The Killing Green

by David Deutsch

  "But why Bill? Why would he do that?" I asked, a couple more questions to keep Lee talking.

  "Bill has been well taken care of," Lee said. "When he agreed to work with me and to pretend as if he had never seen me before, well, he received a healthy investment in Endicott Financial. Made Bill a very rich man. Rich enough that he would never risk it all by talking."

  "But he's never going to see the money," I said.

  "Well, right you are, Max. But Bill doesn't know that. He just thinks he's rich. Well, that is, until the rest of the suckers find out the truth. But, unfortunately for you, the story ends here."

  Lee stood up from his chair and stepped toward me holding the pistol pointed at my head. He walked over to me, took the handle of the gun, and crashed it into my temple with such force that it sent me flying to the floor. I saw stars as my head hit the ground. My head throbbed, pounded as I tried to not lose consciousness. I heard Lee say something, but I couldn't make it out. My mind couldn't process the sound over the pain.

  I saw him turn toward Imogen, and was able to piece together Lee's words, "Now you're next." I tried to get up, make a move. My muscles didn't work. But I could see. My eyes looked up as I watched Lee about to strike Imogen. Then I heard screams, loud shouts in very deep voices coming from behind me. As I managed to turn my head, in came John Carrington and the Manors police through the open sliding glass doors.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  A shot was fired in front of me in the direction of the police. I tried to get up, but my body still wouldn't move. Shots rang out from behind me directed at Lee and Alese. I worried for Imogen. I tried to locate her with my eyes, and then finally I saw that she had moved and was ducked behind the chair that she had been sitting in. More shots were fired, and then I saw Lee fall to the ground. I wasn't sure if he was dead.

  Two officers ran over to Lee while John and Imogen stood above me.

  "Max, are you alright?" Imogen asked.

  I looked up from the ground and saw Imogen's face, angelic in appearance, reaching her hands down to my head to stroke my hair and wipe away the pain.

  I couldn't answer.

  John spoke, "Max. Max. Are you OK?"

  "Max!" Imogen nervously screamed.

  "Ginny…" I said.

  Imogen bent over and helped me sit up.

  "Max, you scared me. Are you OK?" she asked.

  I felt my head for a bruise and finally found it, right on my left temple.

  "Why must everyone hit me?" I asked.

  "Quick, how many fingers am I holding up?" she asked.

  "I need a drink," I said.

  "John, I think he's going to live," she said.

  "What happened?" I asked John. "I mean, how did you know that we were here?"

  "Bill flipped," John said. "Right after I spoke with you this morning we were questioning him, and he sang like a bird. Gave up Endicott to save his own ass. Said he was paid a ton of money to keep quiet."

  "Well, about that," I said. "There isn't going to be any money for Bill once I fill you in on what Lee Endicott has been up to."

  "And what Alese and Lee were up to with that painting over there," Imogen said.

  John looked over at the forged Klimt hanging on the wall.

  "Oh that. Isn't that a Klimt? Wasn't that burned during World War II?" he asked.

  "Now how did you know that?" I asked.

  "You don't know everything about me yet, Max," he said.

  "I guess not," I said. "Sergeant Carrington the art lover, who knew?"

  The other officers had rounded up Lee and Alese and were now escorting them out of the house. I was on my feet by this point, watching as they passed by John, Imogen, and me in handcuffs. Lee had not been shot. He must have fallen when the shots were fired.

  "Looks like I'm out of business," Lee said through a smile, his veneers gleaming from the bright sunlight still filling the house, as he was being escorted to a waiting police car.

  Still the same old used car salesman. He probably thought that he would somehow beat the murder wrap.

  "Can I ask you something, Max?" he asked, the police allowing him to stop for a brief moment.

  "Sure," I said.

  "You were never going to invest, were you?"

  "Not a chance," I said.

  "I didn't think so," he said, shaking his head. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

  He flashed one last smile at me, and then he disappeared through the window off to jail.

  No, you can't blame a guy for trying. But you can blame a guy for murdering your friend and for bilking who knows how many unsuspecting investors out of millions.

  Next came Alese in handcuffs, escorted by two officers. This time Imogen broke the silence as she passed.

  "Why, Alese? Why throw your life away for him?" she asked.

  Alese looked at all three of us and answered, "I love him. He gave me everything that I have. I was a broke girl from the city, and when I met Lee, my life changed. I had everything. Money, homes, cars, jewelry. And now I've got nothing. "

  There was nothing to say back to her. She pretty much summed it up. Who knew if she'd go to prison or simply return to the girl who now had lost everything? But Alese was a survivor. We knew that much.

  "Love and money, huh, Max, a lethal combination," John said.

  "We've seen it before," I said. "Makes you do crazy things."

  Imogen simply shook her head as we exchanged our comments.

  "Well you two, care to join me downtown for a debriefing session?" John asked.

  "We'd be delighted," I said.

