Copyright
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Double Indemnity
© 2015 Maggie Kavanagh.
Cover Art
© 2015 Maria Fanning.
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.
ISBN: 978-1-63216-377-6
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-378-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951373
First Edition January 2015
Printed in the United States of America
This paper meets the requirements of
ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
To my partner in crime, always.
Acknowledgments
Writing does not occur in a vacuum, and I’m incredibly grateful to have the support of so many people. Thank you in particular to Olivia, Michela, and Asya, dear friends who have offered their insightful feedback and cheerleading at all stages of the drafting and editing process. This novel wouldn’t exist without them.
Chapter 1
SAM HAD never believed in alien abduction stories, but the way he felt, he finally understood how those rumors got started. He squinted at the mildewing shower curtain and tried to recall the night before. His head hurt, though, and thinking was hard. His ass hurt too, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out the reason. It sure as hell hadn’t been the work of an anal probe. At least not an alien anal probe.
Honey, it was aliens. Aliens made me drink a ton of booze and then fucked my ass, I swear.
He tilted his head and let the spray wash away the taste of cock and beer. From the way his back and neck ached, it seemed like it had been a night to remember. How ironic.
“Ouch. Dammit.” He cursed as the shower went from lukewarm to scorching hot, which meant the little talk he’d had with apartment 512 the week before about the shared water supply hadn’t had the desired effect. Protecting his balls with one hand, he fought the showerhead with the other, forcing it toward the wall so he wouldn’t cook himself. He needed to get a new place. The same thought occurred to him every time this happened, and yet he’d lived in the building for over five years. But doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results was pretty much his credo.
It would be a shame to change now.
When he stepped onto the shirt serving as a bath mat, he rubbed his hands over his face to determine whether he needed a shave. The stubble hadn’t started to itch yet. Bloodshot hazel eyes stared back at him in the mirror—a reminder he hadn’t slept more than four hours. Still, with youth on his side, he didn’t look too bad, in spite of the comical contrast between his tan neck and arms and his pale chest. He ran his hands through his damp, dirty blond hair and decided against applying product. It would only sweat down his face once he got to work.
It seemed primed to be another brutal New England summer day with 100 percent humidity. Even the air outside the bathroom felt mossy and wet. Sam grabbed a pair of not-too-dirty shorts from the laundry and pulled on a Manella’s Landscaping tee, then pocketed his keys and headed for the door. Along the way he caught a glimpse of a discarded baseball hat. Yankees. Yuri’s.
The answer to what had happened last night. Or rather, who.
He grabbed the hat, and his phone buzzed in his back pocket.
“What’s up, Rach?”
“Oh my God, Sam. You will never believe what happened.” A trace of alarm edged Rachel’s usually smooth voice.
“Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Mark Feldman is dead.”
Sam froze in his tracks. “What? How?”
“I don’t know. It’s breaking right now. Sounds like the cops found him at home, though. Do you have a minute before work? I’m at the Star.”
Sam glanced at the time. “Yeah, I’ll come down.” He didn’t technically have to be at the Walkers’ place for another hour.
“See you in a few.”
The Lucky Star pub tried a bit too hard to be Irish and wound up on just the wrong side of cheesy. Still, they had good burgers, better fries, and the best bartender in Stonebridge, Connecticut—if you asked Sam, though he’d admit to bias. Sam gave the window a tappity-tap-tap since the place wouldn’t open until noon, and a few seconds later the door swung open. Rachel’s full lips were set in a grim line. She gestured him inside before the neighborhood drunks got wind and descended en masse.
The room was empty. A spray bottle full of cleaner and some rags sat abandoned on one of the small round tables in the general seating area, evidence Rachel had been cleaning up from the night before. Sam’s boots stuck to the floor, making Velcro sounds with each step as he followed Rachel toward the bar, where one of the TVs was tuned into a morning newscast. He did a double take. Words flashed on the screen below a large picture of a smiling man he recognized as Mark Feldman. Local Philanthropist Found Dead.
“Hot damn. CNN?” Sam slid onto his favorite stool.
“Yep. And Fox News.” Rachel rolled her eyes and smoothed her Afro away from her face. “It’s practically a national story.”
“Glory comes to Stonebridge in strange ways.” Sam snorted. “Hell, I think I need a beer.”
“After how drunk you were last night? I don’t think so.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of hair of the dog?”
Rachel smacked his arm with a bar towel. “Just shut up and listen.”
They both turned their attention to the TV as the male reporter introduced a local news briefing. The screen changed to the pressroom at the courthouse, one Sam was familiar with from the few times the local newspaper had called him in to cover a story. Chief Sheldon stood at the podium wearing his grandpa reading glasses, perfectly poised. His bushy gray eyebrows were drawn together, a telltale sign he was serious.
