The 13th Hour: A Marston Thriller (The Marston Series Book 4)
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THE 13TH
HOUR
The 13TH HOUR
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Brigitta Moon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my readers who keep coming back for more.
Table of Contents
THE 13TH
HOUR
The 13TH HOUR
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part II
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part III
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part IV
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part V
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part VI
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part VII
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Part VIII
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Part IX
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part X
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Part XI
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Epilogue
Prologue
From the back seat of the SUV, Billy heard the gunfire and the screams. His attention went immediately to his fellow officers. His first thought was—they were vulnerable; no place to take up a defensive position; no way to conceal themselves from the shooter. He laid low, dragged himself between the bucket seats, snatched up the radio mic, pressed the talk button, and signaled a code thirteen—officer down.
The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio loud and clear, “Location of shot, Officer? Is it lethal?”
This was Billy’s first gunfire encounter, his first officer shooting. He pressed the talk button again.
“Officer down! Officer down! Park Heights and Belvedere. Gunshot, left chest.”
He eased up to the window line to see what was happening.
“She’s moving,” he said with a breath of relief which was strangled as soon as he noticed Romero. “No! no! no!” he exclaimed under his breath as he watched the shooter flee left of Romero and sprint down the street. Billy could not believe what he was witnessing. Romero holstered his gun and ran towards Copeland sprawled on the pavement. This has to be a nightmare, he thought to himself.
Romero knelt down at Copeland’s side, scanned her for injuries. She was gasping. Blood seeped through her fingers onto her shirt. He hefted her under her arms and towed her in the direction of the SUV, opened the back door, and hoisted Copeland inside.
“Take care of her, Billy. I’m gonna hunt that mother fucker down and blow his brains out.”
“No! Wait for backup!”
Romero slammed the door on Billy’s words and sprinted down the street, the same way the shooter had fled. Billy was back on the radio.
“Code thirteen! Do you read me.”
“Backup is en route. Ambulance ETA—three minutes.”
Billy heard the screech of tires on the asphalt, doors open and slam shut, the store’s door bang against the brick wall for the second time.
An officer’s voice yelled, “Police.”
Billy’s eyes crested the window just in time to see a young man in a gray hoodie running, lift his arm behind him, and aim his gun at the officer. The sound of the shots was deafening as they echoed off the buildings.
Pop, pop, pop, pop-pop.
Billy looked towards the officer, waiting for him to fall face first on the concrete. Instead, he saw the officer duck down behind his car door, and the assailant fall to the ground with his arm outstretched, the gun lying beside his hand. He watched as officers methodically approached the store like a platoon of front-line soldiers.
“Police!” he heard the lead man yell.
He looked on as an older, brown-skinned man with gray hair around his temples walked through the door with his hands raised high in surrender, his back curved with age.
“Thank God,” the man said. “Thank God, you come.” The man lumbered towards the officer.
Chapter 1
For Romero, Sundays exist for the sole purpose of kicking back with a beer and watching sports; maybe even flipping open a good book. This was not to be the case for him today, being one of the Marston detectives. Their work was just beginning at 1533 Braddish Lane. The call came in before the sun was up. Now, the detectives were about to see exactly which way their Sunday would travel. For them, there were only two directions it could go–north or south. Romero raised the yellow crime scene tape. He and Billy ducked under.
Officer Thorn stood behind the cordoned off area, dressed in blues, his palm resting on the Glock inside the holster on his hip. He was a bald, mountain of a man with a dark chocolate complexion, and punched in face like a bulldog. A scar sliced from below his left eye, traveled down his cheek, and landed on his chin—a battle wound he had tucked away and refused to discuss. As soon as he noticed the two detectives approaching, he thrust out his hand and plastered a wide grin on his face.
“Well, if it isn’t the dynamic duo, here to clean up crime.”
Romero shook Thorn’s hand. “Whatcha got here, buddy? A dead runaway? Squatter?” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a toothpick—stuck it between his teeth.
Romero was the top detective in the Marston precinct—always on top of the case, and his physique—three days a week at the gym lifting weights, and four days sipping beer at SUDS.
“Neither,” said Thorn. “But, I can tell you this; we have just shut the lid on an unsolved case.”
“Really,” said Romero as if he doubted his claim.
“Hey, you don’t have to
thank us now. But, you will.” Thorn smirked. “It feels good to walk off the scene with a live victim. You know what I mean, Billy?”
