First Murder

by Fred Limberg

  First Murder

  Fred Limberg

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Note to Readers

  Preview: DOUBLE TAP

  Chapter 1

  It didn’t register right away. There was a sound, a distant beep-beep-beep chased by annoying buzzes. Tony tried to grunt the damn noises away. Didn’t work. Three more beeps followed by three more buzzers mocked him. What the hell? It wasn’t loud or urgent enough to be a smoke alarm. With each set of beeps his head hurt a bit more. He winced at the sharp pain behind each of his eyes.

  “Is that yours or mine?”

  The voice was vaguely familiar. The bed was too soft to be his. His head hurt like hell.

  More beeps. More buzzes. He risked opening an eye—just one. Pitch black. He was sure his eye was open. The beeping came from his right. So did the buzzing.

  “It’s yours. Mine doesn’t vibrate.” It was a woman’s voice. A nice voice.

  He opened the other eye.

  “Tony, shut the damn thing off!”

  Maybe not so nice.

  After three more beeps the buzzing was interrupted by a rattle and a clunk sound, like something falling.

  Maybe it’s dead. It better be dead.

  The warm shape next to him moved, rustling the covers. He heard soft low laughter.

  “Detective de Luca, would you please find your new pager and see who’s trying to reach you?”

  “Uh, sure.” Tony could make out shapes in the darkness now. He peeled back a sheet, swung his legs to the floor and sat up. The pain increased. It beeped again. It wasn’t dead but it soon would be. He tracked the sound. It was coming from behind a bedside table.

  Okay, I’m naked. This could be very good or very bad.

  He shook his head to try to clear the cobwebs—yet another mistake. Tony slipped out of the bed onto his knees, one hand on top of the nightstand, the other groping under and behind it for the noisemaker. He snagged the plastic cube, his pager…his new pager. Tony de Luca, a detective for all of fourteen hours, had his first page. He sat on the bed and fumbled for the switch on the lamp.

  “Damn it, Tony!” The woman yanked his pillow over her face.

  His head throbbed. He was light blind. The pager was still beeping and buzzing. Squinting at it, he found he had a one in three chance of punching the right button. He went for the biggest one, the red one in the middle.

  651-548-9045 911 flashed on the tiny screen. He didn’t recognize the phone number but the 911 at the end surely meant to call immediately. He had a cell phone but didn’t have any idea where it was. Tony was still working on where he was. Then it clicked. It was all good, except for the pain.

  “Pants?” Tony looked around the room. No pants.

  There was muffled laughter sneaking from beneath the pillow.

  “I don’t know. The living room? No. The kitchen. Check the kitchen. And kill the damn light,” the woman commanded. Tony obeyed. The unfamiliar bedroom went dark. He felt his way down the hall.

  Tony found the pants in the living room and his boxers wadded on the kitchen floor. He sat on a swivel stool at a raised granite counter. It was a nice kitchen—nice enough to have some orange juice in the big refrigerator. He took a slug from the carton, then another, and the pain moved from behind his eyes to his forehead.

  Squinting again, he peeked into the purse on the counter like a sneak thief. Yep! He was in Sue Ellen McConnel’s townhouse. Grinning, he dialed the number from the pager.

  “Bankston.” The voice on the other end was low and melodic and definitely wide awake.

  “De Luca here. What’s up?”

  “Good morning, detective, ready to go to work?” Tony found the wall clock. 4:17. A.M. Morning, all right.

  “No,” he said. It slipped out before he could catch it. He had only been partnered with Rayford Bankston for the last half-day. They’d spent all of fifteen minutes together so far and Tony hadn’t gotten a clear read on the man yet. The long silence worried him.

  “Where are you?” Bankston finally asked.

  Good question, Tony thought. He looked in the purse again. “Downtown. Market Street.”

  “Meet me at 1462 Victoria. I’m a half hour out.”

  “So what’s up, uh…Sergeant Bankston?”

  “We’re partners, Tony. You can call me Ray.”

  “What’s up, Ray?”

  “Your first murder, son. See you in thirty.” The line went dead.

  Tony started the search for a pen and a scrap of paper to jot down the address before it escaped when he noticed Sue Ellen leaning in the doorway. She was wrapped in a white sheet that offset her dusky skin. Her short black hair was bed-mussed and her signature bright red lipstick missing.

  “Who was it?” she asked, yawning.

  “A 10-89 in Highland Park.”

  She scrunched up one side of her face, head cocked.

  “Sorry, old habit,” Tony said. With over 6 years on the force, most of it in radio cars, he lapsed into code without thinking at times. “Apparently there’s been a murder in Highland Park somewhere. I guess Ray and I caught it.”

  “Aren’t you just the fast starter,” Sue Ellen said and smiled.

  The address became a fugitive when the sheet slipped.

