Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  “Make that two,” Carter added.

  When the waitress was gone, Carter’s eyes begged for explanation.

  “I just think it is wise that you’re not lashing out at your superiors over there at the bureau. You are in a very influential position. You set the lead over there. But that doesn’t mean I believe in their horseshit policies—pardon my French.”

  “So the question is—what do I do? Do I break it off with Jill so we can continue working together as a team?”

  “And how do you see that working out?”

  “I see us both working together, for the greater good. It’s why we both were drawn to our jobs. Law enforcement is not a career, it’s our lives, and if we have to make personal sacrifices so be it. I guess you partly answered my question. If I’m going to influence young officers in a good way I must set a positive example. I’m afraid I’ll have to break off our engagement.”

  “Stanford, I know all about positive examples.” He arched one salt and pepper colored eyebrow at Carter.

  Stanford knew Lyons was alluding to the Zen meditation techniques he had taught him years earlier.

  “I gave you some tools on how to survive your job back then,” Lyons added. “And now I fear you’re about to throw away one of your greatest survival tools God could ever give you.”

  “You mean, Jill.”

  “Yes, grasshopper, I believe you now see the light” Lyons joked as he raised his hands in wonder.

  The men paused in their conversation while a waitress set down their order.

  “We wish life to be not so linear but the fact it is,” Lyons said hoisting his mug to his lips. He drank and said. “You are already in way too deep with Jill to consider any other course of action. Do you seriously believe you two can be just colleagues? Just friends, nothing more . . . for the duty, honor and the American way . . . ?”

  Carter laughed at Lyons’ facetiousness.

  “I get you, Captain.” Carter would never refer to Lyons as anything other than captain just as he now realized he could never refer to Jill as anything other than sweetheart.

  “So I let Jill get transferred? I don’t fight it in any way? I mean, what would Jill think? I’m her superior. I should be fighting to right this situation. I shouldn’t be sitting idly by during all of this . . . ”

  Lyons waved his hand at Carter. “Stop, right there.”

  Carter did.

  “And what would your sweetheart Jill think of you if you called off your wedding with her? I will tell you, if you’re too dim to figure it out. Some time ago—it seems like centuries now—I tried do the same thing with my old lady. I remember warning her not to get too serious with me. That a cop’s job is not only dangerous, but it is also unpredictable. I could come home one day in a body bag . . . etc . . . Now my situation was not the same granted. She had no desire to be a cop. In fact she detested what I did at times. The violence. She’s a nature lover, a real honest to goodness tree hugger, the best friend Mother Nature could ever have. You should see her roses . . . But we were in love—regardless.” Again, Lyons waved his hand at an imaginary obstacle. It was possibly the voice of reason he was swatting away. Lyons continued. “The right thing to do means nothing when love comes into play. You think you’re some kind of infallible hero—made of brick and mortar? I hate to break it to you son, but you’re nothing but a bag of bones and water. And if you choose to remove your better half because of some righteous call to duty, you’re going to find you won’t be half the person you thought you were. And neither will Jill. She is part of you now, and you a part of her. A departmental policy won’t change that. So accept it. Let her transfer, but keep her close in the place it counts.” Lyons pointed to his heart.

  “You know me like a book, Captain.”

  “I know you like a book only because of my wife. As I said before the woman abhors violence, but it didn’t stop her from knocking some sense into me all those years ago.”

  Carter laughed, hands raised. “Are you telling me she ‘beat’ some sense into you?”

  “You’ll never get me to admit it before a judge.”

  Carter reflected a moment, staring into his coffee cup. I guess it’s high time to admit the truth to myself . . .

  ***

  He told her he would be out late again. He was speaking to her over a phone line.

  She asked, “Haven’t they canvassed the area enough?”

  “No. It’s nothing to do with the job tonight, Nance. I’ve got some personal business to attend to.”

  “What personal business? Are you seeing somebody?”

  “Jesus and Mary, no, for Pete’s sake,” Sgt. Sid Auerbach told his wife, Nancy.

  “It’s sort of like an intervention, only the friend isn’t abusing drugs or anything like that.”

  “Oh dear, well can you tell me who it is?”

  “It’s Jay. He’s in some trouble and he needs a friend. I can’t go into further details without putting him in further jeopardy. Now please, just for once, can you lay off the twenty questions? I’ll see you when I’m done.”

  “Just remember to put some gas in my car—if you haven’t already done that.” Sid paused to wonder if she was right or just being the usual bitch. While he thought, she reminded Sid he had used the car the past two nights without fueling up. “The tank is probably nearing E,” she said.

  “Yeah, I love you too, Nance,” he said and then hung up refusing to be baited into an argument.

