By Eric Campbell (editor)
Down, Out and Dead
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
A Cougar’s Kiss (*)
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
The Pyongyang Option (*)
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By William Hastings (editor)
Stray Dogs: Writing from the Other America
By Matt Hilton
No Going Back
Rules of Honor (*)
The Lawless Kind (*)
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright & Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
Cooking with Crimespree
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Robert J. Randisi
Upon My Soul
Souls of the Dead
Envy the Dead (*)
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley's Lament
Wiley's Shuffle
Wiley's Refrain
Dark Paradise
By Vincent Zandri
Moonlight Weeps
(*) Coming soon
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Robert J. Randisi’s Souls of the Dead.
Prologue
Monday night . . .
Ex-Sheriff Ken Burke entered Pirates alley from the Jackson Square end. All the businesses and activities that attracted tourists to the Square had closed by 8 p.m. Now, at 11 p.m., it was deserted, except for some homeless people looking to sleep on benches, or in doorways.
Burke walked along the side of the St. Louis Cathedral. His meet was set for behind the building, across from the Faulkner House.
The ex-Orleans Parish Sheriff moved as carefully and quietly as he could. In his belt he had his old .45. The gun had retired with him, never having given way to the S&W and Beretta double-action, semi-automatic pistols that were also eventually eclipsed by the appearance of the Glock. These were the guns law enforcement officials began to carry during what Burke referred to as the “new age” of law enforcement. He was still “old age” in his thinking, though he recognized the irony and didn’t like the first impression the phrase presented.
But as alert as he was, the old reflexes were not what they used to be. He heard a sound behind him. Before he could turn toward it something struck him on the back of the head and he went down.
Goddamn, but getting old was a bitch!
ONE
When Sangster’s phone rang it came as a surprise.
Not only because it was the middle of the night, but because Sangster’s phone never rang. Not ever, except for an occasional wrong number. He only kept the land line because he didn’t own a cell phone. When he had need of one, he always bought the disposable kind.
He groped in the dark for the receiver, wanting nothing more than for the ringing to stop.
“Yes, what?” he said.
“Mr. Stark?”
Richard Stark was a name he used when he didn’t want to use Sangster.
“Who’s calling?”
“Sir, this is the Urgent Care center in University Hospital? Are you Mr. Richard Stark?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been listed as the person to be notified—”
“What?” he asked, sitting up. “Listed by who? What are you talking about?”
“Um, a man named Kenneth Burke? He’s been injured and gave your name and number—”
“Is he all right?” Sangster asked. “Is he alive?”
“He’s alive, sir,” the woman said, “but you’ll need to come down—”
“I’ll be there,” Sangster said. “I’m—it’ll take me a while—I’m coming from Algiers, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“All right, sir.”
“Take care of him,” Sangster said, “take good care of him. I’ll pay, understand? Money’s no object.”
“We’re taking care of him, sir,” she said. “That’s our job.”
“Okay, okay.” He almost hung up, then put the phone back to his ear. “Who are you? I mean, what’s your name?”
“I’m Nurse Claire O’Malley, sir,” she said. “I’ll be on duty when you get here.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll be there.”
“Yes, all right, si—”
He hung up, got out of bed and grabbed some clothes . . .
Outside of Sangster’s house the man called Quinlan was watching from across the street, trying to get the lay of the land. He had only arrived in New Orleans that afternoon, got himself situated in a small B&B before heading out to find Algiers Point. He got directions from the woman who ran the B&B, an attractive middle-aged brunette who was obviously flirting. Maybe, if he was there long enough, he could look into that.
Once he got directions to Algiers he grabbed a cab to the ferry and took the ride across. He used most of the rest of the day to check the area out, look for cops and, finally, locate Sangster’s house.
He was there long enough for the last ferry to have left, so he decided to spend the night outside of Sangster’s house. He wasn’t ready to go in. He was good at his job, and that meant learning all he could about his target, and the target’s environment.
That’s why he was there when the front door opened and Sangster came rushing out. The man got into an old Ford and drove off fast. The ferry still wasn’t running, but Quinlan had been told there was a bridge you could take back and forth. He didn’t have a car, though, so there was no way to follow Sangster. But that was okay. He needed to learn the set-up of the house, anyway. And he could do that while Sangster was gone.
Upon arrival at University Hospital on Perdido Street, Sangster parked the car he’d borrowed from in front of Burke’s house and sought out and found Nurse O’Malley, a pretty woman in her thirties with freckles and a mass of red curls that she’d tried to pin up under her nurse’s cap.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Stark,” she said. “Uh, your friend is still being treated. I’ll take you to talk to the doctor.”