  There had been six…no, eight of them at the bar. Cop friends, a girl from the courthouse, and two of the assistant D.A.s—one of which was standing in the doorway, breasts exposed, smiling at him. They were congratulating him on his promotion to detective, all buying him drinks. Tony was a beer guy. The drinks they bought him weren’t beer. There was a lot of teasing, some flirting…and now, looking over at the woman in the doorway he felt a little embarrassed. Then again, he thought, she doesn’t know I forgot where I am…was…whatever.

  “Shirt?” He hadn’t located that article of clothing yet, and one sock was still hiding.

  Sue Ellen hitched up the sheet and went into the living room. When she stretched over the back of the sofa Tony lost his entire train of thought again.

  “Here.” She retrieved it from behind the couch and shook it out.

  More of the evening came back to him. He grinned while he buttoned his shirt. The flirting had been mutual, a pleasant surprise. He’d wanted to ask Sue Ellen out since they’d met. He was testifying on a drug case and she was the lead prosecutor. Maybe the new gold badge impressed her.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to run.”

  She smiled, walked over to him and put her hand on his cheek. “Me too,” she said. Then she turned and walked down the hall to the bedroom.

  Tony found his shoes. He was on hands and knees looking for the elusive sock when she came back.

  “You probably don’t want to forget these.” She held out his gun and badge wallet.

  What the hell were those doing in the bedroom? Both of
them had exploded out of their clothes as soon as they got in the door. Her things were strewn about too— her crumpled dress was in the living room and a lacy black bra on the floor by the kitchen table. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  “Handcuffs?”

  “You wish.” God she has a nice laugh.

  “I’m not usually so...ah…” Tony wore a self-conscious, shy smile.

  She laughed again. “It was funny. It was fun.”

  Tony started counting his blessings. “I’ll call. I want to see you again.”

  “I know.”

  He prayed that later he’d remember what he had said. “We’ll start over.”

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “You’d better go,” she said. “Don’t keep Uncle Ray waiting on your first 10-99.”

  “10-89,” he corrected her. “I’ll call.”

  When Sue Ellen gave him a kiss goodbye the sheet dropped completely. She was laughing again when she closed the door.

  Wait a damn minute. Uncle Ray?

  Tony jogged the short hop from Sue Ellen’s downtown condo to police headquarters. The brisk air and pace helped cut through the brain-fog. He’d deal with his car later. He checked out one of the unmarked Crown Vics. He also checked with the dispatcher to get the address again and his watch. It was already 4:40. He was going to be late. Tony decided to go Code 3, stuck the blue strobe light on the car’s roof and toggled the siren on.

  Traffic was light, no surprise at 4:45 in the morning. He blew through two lights, heading generally west and south to Victoria Street. When he made the last turn he realized the house was a block up, near the next corner where a discotheque of blue, red and yellow lights danced, lighting the street and throwing weird disconcerting shadows over houses on both sides of Victoria. Tony killed the siren a block from the house…not soon enough.

  “Hey de Luca, what’s the hurry?” one familiar patrolman shouted. That was Tim.

  “Hey Tony, you’re out of uniform,” another added, laughing behind him.

  It was still dark. Cops in black leather and nylon huddled together by the cars, their breath-fog rising in the street light lit pre-dawn. It was chilly but not cold this early in October. Tony shrugged off the taunts. Just a week ago he’d been in a uniform, riding in a radio car, working with these people.

  He noticed a man sitting sideways in the back of one of the black-and-whites flanked by two uniformed officers, his head down, hands in his lap. Tony couldn’t tell if the guy was cuffed. He wondered if the crime had been solved before he’d even arrived. That’d serve him right.

  Further up the drive, he saw a solitary thin figure in a suit silhouetted by a light over the side door of the brick house. Tony turned at the sound of an approaching car. It was the crime scene guys, the first of them anyway. He noticed the coroner’s van just up the street. No ambulance. He sighed and walked up the drive.

  “Glad you could make it.” Detective Sergeant Rayford Bankston looked Tony up and down with a critical eye. Ray was wearing a dark gray suit and a tie, wearing it very well for 5:00 in the morning. He was a tall thin black man with short graying hair. He held a small digital recorder and a pair of latex gloves in one hand and shook Tony’s with the other.

  “I’m not that late, am I?” Tony wasn’t sure what to expect from his new partner. Bankston had a reputation of being a loner, kind of aloof.

  “Not really, considering.”

  Tony cocked one eyebrow, wondering if Ray knew about the party, about Sue Ellen.

  Uncle Ray?

  “So what have we got?” Tony turned to the door, eager to go to work.

  “The man in the car there is Scott Fredrickson. He says he got in late from a business trip, went in the back door here and saw his wife dead on the floor. Stabbed. Says he grabbed the phone, called 911 right away, and here we are.”

  “No one’s been in yet?” Tony knew some street cops were better than others at a crime scene.

  “The responding officer went in—carefully, she assures me. She saw the body on the floor, and checked for a pulse. But the lady was gone, way gone she said, and backed out. The scene’s untouched.”

  “That’s good.”

  “So here are the ground rules, detective. Touch nothing. Move nothing. Observe. Take notes. I prefer to use this recorder.” Ray held it up before sliding it in his pocket. As he worked the latex gloves on he added, “Something I picked up from the coroner.”

