Mystery: Family Ties: Mystery and Suspense

by James Kipling

  “It’s all in a day’s work, Mrs. Warren,” he said politely and walked out of the house.

  He wished he could have done more and really deserved that praise, but Mr. Warren had been killed and now his widow and two children were going to go through life without his protection and love. The young detective looked one last time at the house and climbed into his car. Somewhere out there a new case was being prepared for him and that knowledge usually filled him with excitement. After all, he had become a policeman because of the power the position gave him to help people in a way few other professions could.

  Chapter 4

  At JFK airport, a private jet touched down about noon the same day. A large group of reporters and officials from the United Nations were standing by, waiting patiently for the doors to open and the people to come out. When the doors of the plane opened, Hassan Radha and his delegation from Kashmir made their way to a limousine. Before Hassan could answer any questions from the reporters, he and his daughter ducked into the awaiting limo. The reporters ran towards them, but the policemen stopped them in time, so that the delegation was able to depart quickly without too much noise.

  Hassan Radha had already announced that he would be giving a conference later that same day, so that he and his people could have some time for rest. He was in town for an important peace conference between India and Pakistan. His only distraction was going to be his daughter Katrina, who he brought along for the trip. She had wanted to see New York for the first time and visit all of its fashion hot spots.

  “So far, so good,” Mr. Radha said to his daughter, once they were sitting inside the limousine. “I will be very busy during the next few days, but you can enjoy yourself, without doing anything hasty, however.”

  “Yes, yes, father,” the young woman agreed, looking hungrily at everything that was passing outside the windows.

  Hassan Radha was a fifty-six years old diplomat, born in Kashmir, but child of the world. His life had started in a wealthy and luxurious Kashmiri palace, but Hassan Radha had been never happy with only being comfortable. The man wanted to give to his country the possibility to grow and become a better place for its people. So, Hassan Radha had become a peace promoter, outspoken, candid and honest, he had done a lot of good for his country and people.

  His current mission was to promote the peace between Pakistan and India, a goal that wasn’t easy to achieve. He had prepared for the meetings for months, if not a year and was ready to do whatever was necessary to promote that much needed peace between the two nations. People saw him as a dignified man, proud of his achievements and always keeping his word. His wealth was another fact that helped him with dealing with people and if it wasn’t for his daughter, few people were able to stand up to him.

  Hassan Radha was a diplomatic ambassador from the small nation of Kashmir. His country was the centerpiece for a century's old conflict between India and Pakistan. The Kashmir diplomat came to New York to broker an important peace agreement at the United Nations. But, since his daughter wanted to get involved with fashion and modeling, he brought her along for the journey.

  The beautiful Katrina Radha was only nineteen years old and very curious about the world around her. At five foot six, she was graced with a slender body and very beautiful complexion. The young girl was a student back in Kashmir, but she also explored the possibilities of making a career in modeling and fashion design. The girl was witty and kind hearted and although she wasn’t in love with science or any other similar things, she was going to make a good impression during her life.

  After growing up in a privileged Kashmiri home, Katrina had developed a taste for the good things in life, and as most rich Asian girls, she wanted to find a way to express herself. Fashion and modeling had become a way for her to dream and explore the world.

  Katrina had also adopted her father’s humanitarian causes and spent a lot of her free time helping people all around the world. Therefore, the naïve and over-privileged girl the world was seeing could do more than just sing and dance.

  In order to come to New York, she had begged her father for months. In her mind, her biggest dream of become an international fashion model, was going to start there. Her father had agreed reluctantly to take her with him, although he was worried about that she was completely naïve to the dangers of the big American city. He was counting on the protection of his bodyguards to keep her safe.

  “Dad,” Katrina interrupted his thoughts. “When will you let me go out?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Katrina,” the man smiled indulgently. “First we have to get to the hotel, see to the security and then we will discuss your program.”

  “You promised to let me go to the fashion convention,” his daughter whined.

  “And you will go, but only when I am sure that you will be safe.”

  “Thank you, dad,” she cried with joy and leaned towards him to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

  “You are such a baby,” Hassan smiled lovingly and returned to the document he was reading.

  Later that same day, Katrina walked back and forth, thinking and rethinking all that had happened in the last few hours. When her father asked her to go with him to the meeting, she thought nothing of it. The old man simply needed someone close to him during the hardest hours of his life. But now, now things were looking differently.

  Hassan Radha had made an offer to take her to the fashion show in exchange for her being quiet. It all seemed so surreal, that she made her father say it again and again to the point it started to sink into her head – it was really happening.

  Her father had asked for her consent, but it was obvious that he wanted her to say yes. The peace between India and Pakistan was his whole life and if for achieving it, he needed to sacrifice his daughter, so be it. Only her mother was supporting her, but Katrina knew her support would not be enough. In her family, politics was the most important thing, to the point that they did not understand Katrina’s love for art and fashion.

  When she said that she would not be joining the family business everybody was disappointed in her. Her two older cousins even told her so openly, while her father chose to show his displeasure by ignoring her and leaving her mother to deal with everything related to Katrina.