“Thank you.”
“The police are here, as well.”
“The police?” Sangster asked. “Why?”
“Well, apparently your friend had been attacked,” she said, “and he had some sort of badge on him?”
“He’s a retired Sheriff,” Sangster said.
“I see.” She led Sangster deeper into the emergency room. Around him were people with all different sorts of injuries, a couple of which seemed to be pretty bloody.
“You’re busy,” he observed.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Since Katrina caused Charity Hospital to close down, we pick up a lot of extra cases. We pretty much split them with
Tulane Hospital.”
The ex-hitman followed the nurse, hoping the police officers wouldn’t be too interested in who he was and he’d be able to get away with saying he was “a friend.”
As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. He saw two men talking to a tall, very skinny white-coated doctor, recognized them, immediately, and knew they would recognize him. The doctor was wearing a name tag that read, DR. JUDD, M.D.
“Doctor?” she said. “This is Mr. Burke’s emergency contact.”
The doctor and both detectives turned to face Sangster.
“Well, look who it is,” Detective Williams said. “Stark, right?”
“Mr. Stark,” Detective Aaron Telemaco said. “I should have realized—”
“How is Burke?” Sangster demanded.
The doctor looked at Telemaco for guidance, and the older detective nodded and said, “You can go ahead and answer, Doc.”
“Mr. Burke was attacked on the street,” the doctor said. His watery eyes studied Sangster from behind rimless wire-frame glasses. “He has a nasty lump on the back of his head, but no other obvious injuries.”
“What do you mean, ‘obvious injuries’?” Sangster asked.
“Well, just that,” the doctor said. “He’s in and out of consciousness.”
“Is that unusual with a head injury?” Sangster asked.
“Well, no . . .”
“But?”
“But this seems odd,” the doctor said. “I was just telling the detectives, we’ve taken x-rays and a cat scan, and we can’t see any reason for his condition.”
“He was hit on the head,” Sangster said.
“As I said,” the doctor went on, “he has a lump, but no concussion. He should be back on his feet by now.”
“Well . . .” Sangster said. “. . . he is an older man.”
“Even taking that into account,” the doctor said, “he should be up.”
“Have you tried to get him on his feet?”
“He can’t stand,” the man said. “He seems to be suffering from extreme vertigo.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“We were waiting for you to arrive,” the doctor said. “You’re his emergency contact. Are you family?”
“Mr. Stark is Sheriff Burke’s neighbor,” Telemaco said, “and good friend.”
“Then you’ll have to make the decision as to how we proceed from here.”
“What would you like to do?” Sangster asked.
“Well. . . I’d admit him so we can run some more tests,” Doctor Judd said, “see if we can’t track down just what the problem is.”
“Then do that.”
“Um,” Dr. Judd said, “I assume Mr. Burke has Medicare? Or some kind of insurance?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Sangster said. “You just find what’s wrong with him.”
“Okay, then.”
“Can I see him?”
“It’ll be a while before we can move him into a room,” Judd said. “The nurse will show you where he is.”
That was the first time Sangster noticed that the nurse was still there.
“Hold on, Stark,” Williams said, “we wanna talk—”
“Let Mr. Stark see the Sheriff, Ben,” Telemaco said. “We can talk later.”
Williams gave his partner a sour look and said, “Yeah, okay.”
“This way, Mr. Stark,” Nurse O’Malley said.
“Thanks,” Sangster said to Telemaco, then said, “Thank you,” to the doctor.
The detective nodded, and the doctor said, “Yes, of course.”
Sangster turned and followed the nurse.
TWO
The nurse swept back a curtain to reveal Ken Burke lying on a gurney, a sheet pulled up to his neck. It was the first time Sangster could remember seeing Burke look his age. He was pale and drawn, the wrinkles were more deeply etched into his face than normal. They added age now, rather than character.
His breathing seemed normal to Sangster, nothing labored about it.
“Just a few minutes, please,” Nurse O’Malley said.
“Sure.”
She nodded and withdrew.
Sangster stepped closer to his friend and neighbor.
“Burke? Hey, Burke. Can you hear me?”
For a moment there was no reaction, but then the old man’s eyes fluttered open.
“Sangster?”
The ex-hitman leaned in closer and said, “Stark.”
“Right, right,” Burke said, his eyes closing again.
