When the Dead Speak

by Sandra Tooley

  WHEN THE DEAD SPEAK

  1st Sam Casey Mystery

  S.D. Tooley

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, 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. Any slights of people, places, or organizations is purely unintentional.

  Copyright © 1999 by S.D. Tooley

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Library of Congress Control Number 98-96463

  ISBN 978-0-9820352-8-3

  Smashwords Edition

  - PROLOGUE -

  Legend says that overcast skies are nature’s way of hiding evil, protecting the gods from seeing sinister deeds. So the clouds hovered, suspended by some unseen cosmic force. Even the Chicago winds weren’t able to blow the thick clouds away. The sun had tried to make a showing, desperately seeking a flaw in the haze. But it finally gave up as dusk bullied its way in, permitting the sun one brief shining moment before sinking below the horizon.

  Like a string of dominos, expressway lights clicked on in succession along the Bishop Ford Freeway. A thunderous crash filled the air. Billows of smoke drifted up, spewing grainey dust in front of headlights, pitting windshields.

  In an attempt to avoid another vehicle, a semi had swerved onto the median plowing headlong into the center support pillar of the overpass. The collision had sent the back of the semi fish-tailing into a jackknife. Tires screeched and rubber burned as cars and trucks slammed on their brakes. Loud, shrill horns replaced the sound of the disintegrating column. Chunks of concrete pelted the cab of the semi sending the driver running for cover.

  Above the cab wedged under the overpass, the concrete pillar began to change. As if flicking a pesty insect, another piece of concrete dropped away followed by others, pounding out a musical tune on the cab.

  A portion of the pillar was taking form, a recognizable shape as it seemed to shrug out of its concrete tomb. Little by little, more of its tomb crumbled away revealing a town’s long-kept secret. Fingers clenched tightly, a mouth silently screamed freedom. Eyes wide in terror reflected the victim’s last fatal seconds.

  Harvey Wilson had a story to tell. And only one person would be able to hear him.

  Chapter 1

  Most deals were made in back rooms of cornerstone restaurants after a Closed sign had been hung in the window, or behind closed doors in city council chambers away from the public and press. But in the living room of State Representative Preston Hilliard’s home, there was more than deals to be made — there was money.

  The air was as thick as the wainscoting on the walls and the decor as rich-looking as the socially elite that graced the rooms of the oldest mansion in Chasen Heights, a suburb fifteen miles south of Chicago. One hundred of the most influential businessmen and women had been invited for cocktails and a buffet dinner of entrees which included Maine lobster, crab legs, and filet mignon.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” A billow of foul-smelling cigar smoke drifted toward Sam’s line of vision. She had been inhaling the stench and forcing a smile for the last two hours.

  “Enise,” Sam replied, pronouncing it E-NUSS. She passed the six decks of cards to the distinguished man at third base, the last seat to her right. He winked at her and slid the yellow cut card one knuckle’s width from the end.

  “You sure do have the prettiest blue eyes,” said an elderly man sitting next to the card cutter. His drooping eyes skimmed the length of her white satin cropped top.

  The heavyset cigar smoker seated to her left leaned over to view the length of Sam’s frame where she stood behind the waist-high blackjack table.

  “You think she looks great from the front, you should see her from the back.” His laugh came from deep within his water-soaked lungs ending in a coughing spasm.

  “Stick your tongue back in your mouth, Judge. We’re here to win some money. Deal those cards, Honey.” The man front and center hadn’t cracked a smile all night, deadpan, with eyes that seemed to cross-examine everyone’s movement for a motive. She didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to determine his occupation since he had been spewing legalese since he had arrived.

  The players had been coming and going throughout the night depending on how long their money lasted. All wearing tuxedos, they congregated around the bar or sat on the floral sofa and love seat. Some wore their tuxedos quite nicely. Some looked as if they had to be squeezed through a steam roller first. They were from all types of businesses and looking forward to making some money. But the odds were against them the moment they walked through the oak-paneled door.