  Tony nodded and looked off, wondering how he was going to explain that he’d forgotten to grab any gloves, or his notebook, or a pen, or a flashlight.

  Ray recognized his rookie partner’s dilemma. “What I do is I keep a kit, actually several of them. One in the car, one in the desk, like that, so I never show up at a scene without my tools.” He smiled, holding out a pair of gloves to Tony. “It’s embarrassing not to have your tools. Unprofessional.”

  “Thanks, Ray.” Tony noticed the gloves were powdered inside, more comfortable when you would be wearing them for a while. Professional. “Won’t happen again.”

  “What say I go in first? I’ve done this a time or two.” Ray’s twenty-five years on the force, most of it as an investigator, guaranteed that Tony wasn’t going to argue. “You’ve got what, five years on?”

  “Six and a half. Last year I was with Narcotics. Eighteen months, actually. Undercover. I liked it, took the exam, and here we are.”

  “Narco—that would explain why you look scruffy.”

  “It’s four in the fucking morning, Ray. What’s with scruffy?”

  “Hair. Beard. Clothes. Sock.” Ray held up one finger. “Scruffy. And I’d prefer that you save your cursing for more appropriate circumstances.”

  “And what would a more appropriate circumstance be?” Tony bottled his anger when he replied but his words still dripped with sarcasm.

  “Hammer versus finger comes to mind. Looking into a gun barrel comes to mind. Husband comes home early? Hit a deer in your new car? Now that definitely deserves a good cussing. You’re not on patrol anymore. Please get in the habit.” Bankston turned toward the door. “You ready?”

  Tony nodded. “Lead the way, Sarge.”

  “It’s all in the details, Tony. Remember that.” Ray pulled the screen door open and led the way. “And don’t ever call me ‘Sarge’ again, okay?”

  “Got it…Ray.”

  Hot damn, Tony thought. Here we go. My first murder.

  Chapter 2

  The only light in the kitchen came from a ceiling fixture. Ray and Tony focused on the body sprawled in the middle of the room. The woman was on her back, one leg tucked under the other. One of her shoes, a black leather slip-on with a low-heel, rested on its side a few feet away. She was wearing a skirt, collared blouse and jacket. The skirt was navy blue, calf length. An embroidered jacket was splayed open. A once white or ivory colored blouse was stained red-black from the blood. Her head was turned to the left side. One arm was outstretched on the floor. The other arm lay across her torso near the knife but not touching it.

  The handle of a knife stood erect from her chest, just below her left breast. In life, she had been a pretty woman—strikingly attractive, in fact. In death, the settling of blood and degradation of tissue had already begun to betray that beauty.

  Her long brown-blonde hair was fanned out on the tile floor. The blood pool had crept up from beneath and around her and had soaked one side halfway. Her eyes were open. Tony thought she looked surprised, as if she had been asking ‘why are you doing this?’ at the moment someone had pierced her heart.

  She had been dead for a while. The blood was blackened and tacky. House flies whirred about. Some hovered and swarmed about the body and the blood. Some investigated and feasted. Her bowels and bladder had let go. The smell of urine and feces mingled with the coppery tang of blood.

  Tony had seen death before but it had been recent death, immediate death, always accompanied by sirens and flashing li
ghts and screaming. The blood had been red in those deaths. It had been gunshot death and slashing death and sometimes metal-rent accidental death. It had been loud rap music death, rock and roll dying and shotgun murder. It had been meth-fuelled death, whisky and beer soaked slaughter. In this quiet kitchen with a once-pretty woman lying on the floor wearing a surprised sad look on her face he found himself listening for organ music—a hymn or a Celtic chant or something.

  Ray, kneeling by the body and talking softly into his recorder, said, “The victim is middle aged, Caucasian female. Death appears to have been caused by stabbing. One wound is visible. A knife is still imbedded in the victims left chest. Death was not immediate as evidenced by the size of the blood pool. I see no spatter, no blood trail.”

  Tony looked around the kitchen for the first time while Ray continued to catalog his observations and impressions. He saw a knife block on the counter, a large expensive looking set. The handles matched the one in the woman’s chest. On one counter a leather purse lay on its side. Some of the contents had spilled onto the countertop—a wallet, a roll of mints, a lipstick tube. A set of car keys lay nearby. Ray, now on his feet, leaned over the woman, still talking in a low monotone.

  Tony wondered how Ray could keep the emotion out of his voice. He realized he was fighting an urge to scream and curse. He looked again at the murdered woman lying in a pool of blood, his hands balled into tight white bloodless fists—Tony wanted to be mad at someone.

  A black suitcase lay on its side and a crumpled hanging bag sagged over by the door. A fresh green MSP airline tag was threaded through the handle. Delta Airlines.

  “I’m tempted to rule out robbery or crash-and-grab,” Ray murmured into the recorder. “A large diamond ring is on the victim’s finger. She’s wearing pearl earrings.”