  The three of us walked out of the house, got in our cars, and headed over to the Manors police station.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I stood over the tee on the first hole, my driver in my hands, club back over my shoulder, ready to send this ball flying 250 yards when John sneezed, distracting me.

  "You can't do that," I said, bringing my club back down, resting its face on the grass.

  "Do what?" he asked.

  "Sneeze," I said. "When someone is going to hit a golf ball you don't make any sounds. Haven't you played before?"

  "About that, actually, no. This is my first time," he said. "And, I wanted to thank you for the invitation. Delmar really is a beautiful place."

  I knew it. John Carrington didn't know how to play golf.

  Imogen laughed when she heard that this was John's first time playing.

  "At least you accepted the invitation," I said.

  "I wasn't going to pass that up."

  "I'll tell you what," Imogen said, "I'll take it easy on you. I might even give you some tips."

  "Oh, John, take her up on that. She's good enough to go pro."

  "You don't say," John said. "I'd love a few pointers."

  "I'll make you a deal," I said, "no matter what happens here on the course, the drinks are on me."

  "You've got yourself a deal."

  In that moment I looked at John and Imogen standing off to the side of the tee, then at the fairway that sprawled in front of me like my future, and reflected on everything that had taken place since we had received that call from John the day that we moved into our offices. We had caught a killer and his accomplices, exposed a Ponzi scheme, and thwarted the sale of a forged masterpiece. Not bad for a couple of country club brats. I raised my club, addressed the ball, and sent it sailing into the clear blue morning sky.

  * * * * *

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Deutsch is an author, sarcasm guru, and wannabe rock star, not necessarily in that order. He is the author of romantic comedies, crime fiction, mystery, and suspense novels. He's thrilled to be the only guy among the ladies of GHP. When he's not busy writing you can often find him chasing the sun. He
lives in warm weather with his wife and children.

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY DAVID DEUTSCH

  Max Slade Mysteries:

  Murder.com

  The Killing Green

  Other works:

  Sh*t Falls Up

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Max Slade Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  TEASED TO DEATH

  by

  GINA LAMANNA

  CHAPTER ONE

  I punched the power button on the stereo. Barely visible through the feather boas and sequined gloves draped over the machine, the light blinked red as I selected the perfect song. A flutter of excitement rose in my stomach. An upbeat, spicy tune pulsed through the speakers.

  "What is burlesque?" I punctuated the question with a sly smile through stained red lips. Glancing at the mirror-paneled walls, I took in my very own, sparkling new dance studio—the floors shiny, polished, and begging for eager feet.

  However, as I spun around to answer my own question, a sinking feeling took over the pit of my stomach. The words died on my lips, and my excitement evaporated as quickly as it'd bubbled up. There was one very major thing missing.

  Students.

  I sighed. How depressing. I'd had the studio for a month, and this afternoon was supposed to be my first class. But amid numerous phone calls, ads in the newspaper, and posters slated around town, my class list contained nothing but a big, fat goose egg.

  Trying to cheer myself up, I'd decided to run a practice class even though the room was empty. It wouldn't hurt to get some of the kinks out if I ever got a pupil to sign up for my Intro to Burlesque class. Plus, it always felt good to dance.

  When, I reminded myself, when my first student signed up. It wasn't my fault that Little Lake was a closed-minded small town happy to bask in its humid summers and cozy, snowy winters, tucked safely into rural Minnesota—a town where Sunday Mass was a social event and gossip was the most important currency of the locals.

  They just needed some time to warm up to the idea. But in all honestly, I wasn't sure that the class would ever be a success.

  I extended one leg and touched my toes, letting the fire stretch through my calves and into my hamstrings. The burn was welcome.

  God, I am so out of shape. It's been so long since…the incident.

  "Burlesque is classy. It is the art of tease." I shook my hips tentatively to the beat. It'd been a while since I'd moved like this, a nice shake of the bum, hands snaking through my hair before letting it fall seductively around my shoulders.

  The beat of the music picked up. I stepped in time around a chair, running my hand over the seat, swiveling my legs until I was seated just so on the edge. Lifting a satin-gloved hand, I slowly pulled on the fingertips, loosening the fit. Next came a shimmy, a shake, and in one smooth motion, I stood, flipped my hair back, and pulled off the glove with my teeth.

  I swung the glove like a lasso above my head. As the song neared its climax, I peeled the other glove from my hand French style, spun in a circle, and tossed it behind me.

  Bending over, butt in the air in nothing but spandex, I caught a glimpse of movement behind me.

  What the… My heart raced.

  I snapped into a standing position and turned around. Whoever was behind me had a perfect view of my bum. And it wasn't that I was shy about my body—I wasn't allowed to be, given my previous job consisted of dancing almost naked in front of strangers—but I also didn't make it a habit to greet strangers rear end first.

  As I turned around, however, I realized it wasn't the first time we'd met. In fact, the man standing before me was anything but a stranger.