  “Well, Enise,” the banker said. “Let’s see a few blackjacks.” Square bifocals rested on the banker’s nose. Sam spread out his one-hundred-dollar bills, and expertly clicked out two thousand dollars in black chips from the bankroll. The metal tray in front of her divided the chips by color in their respective denominations — red for five-dollar chips, green for twenty-five-dollar chips, black for one-hundred-dollar chips, and lavender for five-hundred-dollar chips.

  “Good luck,” Sam told him as she slid the stack of black chips across the green felt. Another belch of foul smoke spouted from the judge at first base. He had spilled more drinks tonight than he had consumed. Sam kept hoping he’d lose his money and leave but he had a royal horseshoe up his butt. The cards were all falling his way. And he was doing stupid things like splitting tens and doubling down on a hard twelve. He seemed to get a blackjack every third hand. And he just got another one.

  “YEH!” the doughboy screamed. “Way to go, Anus.”

  “That’s ENISE,” Sam said between clenched teeth. I knew I should have picked a simpler name. “E-NUSS.” Sam clicked out seven hundred and fifty dollars in chips from the bankroll and set them by doughboy’s five-hundred-dollar bet. “And you won’t get another blackjack tonight if you don’t pronounce my name right.”

  He clamped his teeth over his cigar and in his gravelly voice said, “Okay, Anus.” Another phlegmy cough erupted from his throat as his chubby hands grabbed for his chips.

  This night will be worth it, Sam kept repeating in her head. Her eyes swept the room looking for the host. He wasn’t hard to miss. His eyes were as cold as gun metal with well-defined lines etching a frame around them. Standing ramrod straight, he surveyed the room as though assessing if everyone was worthy of his presence. He had thick silver hair and had been working the room, going in and out, shaking hands, practically campaigning.

  Sam couldn’t help but notice the Remington statues, and the huge stone fireplace one could almost stand in. She wondered exactly how much money was too much and doubted the words too much were part of Preston’s vocabulary.

  “Hey, Murphy.” The attorney waved toward the doorway where a familiar-looking man stood. “Come pull up a chair.” Voices and laughter spilled in through the opened door.

  Sam couldn’t match a name with the well-tanned face, plastic-looking hair, and expensive jewelry. The man ran a hand through his too-perfect shade of brown hair and strolled over.

  “You know everyone, don’t you, Dennis?” the judge asked.

  Dennis, Sam thought. Dennis Murphy. The name sounded oh so familiar. She tried to focus on the cards she was dealing as her mind flipped through the filing system in her head.

  It was the attorney’s voice again. “You all know Captain Dennis Murphy.”

  “Dealer busts,” Sam announced in a voice she hoped sounded steady. She avoided Murphy’s eyes as she paid the players. Instead, she was searching for Jackie. Sam had never met Murphy, only seen his pictures, saw his name on several
documents at the office. Still, she half expected him to do a double-take and say, “Aren’t you Sergeant Samantha Casey?” Of all places for Murphy to show up. But why not? What’s a friendly illegal blackjack game among the powers of Chasen Heights.

  Sam was somewhat confident Murphy couldn’t recognize her. He had never met her, she was wearing a red wig styled in a pixie, and had enough make-up on to camouflage an elephant.

  The host moved toward the table. It was more like slithering, Sam thought, his tongue darting in and out, his eyes never blinking as if he were afraid of missing something important.

  “Please, join the party, Dennis.” Preston pumped Murphy’s hand and pulled him toward the table.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Murphy placed two hundred dollars on the table.

  Jackie slid up beside Sam. “Hey, Enise, aren’t you about due for a break?” Jackie pulled on the bangs of her short, curly wig.

  “You are a lifesaver,” Sam whispered, struggling to get her heels back on. Turning to the men, Sam said, “Monique is taking over. Behave yourselves now.”