  Today, however, was different. He had outright told her to be good to save his career. There has not been any doubt in him, or his delegates for the matter, that this was the only action she could take. And, however, revolving that thought might be, Katrina knew deep down that she would do it for her family’s sake.

  Chapter 5

  At one of the high floors of the FBI headquarters in New York, agent Scott Ferguson was looking at himself in the mirror and sighed deeply. It had been a long ride to reach that moment and now that he was there, he was worried. It had taken him more than ten years to reach this point in his career and agent Ferguson was already forty-two years old. His professional appearance was making it difficult to set him apart from the rest of the FBI agents, but his analytic mind and above average intelligence were making it possible for him to shine, where others just shimmered.

  He was born in New York and after the years of FBI academy had returned to work in his own city. Agent Ferguson had grown up in the suburbs in a nice family, where he had been loved and respected. His father had been the one to tell him that climbing the ladder of success should be the goal of his life. And Scott had listened to him. Today, he was awarded with the prestigious Bureau award for the most successful agent of the year.

  During the last twelve months he had worked hard to achieve the best success rate and solve as many cases as possible. Agent Scott Ferguson had prevented three minor terrorist attacks, had solved two murder mysteries and finally, had managed to find the identity of one of the most dangerous spies in the USA. His boss had congratulated him for the successful year and after a careful scrutiny he had been chosen for the most successful FBI agent of the year.

  “It is a great honor to accept this award�
��” he said for the six time in the mirror and adjusted his tie. “For the last ten years I have been…”

  Scott removed the tie and went to try a dark blue one. He had been practicing his acceptance speck for a while now, behind the closed doors of his office. Everything was looking okay, except the tie, which he couldn’t seem to choose properly.

  “Scott,” his friend, agent Rupart called from the door. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I can be,” Scott answered confidently and walked out of the office, finally satisfied with his suit and his speech.

  “The ceremony will take place in the Bureau’s auditorium,” John Rupart informed him. “Do you know that there were more than twenty nominees for your award? I am very proud of you, Scott.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Agent Ferguson confirmed calmly. “I worked hard to reach this point. All I want now is the next case they give me to be something high priority, something that will help me to do even better.”

  “I am sure that you will get it,” his friend assured him and entered the big auditorium, filled with FBI agents and high government officials. “This ceremony would be something else, it seems.” He commented, before leading his friend towards the front rows. There were places for them, right behind the FBI bosses and Scott looked lovingly at his name, written so close to theirs.

  The ceremony started with long speeches and many congratulations and praises. When it was time for Agent Ferguson to climb the few steps to the podium, he was already drunk with adrenaline from the excitement. He used all his powers to appear calm, however, and managed to recite his speech without any mistakes. Everybody laughed at the little joke he said at the end and he took a number of photos with most of the FBI officials. His award was going to remain a secret for most of the people, but in the FBI world, everyone was going to know his name now.

  Ferguson biggest fear to become a failure had been defeated and he was finally able to relax. Much later that night, Scott went home to his empty apartment feeling as a winner and celebrated with a bottle of scotch. The phone call to his family was due in the morning and his boss had already called him to his office tomorrow morning to discuss his next case.

  Life was good for Agent Scott Ferguson.

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  Rings (A Tim Brennan Mystery)

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  1.

  The sun beat down Broad Street as I watched the bus dislodge its contents to the curb. Used paper blew down the boulevard at my feet and I looked up at the statue of William Penn on top of Philadelphia City Hall. Once upon a time no building was allowed be constructed taller than the hat on the statue. But those days were long gone and the Cira Center gleamed to the West across the river. Those were the days before corrupt builders employed pothead crane operators to knock over masonry on innocent shoppers in the next unit. How Hizzoner ever rode that one out I’ll never know. What happens in Philadelphia tends to stay put. This is the only town I know of ever to launch an air strike against its own voters.

  But I had another problem and it involved Captain Donaldson down in Homicide. I’d known the man for years, ever since leaving the force to go independent years ago. We’d managed to help each other over the years and I was calling in a favor. The sun was roasting my back as I walked to the Philadelphia Police Department on Race Street. I smiled at an elderly lady pulling her shopping cart down the street. She looked Chinese and was on her way back from the market by the look of what was in her cart. She smiled back and continued on her way. I watched her go and wondered if she spoke any English. Then I heard her telling a beggar what to do with his cup and where to put in a perfect Philly accent. I love my adopted town; it never ceases to surprise me.

  I had a missing person case to handle and last night’s discovery down off Columbus Boulevard might wrap it up in a neat little package. It wasn’t what my client wanted to hear, but it would fulfil my part of the contract. I don’t do grief counseling, perhaps I should. The least I can do is refer someone to a place of worship. There are quite a few churches where I ply my trade. Funny thing, they’ve increased over the past five years, but haven’t dinted the crime one bit. I suppose there is a connection, but I don’t have the time or inclination to look into it.