Sam grinned. “The old man’s on TV. Would you look at that?”
“At six fifteen this morning, we received a call from a family member who found Mr. Feldman unresponsive. Police and medics reported to the scene, but all attempts to revive the deceased were unsuccessful. We will keep you updated with the latest as the case develops. Right now I ask that reporters give the family the respect and privacy they deserve during this terrible time. Thank you.” Sheldon began to back away, but not before being hit by a barrage of questions.
One reporter, a guy from the Gazette, yelled the loudest. “Is it true you found him in the bathtub?”
Sheldon frowned, and he glanced over his shoulder at someone else before turning back to the crowd of reporters. “Yes.”
“Was it a suicide?”
“I have no further comments at this
point.”
“Did you find a note?”
“Again, no further details are available at this time. Thank you.”
To put a definitive end to the conference, Sheldon strode away, a couple of deputies trailing behind him. The news cut back to the main studio. “That was Chief of Police Dan Sheldon with a short briefing of what we already knew, that local financier and philanthropist, Mark Feldman, has been found dead in his home. Cause of death is under investigation.”
Rachel sighed and crossed her arms. “You think it was a suicide?”
“No idea. It seemed like he had everything going for him.”
In the last several years, Mark Feldman had gained popularity for restoring some of Stonebridge’s crumbling, turn-of-the-century buildings with personal funds. He’d planned to save even more with the help of his eponymous nonprofit foundation. Sam suspected he was gearing up to run as the democratic candidate for mayor, which would have pitted him against Mayor White, a recently re-elected Republican with a twenty-year history in the city. Though White’s policies continued to ignore the ongoing poverty and drug crisis downtown in favor of courting wealthier suburban inhabitants, he’d won a landslide victory over his latest opponent. People were afraid of change. In a few years, however, Feldman would have been the perfect challenger. Well, not anymore, Sam thought morosely. Though he hadn’t personally known Feldman, he’d respected what the guy had tried to do for the city.
Sam sighed as another pundit joined the first for more conjecture. Maybe the Gazette would give him a call for Feldman’s obit, unless they already had one written and ready to go. Feldman was as close to famous as you got in Stonebridge. He hoped he’d get to write it. He could use the money, and lately his assignments from the paper had been few and far between. Damn budget cuts.
“So what does this mean for Stonebridge?” Rachel asked.
“Well, with any luck, this won’t put an end to the restoration projects. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if White had Feldman killed ’cause he was making him look bad.”
Rachel rubbed her hands up and down her smooth arms, as though she were fighting a chill. “You don’t really mean that. I mean, granted, White is a douchebag, but that’s taking it a little far.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sam eyed the taps. Just a half-pint would clear his headache right up. “I’m only saying it smells fishy to me.”
“That’s the breeze coming in from the docks. Anyway, if you’re so convinced something is going on, why don’t you write about it for your blog? You talk enough, but I don’t see you doing shit. When’s the last time you wrote something really good?”
“I’m busy.” Sam’s schedule with Manella’s and occasional pieces for the Gazette left him little time for his pet project. He barely had time to sleep, let alone write.
“I know you are, baby.” Rachel gave his hand a pat, and her dark eyes grew soft. “You going to see Tim today?”
“Yeah. Later on.” Sam looked away. “Speaking of which, I better head out.”
“To tend the yuppie lawns.”
He grinned at her and leaned over the bar to kiss her cheek. “Touché.”
THE DRIVE from downtown to the suburbs of West Stonebridge took around twenty minutes. Houses turned into estates and then grew fewer and farther apart, and eventually gave way to farmland and wilderness. The contrast never failed to make him a little sorry for Stonebridge, which, despite the pretty name, was a huge dump of a port city. Most of it, anyway. Out here the air got fresher, the colors brighter, the people richer.
Sam cranked up the A/C in his truck and stopped for a coffee to wash down a couple of aspirin to kill his hangover. His first stop was the Walkers’ place, an old converted farmhouse on acres of land, most of which was covered with trees. Sam had often wondered what it would be like to live with nothing but bears and bunnies for neighbors. It might get lonely, but at least the water temperature would always be just right. He parked his Ford flatbed on the gravel driveway and hopped out. Because the job was only a weekly mow and maintain, Sam hadn’t bothered to ask any of the other workers to join him. And Yuri had taken the day off, Sam remembered, so he wouldn’t see his partner until the next day. At least it would avoid another awkward morning after.
Emma Walker’s cruiser was still parked in the drive when he pulled in, and next to it, her husband Nathan’s sleek black Mercedes. Sam’s pulse quickened like it always did, but the butterflies in his stomach reached swarm proportions when he noticed Nathan getting out of the driver’s side.