Billy nodded. He was tall and lean. Early in his career when he was handed the detective shield, he was frequently mistaken for a high school kid. Now, his looks had risen to college level.
Romero chewed on his toothpick.
Thorn rocked back on his heels. “Now, this one, she has someone waiting for her. She’s damaged, but her family will be happy to have her back.”
“What the hell, Thorn? Damaged? Like goods in a supermarket?” Romero took his toothpick out and pointed it in Thorn’s face. “She’s a victim. Not damaged goods.”
Thorn threw up his hands. “Okay. Don’t shoot me.”
“Where is our victim? How was she discovered?” asked Romero.
Thorn pointed behind him at the aged home. It wore the dull green, antiquated paint of the fifties. The home was old, but someone had shown it a lot of love over the years: trimming the bushes, pruning the plants, cutting the grass, touching up the paint, buffing the windows, and replacing the roof shingles.
Thorn turned and began walking toward the house. “The nine-one-one call was from a Monica Mason. Says she was doing the old lady a favor. Checking on the house while the homeowner is laid up in one of those rest homes.”
Romero and Billy kept up with Thorn as he ascended the steps to the porch. Thorn stopped at the doorway with his hand resting on the knob of the storm door.
“It ain’t pretty in there, and the Mason girl…she’s all beat up over this thing. Says she was checking the house before her six-a.m. shift at the hospital.” Thorn checked his watch. “Well, fellas, she’s going to be late. It’s already five-fifty-five.”
“What about the victim?” asked Romero.
“The ambulance is on the way.”
“Who is she?” asked Billy.
Thorn opened the storm door. “Now, you see, that’s the best part of this whole thing—who this woman is. Like I said, you will be thanking us for this one. The vic is in the basement. Miss Mason is in the living room. Pick your poison, big guy—vic or savior?
“Which one would you suggest?” asked Romero.
The screech of the ambulance siren pierced the morning. Inside the home, the crew heard the siren grow louder as the ambulance pulled to the curb, and stopped abruptly. Two doors opened and slammed shut.
“It seems we need to decide in a hurry,” said Billy. “The ambulance is here.”
“Actually, detectives, I have a confession. I wasn’t completely transparent. The vic in the basement has one foot and five toes in the grave.”
Chapter 2
Two EMTs (Emergency Medical Technicians) burst through the door with a stretcher—the male pulling, the female pushing, with the oxygen tank and medical bag riding on top of the sheets.
“Where’s the victim?” asked the male EMT.
Thorn pointed toward the basement door. “Down there, Gary. You may want to take a look first. And you may want to rethink the stretcher. The stairway is as narrow as those damn streets in the city meant for horses and buggies way back in the early nineteen hundreds. And now, we’re trying to squeeze in parked cars on the sides and two-way traffic down the middle.”
Gary, the EMT in front, grabbed the green oxygen cylinder. Devin, the second EMT snatched up the medical bag. They ran for the stairs.
Thorn watched the EMTs disappear through the door. “Isn’t that EMT one of the nurses who works in the ICU at Marston General? Devin, right?”
“Damned if I know, buddy,” Romero answered.
Thorn chuckled. “Oh, right, I forgot, you don’t look at other women. You’re getting married.”
Billy laughed. Romero’s lips turned down.
“I’m getting married. My eyes still work. I don’t have a clue who works where in that place. My job usually ends at the ER,” said Romero defending his position.
Thorn threw up his hands. “No need to explain. We understand. You took the death sentence.”
Romero put his hand on the butt of his gun. “I ought to stuff this gun barrel in your mouth. There’s a death sentence for you.”
“Over here.” Officer Riley Nelson waved the detectives over to join him.
“This ain’t over, Thorn,” Romero said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Thorn turned away and loped in the direction of the front door.
Billy went towards the basement and peered down the stairwell. It was a narrow passage just as Thorn had described. Romero joined Officer Nelson in the living room. Monica sat on the couch with her hands in her lap picking at her nails. Every few seconds she sniffled. Romero handed her a box of Kleenex from the side table. She popped a few out and pressed them against her nose.
Romero cleared his throat. Monica looked up at the detective for the first time. He peered down at her sheet of silky auburn hair. She had a girlish look about her. Pure innocence, Romero thought to himself. She was slender and toned. Looked like she could hold her own in a battle, no matter how virtuous her young face appeared.