  Leaning with a cocky confidence in the doorway, trim and muscular, Jax Adams' arms flexed as he began a slow clap. His hair stood up in chaotic intervals, but somehow he wore the chaos with boyish charm.

  I narrowed my eyes, and his face burst into a grin.

  "Misty Newman." His voice rolled like a pleasant, soothing thundercloud at midnight.

  "Mr. Adams," I replied. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  "It's been a while since I've seen you dance." His words were confident. He could probably get away with it only because his smile was so dang disarming. "It's nice."

  He swung my satin glove in lazy circles. He must've caught it when I tossed it backward.

  The man was trouble. I knew that for a fact, but still I had a hard time remembering the words I wanted to say. "Yeah, don't get any ideas, buster. And gimme that."

  I held my hand out for the glove, which Jax tossed to me with a long stride forward.

  "Oh, I've got plenty of ideas."

  I blushed. "What are you doing here? If you want to sign up for my class, fine. If not, please leave my studio. The floors are clean, and I don't want you mucking things up."

  Jax raised an eyebrow. "This time I'm not the one mucking things up."

  I crossed my arms.

  Jax took a step forward and put one hand on my arm. "I've mucked up plenty in my day, but this one's on you, honey."

  I looked up into his crystal eyes, pure as an Icelandic glacier with the capacity to be just as frigid. His words jumbled in my head, and suddenly putting a sentence together became like something of a Rubik's Cube for my brain. Something about his familiar scent—the minty freshness of his aftershave—twisted my gut and brought back years of emotions. Despite the surge of frustration and hurt, there was still a bit of attraction that I hated to admit was alive and well.

  "What do you mean?" I cleared my throat.

  Jax, my high school boyfriend and first love, stepped close to me, his chest inches from mine. My heart leapt even though I wanted to cage it back and lock it away. My head was telling every part of my body no, no, no! But my body was more than ready to ignore the warning from my brain, judging by the warmth snaking through my veins.

  "Jax, I…" I paused, my chest rising and falling with years of pent-up emotions. "Why are you here?"

  He rested one hand in his pocket, shifting uneasily. Whiffs of lemon, crisp fall leaves, and freshly brewed coffee swirled in heavenly drifts around us. We were close enough that I could feel his hot breath steam down my neck. Goose bumps erupted over my legs. Even without touching, I felt years of anger disappear in a second, and all I wanted was for Jax to pull me into a hug.

  "Jax, I—listen." I took a long sigh and prepared an apology. An explanation. But as I began to speak, he pulled away, and I saw confusion in his eyes.

  He scratched his chin, looking uncomfortable. "Yes?"

  "I'm glad you're here," I said. "And I really appreciate you stopping by. I've been busy since I arrived back in Little Lake, and I haven't had much time to catch up with people, what with getting the studio up and running…"

  "Misty—"

  "No, let me," I interrupted. "I know we have a bumpy and, uh, unresolved past—but I'd like for us to be friends." I finished my sentence in a rush, looking down at my toes. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, and I wondered if I should have been so forward.

  Jax cleared his throat.

  "Now would be a good time to say something," I urged, still stubbing my toe against the floor.

  "Well, I appreciate the sentiment," Jax said, "but…"

  "It's okay if you don't want to be friends. I'd understand completely." I shook my head. "I shouldn't have said anything. I just wanted you to know I'm sorry."

  "This makes things very awkward," Jax said.

  Now we were both looking away from each other, which was very difficult due to all the mirrors in the place. I caught a glance of my reflection—medium brown hair, long legs clad in fishnet stockings, and hazel eyes, now staring back at me with fear. The tension was so thick I could've sliced it with a butter knife.

  "Let's just forget this ever happened. Truce?" I stuck out a hand and forced my eyes to meet his stare.

  "I'm afraid it's not that easy," he said, pulling the
hand from his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. "Misty, I need to ask you some questions."

  "About what?"

  "I'm sorry about this," he said, his voice not one hundred percent convincing. He'd morphed from an awkward conversationalist to a calm and professional cop, which was cemented by the uniform he wore. After a long moment, he sighed and dropped my hand. "I need to ask you some questions about a murder."

  My spine went rigid, and I was already kicking myself for thinking I ever wanted a hug from this man.

  "Will you come down to the station so I can ask you a few questions?" he asked.

  "What does a murder have to do with me?" I asked, hearing the tremble in my voice. "Why would you need to ask me questions?"

  "The body was found in the alley behind your studio, strangled with a pair of fishnet stockings." Jax paused before locking eyes with me. "It'll be a few days before we get the DNA tests back, but if it turns out the tights are yours…"

  Jax didn't need to complete the sentence for me to know exactly what would happen if the stockings were mine. I stumbled backward. "Jax, I didn't do anything. I don't even know what you're talking about. Whose murder?"

  Jax reached forward and caught me just before I ended up in a heap on the floor. His muscular, familiar arms pulled me into a standing position.

  "It's impossible," I murmured, still stuck on the notion that I could be arrested for a crime I didn't even know had been committed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."