With his black sunglasses and trendy suit, the cut of which showed off his powerful shoulders and trim waist, Nathan couldn’t have looked less rustic in front of his country home. His dark hair gleamed in the morning sun.
He had a few inches on Sam, and Sam had often admired his swimmer’s build on the occasions Nathan was home while Sam worked the yard. The guy could do laps for hours as Sam mowed and raked and tried not to marvel at the way he cut through the water like a hot knife through butter. An attractive man, but a very heterosexual, very married, man, Sam reminded himself as he returned Nathan’s wave. He pulled something out of his trunk—a suitcase—and vanished into the house. Sam often wondered where Nathan disappeared to on all of those long trips. He could have been a government agent or some kind of contractor. Even a hit man.
“Heya, Sam.” Emma Walker appeared at the front door wearing her uniform, her red hair frizzing out around her head. She was a petite woman with pale skin and wide blue eyes. On more than one occasion, Sam had wondered if the whole country-living thing had been her idea in the first place.
“Emma,” he greeted her, slamming the door to his truck. He didn’t need to unload. The Walkers had a riding mower in their barn and plenty of tools, most of them left over from the previous owners. The former occupants had maintained a functioning apple orchard, and an unpaved, winding road led from the side of the barn, past the house, and up to the groves. One of these days, Sam would get up there and see about pruning the trees.
“It’s a scorcher,” said Emma. “You be sure to come in and have a drink if you need one. Nathan just got back from a trip, so he’ll be working from home.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Today would probably be one of those swimming days, then. His pulse spiked at the thought.
“Well, I’m off.” She blew out a breath. “I really can’t believe Mark Feldman is dead. Mess of paperwork today, and I’m sure things will be crazy down at the station. I’d rather stay home and help you in the yard, to be honest.”
“You hear anything else about it? I saw the chief’s briefing.”
“Nothing until we get the autopsy results, but we won’t rule anything out until then. I feel so awful for his family.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He knew more than a little about loss, but he wasn’t going to bring it up right then. “Hey, I’m thinking of doing something for my blog. Maybe we can chat once the results are in?” He gave her his most winning smile.
Emma smiled back. “Yes. That would be fine. It’ll be at least a few days, though.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go, but I meant what I said about asking Nathan if you need anything. The last thing we want is for you to pass out from heatstroke. Don’t you have a hat?”
Sam watched her slim figure retreat and then grabbed Yuri’s stupid Yankees cap from the cab of his truck. Better to wear it than burn to a crisp.
Mark Feldman was dead, and he couldn’t have been more than fifty. Sam had met him a couple of times around town, and in each instance the man had been gracious, if a bit frayed around the edges. He’d apparently lost a lot of money in the market crash. Maybe that drove him to draw his last bath. Or maybe he’d slipped and fallen. In cases like this, sometimes you never found out.
The sweltering morning drew on, filled with smells of gasoline and freshly cut grass. At least his noise-canceling headphones muffled the sound of the riding mower. He put his foot on the brake and whipped his shirt off, then us
ed it to mop the sweat off his brow. He couldn’t imagine Nathan objecting, and no one else was around for miles.
The thought appealed to him a little more than it probably should.
He’d just finished the front yard when he looked up and was startled to find he wasn’t alone. Nathan stood not ten feet away, watching him and holding what appeared to be a glass of iced tea. The towel slung over his shoulder indicated his intent to swim. Sam cut the mower engine and stood up. He hoped his sweat wasn’t visible through his shorts.
“Emma told me to make sure you didn’t keel over out here.” Nathan extended his tan, muscled arm. No visible tattoos. He could have been a swimsuit model.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” A long sip of the strong and lemony tea soothed Sam’s throat, though Nathan’s proximity was disarming. His dark eyes focused on Sam and seemed to assess him.
“So you’re a Yankees fan?”
An uncomfortable moment passed, during which Sam tried to figure out what the hell Nathan meant. “Pardon my French, but fuck no.”
“It’s just… your hat.”
Sam blushed and tugged the thing off his head. “This isn’t mine, it’s a friend’s. I was wearing it because of the sun.”
“Ah, I see.” Nathan’s mouth curved in a half smile as he watched Sam drain the rest of the tea. “Sox, then.”
“Of course.”
“Do you want some more?”
Sam shook his head and passed back the glass. “Nah, thanks. I’m good.” He knew he should probably get back to work, but his legs refused to move. “So what do you think about this whole Feldman thing? You think he killed himself?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What do you think?”
“It’s strange. People loved him, and he was really making an impact on the city. Didn’t seem like a guy on the verge of killing himself, but who knows.”
“You’re a reporter, right?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call myself a reporter. I write piecemeal for the Gazette. Oh, and I have a blog.” Sam cringed at how stupid he sounded, but Nathan cocked his head, his expression curious.
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