“Mind if I sit down?” Romero asked the young lady.
She shrugged one shoulder and dabbed at her nose with the Kleenex.
Romero sat in the arm chair across from Monica, leaning in with his elbows planted on his thighs and his fingers interlocked under his chin. “I would like to hear your story.”
Monica swiped at tears with the tissue. She nodded.
“I’ll make this as easy as possible,” Romero said. “I can see you have been through a horrible ordeal here.”
“Will…will I be able to leave after this?” Monica sniffled.
Romero thought he heard his heart crack. For such innocence to be subjected to… His thought halted as he realized he hadn’t a clue as to what the young lady had seen.
“Tell this thing your way. Start from the beginning,” Romero said.
Officer Nelson took a pad and pen from his uniform pocket. He flipped the pad open.
Romero prompted the young woman with a nod.
She wrung her hands and looked in the direction of the front door. Her voice came out in a whisper.
“Ms. Frank owns this house. She hasn’t been able to care for herself for a long time. She lives at the nursing home.”
Monica went quiet for a few seconds.
“She slipped on an icy patch last winter. Broke her ankle. I had been helping her as much as I could, but her son gave me the creeps.” She shivered as if hit by an icy breeze. “I hated the way he looked at me, like I was going to be dessert. So, when she went into the home, I stopped coming here. There was no reason for me to come over. I visited her at the nursing home.”
Romero nodded. “Go on.”
“A week ago, her son was in a motorcycle accident on the triple bridge overpass on Interstate Seventy.” She looked down at the wooden floor. The wood gleamed as if it had been shined recently. “He was killed.”
Officer Nelson’s pen paused. “I remember that accident. I responded to it. He died instantly. Broke his neck.”
Monica nodded. “Yes, that accident. I went to see if Ms. Frank needed me to do anything. She asked me to check the house.” She went quiet again, swiping at her eyes.
Billy made his presence known. He was standing behind Romero. “Would you like a glass of water?”
Monica looked up at Billy with red rimmed eyes. He was lanky and appeared to be near Monica’s age, although she knew he was a bit older. “You’re Faith’s boyfriend, right?”
Billy paused. He was going through pictures in his mind trying to match her to one.
“We haven’t met. I’ve seen picture of you and Faith together. We’re best friends.”
“Oh, okay.” Billy felt relief wash over him. “Are you sure you don’t need a bottle of water? It’s not a problem. We keep them in the car.”
Monica shook her head and dove back into her story. “The house was dark when I came in. I started flipping on lights. That’s when I hea
rd a noise. It sounded like something dragging on the floor. It wasn’t loud. At first, I thought it was my imagination. Then I heard it again. I was afraid an intruder was inside the house. I didn’t know what to do.”
Monica’s shoulders quaked. She clamped her hand over her mouth. Her voice seeped out muffled with jagged words.
“I ran back to my car and watched the house. Nothing changed. You have to understand, I had agreed to help Ms. Franks. I just wanted to get it done, so I told myself that I was just spooked. The house had been empty for a week.” Monica put her face in her hands. Crying.
Romero allowed her time to gather her emotions before prodding her on. “What happened next?”
“I went back inside, except this time I took a baseball bat with me. I know it was probably stupid.”
“Hold on a second,” Romero said. “A baseball bat? Why on earth do you have one in your car?”
Monica peered at Romero with a small, sheepish smile on her lips. “My little brother plays little league.”
Romero nodded. “Okay, now that we have cleared that up, let’s move on.”
Monica shifted in her seat. “I just wanted to do what Ms. Frank asked of me, and then get out. So, I went back in. Checked each room—upstairs and down.”
“What about the basement?” asked Romero.
“I hate basements. They’re scary, full of ghost tales, and monsters. But, I knew I had to go down there, so I flipped the light on and waited. All was quiet. I took the first step, all along thinking of that scary children’s tale—I want my liver back, Johnny.”
A nervous chuckle escaped Monica. “The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Right then and there I wanted to run back to my car, drive away, and never return.”
“What did you do next?” Romero asked.
She clamped her hands in her lap. “I tried to go down there, but I couldn’t bring myself to take another step, so I looked over the railing. I saw a foot. I got the hell out of there and called the police from my car.”
“So, you never saw who was in the basement?”
She shook her head.