“Hey, old man!” Sangster snapped. “Stay with me!”
Burke’s eyes opened, again.
“What happened?”
“M-made a f-fool of myself,” Burke said. “Got c-caught.”
“What are you talking about, Burke?” Sangster asked,
“T-talk to Polly.”
“Polly? Polly who—wait. You mean the woman who cleans your house? That Polly?”
“Talk—talk to P-Polly . . .” Burke said again, and then drifted off.
“What the hell—”
Nurse O’Malley came in, brushed past Sangster, checked Burke’s pulse, then looked at the visitor.
“That’s enough, I’m afraid,” she said, firmly. “We’re going to move him to a room. You’ll have to speak with Billing.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sangster said, “but I think I have to talk to the cops, first.”
“They’re still waiting in the hall for you.”
“Okay.” He cast one last look at Burke.
“We’ll take care of him,” she promised.
“But will you find out what’s wrong with him?”
“I’m sure the doctors will do their best.”
Sangster nodded, then went out to talk to the detectives.
He found Telemaco standing alone.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria and get some coffee,” the detective said.
“Where’s your partner?”
“I sent him to Pirates Alley with some uniforms.”
“Pirates Alley?”
“That’s where the sheriff was found.”
Sangster knew that Telemaco referring to Burke as “the sheriff” was a sign of respect for the old lawman, and he appreciated it.
“Sure,” he said, “coffee sounds fine.”
They each got a coffee in real cups rather than Styrofoam and took them to a table.
“What was the sheriff up to, Sangster?” Telemaco said, purposely not using “Stark.” He had found out Sangster’s name last year, when they were both in Las Vegas. Apparently, he hadn’t bothered to fill his partner in.
“I don’t know,” Sangster said. “He didn’t tell me he was up to anything.”
“So ya’ll don’t know what he was doing in Pirates Alley close to midnight?”
“No idea.”
“And if ya’ll did, you’d tell me, right?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I’d like to find out what happened to him.”
“You mean you’d like me to find out what happened to him, right?” Telemaco said.
“That’s what I mean.”
“Did he say anything to you just now?”
“Nothing that made any sense,” Sangster said, without hesitation. Maybe he didn’t kill people for a living anymore, but he was still a pretty damn good liar.
“Like what?”
“He was mumbling,” Sangster said. “Said he made a fool of himself, got caught. Not much else.”
Telemaco sat back and rubbed his gray-and-black stubble thoughtfully.
“What the hell was he doin’, working a case of some kind?” he leaned forward. “Was he doing any P.I. work?”
“No,” Sangster said, “not that he told me.”
“You guys are tight, right?” Telemaco asked. “He’d tell you a thing like that?”
“Yes, he would.”
“Well, we didn’t get much out of him, either,” the detective admitted. “I’ll have to try and talk to him again when they get him into a roo
m. Meanwhile, maybe Williams is finding something helpful.”
“Yeah,” Sangster said, “maybe.”
“I need something from you, Sangster.”
“What’s that?”
“I need your word you’re not gonna get in my way on this.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you have a history of takin’ things into your own hands. You’re not gonna try to deny that, are you? Not after Vegas.”
“That was my own business,” Sangster said. “This is Burke’s business.”
“And now it’s mine,” Telemaco said. “I don’t want you in my business.”
“Don’t worry,” Sangster said. “I can safely say the last thing I want to do is get into your business.”
Telemaco stared at Sangster intently, as if he was trying to read between the lines.
THREE
Sangster waited around for them to get Burke into a room.
While he was waiting he went and talked to the billing department. He told them he’d get Burke’s Medicare information and that the bills for anything not covered should be sent to Burke’s address. That was because he didn’t want to give out his own.
That done he found out what room Burke was in, took the elevator to the right floor and found him out cold in a bed. There were tubes attached to machines that were beeping, and would keep beeping as long as Burke was breathing.
“Excuse me,” a middle-aged nurse said, slipping past him.
“Oh, sorry.” He stepped aside.
“Are you family?”
“His friend,” Sangster said, “and neighbor.”
“You shouldn’t be here, then.” She went to the machine, checked the connections, and then turned to face him.
“Where’s Nurse O’Malley?” he asked.
“She’s an emergency room nurse,” she answered, “so she’s in the emergency room. She’s through with this case.”
“How is he?”
“Resting,” she said. “That’s the best thing he can do.” She pointed her finger at him. “Five more minutes. Understand?”
Death is Not Forever (Barefield Book Book 3) Page 28