the family. For years he believed her.
“You bring shame to police like you bring to family.”
“Please, Mother. Not tonight. I found Uncle Tuen’s killer, gave him justice. I know you remember.”
She could remember that and more.
“Make your father sell business. Not take over like good son. Have to try to change past. Tuen gone, but we still alive. Business still alive, but you fight gang. Make us run here, lose face.” Her dark eyes burned.
She hit his weak points like a Shaolin master.
“You believe in destiny, Mother. Why can’t you accept that?”
“Same destiny make you marry cat-face white girl?”
Not for long. Colleen never developed the calluses. Chang ignored a flare of pain in his stomach. He liked to play with the lie that Mother alone drove her off.
“Colleen moved away.” He was tired, but sleep didn’t always refresh.
“You smell American.”
“Is Shu making you take your medicine?”
“Medicine don’t work. I tell Shu he fired. He never listen. You never listen either. Maybe you get it from me.” If she smiled, she might have done so now.
Chang’s pager began to beep. He glanced at the code. Homicide.
“Mother, I have to answer this, but I’ll see you next week.” Good excuse to leave.
CHAPTER 2
Pulp
Chang eased the blue Crown Victoria into the handicapped spot outside the 7-Eleven off Union Street in Wilmington.
Compared to New York, murders in Delaware came at a more manageable pace. Until lately. He opened the door to the cruiser and grabbed his camera.
Chang stepped under the yellow police tape and ignored the looks that said, “Biggest Chinaman I ever saw!” A Wilmington PD officer greeted Chang. Young, barely over twenty-one. Teeth could have been bleached. The nameplate read “Scott Gilpin.”
“Detective Chang? Glad you could get here so fast.”
Chang was used to being recognized in this state that was more like an overgrown small town. It didn’t hurt that he was the only Asian-American officer in the homicide department of the state police.
“What have we got?” Chang looked around the store. A pair of sandaled feet stuck out from behind the counter. The smell of overcooked coffee hung in the air along with hot dogs and that distinctive coppery odor.
“We got a 911 call from a guy who came in for coffee and found the body. I responded and, well, see for yourself.” Gilpin wore an ashen look that told Chang he’d handled more parking tickets than corpses.
Chang peered over the counter, and a whiff of citrus caught his attention. Indian male victim, no more than five-six and 140 pounds. Chang saw what appeared to be two gunshot wounds to the face, probably a pistol. Small entry holes and at least one larger exit wound. Chang’s pulse jumped when he saw what accompanied the bullet holes.
A lemon lay smashed across the victim’s face, the fragrant juice mingled with congealed blood. Chang began his photo series.
“You ever see anything like this in New York, sir?”
“No. Is the money gone from the register?” Chang continued to move around the counter and photographed different angles of the body. He kept his breathing slow despite his rapid heartbeat.
“Yeah, till’s cleaned out, so I figured robbery, but then I saw that lemon and it didn’t fit.”
“Videotape?”
“Be right back.” Gilpin headed towards the back room.
“I’ll go with you. Our guy had to be in a hurry, especially if he took the time to do that with the lemon.” The fruit did not smell rotten. What the killer did took force.
In the back room, stacks of cups and other supplies littered the floor. Chang found the video recorder for the security cameras. He took one look and s
aw the tape was gone. Clearheaded act. Premeditated murder?
“Gilpin.”
“Yes, sir?”
“See if you can find the videotape. Check the nearby dumpsters. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“I’ll look around, sir.”
Chang knew state troopers didn’t normally order other departments to “dumpster dive,” but Gilpin looked bright enough to recognize what a key piece of evidence in a homicide case might mean to his career.
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