  “Little warm in here, boys.” Jackie unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it on a chair. With that one motion, Jackie turned the temperature in the room up another twenty degrees. Talking ceased, heads turned from the bar and sofa. Jackie’s cream-colored halter top revealed the largest breasts these men had probably ever seen, except in a centerfold.

  Slowly, she tugged on the gold chain around her neck and withdrew a two-inch long gold pendant from her massive caramel-colored cleavage. The pendant was in the shape of a man, like a miniature Oscar statue, if you looked close. But from where the men sat, it looked more like a miniature replica of the male organ.

  Jackie flashed her Whitney Houston smile revealing full lips over gleaming white teeth. She kissed the pendant and said, “My good luck piece.” With deliberation, she slipped the pendant head first back down her cleavage, using one long talon to tuck it slow and deep.

  The banker’s bifocals slid down the bridge of his nose while the somber-faced attorney dribbled a scotch and water down his chin. Preston gripped the back of Murphy’s chair. The doughboy’s jaw slacked. The cigar the size of a tree trunk hung precariously from his lower lip until the weight alone sent it careening down onto the green felt table.

  “Let’s not burn the table, Sugar.” Jackie grabbed a towel from under the table, set the cigar in the ashtray, and rubbed the ashes off the felt, taking her time while her massive breasts swayed heavily from side to side. No one noticed that Sam had left. No one cared. That was the plan.

  Chapter 2

  Guests sat at circular tables placed randomly in the ballroom. Some stood near the buffet table snatching bits of patE9 and caviar or grabbing glasses of champagne from the trays offered by roving waiters.

  Wandering through the crowded ballroom, Jake Mitchell and Frank Travis studied the artwork lining the walls, the heavy burgundy drapes framing the windows, and the marble floor glistening under crystal chandeliers. Preston had hired Jake as a security guard for the reception. Jake had asked Frank to tag along.

  “They could fit ten precincts in this place,” Frank said, his deep, soft-spoken voice resembling a television evangelist’s pulpit tone.

  “I doubt he loses any sleep worrying about where his next meal is coming from,” Jake said. He eyed the guests in their expensive dresses, tuxes, jewelry. The women gave him more than a passing glance back and tried to give Frank their empty glasses as if he were the butler.

  “See. Bring a black man to a party and they immediately want you to clean up,” Frank quipped. “And this is the best I could do on a Saturday night?”

  “What the hell does Preston have here? A harem? I’ve seen very few men.”

  Frank studied the portraits hanging like a family tree. “What’s the story on Preston?”

  “From what I’ve heard, old man Byron was the CEO of a rather lucrative import/export company. Byron was going to be the next Howard Hughes. But a boating accident brought those plans to a screeching halt.”

  “Wife, too?”

  Jake nodded, adding, “And there were no other living relatives.”

  They made their way into the foyer with its cathedral-type ceiling painted with a scene of plump, winged angels. The staircase was wide and winding.

  Frank struggled with the top button on his shirt. “I would have never agreed to this if I had known I’d have to wear a tux. I haven’t been in one of these since my wedding.”

  “It becomes you, Frank. You look like one of the Four Tops.”

  They stepped outside the front entrance for a breath of fresh air. A valet had just pulled up in a black Lexus. Two guests were making an early departure.

  The night air was cool for June and dew was already forming on the grass. They watched the tail lights as the Lexus headed down the long driveway.

  Jake lit a cigarette. Behind the glow of the match, his thick eyebrows furrowed. The soft wind riffled through his short hair revealing a two-inch long scar near the scalp.

  Twisting the cap off a bottle of spring water, Frank said, “I thought you gave those up.”

  Jake blew the smoke out slowly. “I love giving them up so much, I do it every day. Besides, I only have two cigarettes a day.”

  Jake peered past Frank’s shoulder, watching the security guard inside the door. A man of about thirty in blue jeans and a sportscoat was slipping something to the guard, who then nodded for him to pass.