  Two days ago a couple of Philly cops were called to the scene of a crime. A waiter from Guatemala taking out the trash at a popular sports bar near Penn’s Landing found a body stuffed into the dumpster. The poor man was terrified and almost didn’t report it for fear the cops would want to ask questions about his own background. But he came to his senses and managed to tell the hostess what he’d found an hour after closing.

  The evidence unit had taken pictures of everything and interviewed anyone they could find around the place that evening. No one had seen a thing, which wasn’t hard to believe. The cops were still going over the security cameras, but I was guessing the feed would have been interrupted that evening. Someone was familiar with how the trash was disposed and knew the garbage truck would arrive the following morning. If the waiter hadn’t been observant, the body might never have been found.

  The victim was a Caucasian male in his late forties or early fifties and was wearing an expensive tailored suit. The police had discovered the man’s identity by tracing the suit back to the small Main Line shop which had made it for him two years previously. He had greying hair and a Rolex watch on his left wrist, which, amazingly, no one had lifted before the evidence unit arrived.

  But the condition of the body was what caught my attention. The death was later ruled to be the result of a prescription drug overdose, but every single finger and toe had been smashed by a blunt object. Still, this wasn’t the only crazy thing about the victim.

  Every last one of his fingers was wearing a different ring with a gemstone on it. Ten rings, each one valued around five thousand dollar minimum. The diamond ring alone would fetch a retail price of a hundred thousand cash. The other gems were star sapphire, tanzanite, emerald, alexandrite, red ruby, turquoise, topaz, opal and one I had never heard of before called bixbite. Each was set in a fourteen carat gold band. The rings varied in size, but it was probably because they were meant to be worn by women, guessing from the diameters. Some of the rings were pushed down to the base of the victim’s fingers, but the smaller ones barely made it down to the first knuckle.

  The victim was identified the next day as a fifty-year-old hedge fund manager named James Jameson. As you might guess, his nick name was “Jay-Jay”. I assumed his parents; typical Main Line old money types, had lacked imagination or wanted to confuse their son’s peers. It didn’t matter, because the man was now dead and this is where I entered the story.

  Jameson’s ex-wife had hired me to find him two weeks ago and I was working on tracking him down when news of the death hit the Internet. DNA matching confirmed it was him less than two days after the body was discovered. Once the cops located the tailor, they were able to get a confirmation from the picture they showed him. He had an older suit the man left to be repaired and it was simple for the crime lab technicians to find a sample of DNA from it. Once the match was made, his family was notified.

  Jameson’s ex-wife, Alameda, was trying to locate him to get some papers signed. She hadn’t spoken to him since the divorce and was happy with her settlement. The former Mrs. Jameson had caught him with his secretary trying to play the long short on something other than the stock market and demanded a divorce. Well, this is what she claimed. I heard other stories from people I talked to trying to locate him. The best explanation was the secretary was an innocent pawn in some game being played out between the husband and wife. They had some kind of “open” marriage and the secretary had been picked out by the husband to be his wife’s birthday present. She was outraged when she found out the secretary was dipping from both ends and wanted out of the marriage. In her way of thinking, so I was told, it was okay for them to be playing around outside the marriage, just not with someone
currently being bedded by the other partner. And she had threated to make certain pictures public which were taken at a drunken orgy in the basement of an estate in Chester County. Pictures which had him clipping the hedges of two young men in a hot tub while the crowd cheered him on.

  I couldn’t figure out why someone would kill Jameson. Couldn’t be his wife: she had all the money out of his estate she was going to get. With him dead, there would be no future chance of reconciliation. She seemed to have plenty of cash when she came to see me, Salvatore Ferragamo boots with a designer dress and a Coach bag. When I told her how much my expenses were, she didn’t even gasp, but pulled out a purse and produced a wad of cash, which I had to take to the bank later that day. My office is near the art museum district, so the rent isn’t cheap, but you can never be too careful in Philly. I looked out the window when she left and watched her strut into a fancy SUV and head down the street after our meeting. She had a boy toy sitting in the passenger seat who was too busy playing with his cell phone to notice when she opened the door. I watched her backhand him across the face once she had the door closed, so perhaps the lad was still learning who paid the bills.

  I discovered later the late Mr. Jameson had a musical son named Harry who was living on daddy’s money. Like all the other trust fund kids, he hung out in Old City and could be seen with the other fashionistas on club nights. Harry was a saxophone player who had dreams of becoming the next John Coltrane, Ornette Coleman or Nick Turner, depending on the time of day or whatever music he had discovered. I had gone to a jazz club near Spring Garden just to hear him play and he wasn’t that bad. I had decided against interviewing him directly when I was searching for his father, since I had the distinct feeling his mother wasn’t talking to him. I did notice a pretty young lady named Lucinda who was watching him with her big brown eyes that night. After I slipped him two twenties, the bartender told me how Harry’s lady liked to spend her boyfriend’s money. Lucinda kept referring to Harry, the horn player, as her “fiancée”, but she had yet to sport a ring and people close to the two claimed he was avoiding asking her to marry him.