  “Hold it,” Jake said through the screen door, motioning for both the guard and the guest to step outside.

  “He’s okay. I checked him out.” The guard’s uniform was strained around his midsection.

  Jake flipped open the guest’s sportscoat to reveal a camera. “Give him his money back,” he said to the guard. Reluctantly, the guard handed the folded money back to the reporter.

  “First Amendment rights,” the reporter muttered under his breath as he walked away.

  “By invitation only,” Jake yelled at the reporter’s back.

  “You’ve got eyes like a hawk,” Frank said.

  “Who else did you let buy themselves in?” Jake asked the guard.

  “Nobody. He’s the only one.”

  “He better be. Or this is the last security job you’ll ever work.”

  Sam inched her way into the study on the second floor. She had been in Preston’s house one other time when he had conducted a secret meeting with local politicians. She had posed as a bartender but spent most of her time snooping. The study had two entrances. One from the hallway, and the other from the master bedroom. Sam had entered from the master bedroom.

  Moving past a wall of bookcases, Sam peered around the corner toward the conference table and bar. Just as she had hoped, she was alone. Self-conscious, she pulled on the short white skirt Jackie had forced her to wear. All night she had felt a draft in places not normally exposed to air in public.

  She unscrewed the mouthpiece on Preston’s desk phone and pressed a tiny receiver inside with the tip of a pen. She stood back from the desk and scanned the bookcases, the credenza against the side wall, the pictures on the wall.

  “Okay,” she said aloud, “where would I put a safe?” To the left of the mahogany desk hung a large picture of Byron Hilliard. Sam smiled. Feeling the edges, she peered around the side and pulled gently. The picture swung away from the wall on a hinge, revealing a wall safe.

  “Just like in the movies.”

  Thin white gloves protected the surfaces she touched from fingerprints. The digital sensor did its magic and in seconds Sam was pulling out papers and placing them on the desk. Preston also had cash, all one-hundred-dollar bills banded in three separate bundles.

  Along with the money and papers were a brown envelope with the word Capetti across the front, a large book that looked like an accounting ledger, and a smaller envelope with A.M. printed on it. She zeroed in on the small envelope, pulling out the contents. Smiling and breathing a sigh of relief, she quickly f
anned through the pictures to make sure these were the ones. Satisfied, she shoved the pictures into her purse and inserted replacement pictures in the envelope. She quickly took pictures of the items from the safe.

  When she gave the safe one last check, a gleaming object caught her attention. She reached in and picked up a lapel pin, about an inch-and-a-half wide, three-quarters-of-an-inch high. It was heavy for its size, gold or gold-plated, and shaped like a lightning bolt.

  She caught a faint whiff of something unfamiliar, an odor that was musty, indistinguishable. She wrapped her hand tightly around the pin. Lightning strike. The words echoed in her head but meant nothing to her. For a brief moment she had a vision of dirt darkened with blood, the smell of gun powder, a flash of body parts. It was the body parts that made her gasp and drop the pin.

  Muffled voices came from the hallway outside the door. She quickly placed everything back in the safe and retreated to the closet just as the door to the study opened.

  Carefully, she edged the closet door open. Feet padded across the carpet and a button was pushed on the phone.

  “Sorry to put you on hold, Av. I didn’t want to take the call downstairs,” Preston said. “Where are you? The party’s almost over.”

  “Sorry. My meeting in Springfield took longer than I expected. I couldn’t get away.” The caller’s voice drifted from the speaker phone.

  “That’s not good. I wanted you to make the announcement tonight at my reception. Are you backing out on our deal?”

  “I don’t care to talk ...”

  “My phone in the study is secured and there’s no one in the room with me.”

  Sam could hear the caller inhale deeply. Worse yet, she recognized his voice. She could see a portion of Preston through the partially-opened closet door. He was sitting at his desk, an arrogant smile plastered on his face.