  Chapter 12

  They began the night as any other. Sid Auerbach ordered a stiff one. Jay Fishburne ordered a non-alcoholic beer. They small talked a while, about the weather, about their significant others, about the Red Sox. The lights were dim and subdued as they always were in Brian’s Bar. It made it easier for the two men to talk openly to each other. They could barely see each other’s eyes, let alone discern facial expressions in the shadowy glow from a flickering candle on their table. There was only one artificial light in the establishment, it was an overhead fluorescent light that hung over the bar about ten feet away from them. The shadow of a hand pouring a drink danced off the wall next to him. The hand belonged to the deliciously young and firm body of the young barmaid Denise. Auerbach stole a few glances at Denise during conversation, almost jealous of his friend Jay’s fortune to be banging a girl about the same age and measurements of Denise. He imagined what treasures laid beneath her cut off shorts and yellow tank top. As Auerbach’s buzz intensified, he couldn’t help himself. He was compelled to ask how Lucy is in bed.

  “So you ‘up’ for another wild romp in the sack tonight, partner? Are you sure you’re old ticker is up for the task?”

  Jay clenched his hand around his drink making his palm cold and wet.

  “Hey, Lucy is a lady. Remember that.”

  “Yeah.” Sid laughed. “A lady of the ‘night’.”

  “Cut the shit, man.”

  Sid was taken aback. Jay had never used language like that with him, at least not in recent memory. The words conjured images of their high school days.

  “Ah, soften up Fishbone,” Sid said. “You remember how all the kids in home room used to call you Fishbone?”

  “How could ‘you’ remember, Sid?” Jay asked. “You weren’t in my homeroom. My homeroom was ‘F’ through ‘L’ and as I recall, you were in ‘A’ through ‘G’. Actually, I think it’s quite appropriate your last name begins with ‘A’. A for ass . . . ”

  “Okay, fair enough, fair enough,” Sid, said.

  “No,” Jay responded. “Not fair enough. It means you and some of my so-called buddies were talking about me behind my back. You know sometimes I wish I could drop off the face of the earth just so I wouldn’t get any more of them damn reunion invitations anymore.”

  “Well maybe they have some sort of witness protection program for geeks and oddballs. You should check that out on the Internet. I’m sure there’s a site for it, probably called jerk off dot COM or loser dot net.” Both men paused in the dark cooln
ess of the bar. A ceiling fan hummed softly overhead. Then they both broke out in raucous laughter. Denise cocked her head to listen. Sid noticed her staring, wondering if he could still be of interest to a tight young pussy like her. Maybe if I wasn’t a lowly sergeant, maybe then I could impress her. Ah. Who the hell am I kidding? I’d have to literally become someone else to bed her . . .

  Jay broke his trance.

  “Yeah, you had me going there for a minute, Sid.”

  “Hey if your buddies can’t still pull your chain, then who can?”

  Sid changed the subject, hoping to diffuse some of his pent up lust.

  “So how’s your newest case? Who you investigating now? Another cheater? Another wayward soul?”

  “Nah, nothing so interesting.”

  “Whad’d’ya mean not interesting? The last two people you investigated ended up dead.”

  “He’s an identity stealer, supposedly.” Jay went into detail giving Sid the man’s name, explaining that a family believed the man to be responsible for stealing the identity of their son.

  “He’s a former friend of the family. A real tricky dick they say. They suspect he accessed their trash to get the skinny on their son’s financial information. Probably even knew the kid’s passwords and looked up the kid’s social number. The victim seems to be some poor SOB with a big heart and a small brain. Looks like the ‘friend’ put a real con job him, inviting him to parties, hooking him up with girls, gaining his confidence—not to mention access to his bank records.”

  “What a dweeb,” Sid commented polishing off his drink.

  “Yeah, the victim didn’t have too many chocolate chips in his cookie jar so to speak. The family appealed to the police, but with no hard evidence the cops dropped the case. I’m sure you know how it goes. Accusations without backup scare the hell out of cops. Don’t they?”

  “Yeah, well with good reason. We just can’t go out there arresting suspects—even known scumbags without hard evidence. If we do, the city gets sued and then, guess what—we lose our jobs.”

  “Guess you would come up ‘short’,” Jay teased. Sid was well aware of the taunt. Jay failed to become a cop because of his height. Sid knew Jay—despite his admiration for cops—loved to stick it the department good every now and then, probably because they overlooked him. Sid foolishly tried to deflect Jay’s anger with another one of his stupid and callous remarks.

  “That’s the kettle calling the tea black—at least that’s how I think the expression goes.”

  “That’s the kettle calling the pot black,” Jay corrected. “Hey, you’re gonna ease up on those kamikazes—or what?”

  “These aren’t kamikazes. I’m drinking little old lady drinks. You should see me when I get . . . ” Sid stopped talking. There was an awkward pause.

  Both men turned their heads to watch a patron order a drink. Sid felt betrayed by Jay and was certain the feeling was mutual. . Sid believed Jay still managed to keep secrets tucked away, despite their many years of friendship, despite the many cookouts they had been invited each other to, despite the number of drinks they had shared in the name of camaraderie over the years. So what if he didn’t spill all to his ‘friend’ every waking moment of every single day?

  “Say, so how you going to nail this creep?” Sid finally asked after long moments of silence.

  “I guess I’ll con the con. The family told me the mother’s sister recently died. I’m going to pose as a representative of a life insurance company. I’ll tell the little bastard I have a pay out for him from the will and I just need him to sign some documents.”

  “So if he accepts, then what?”

  “If he accepts, I’ll have him sign the phony documents. It will show he’s an indeed an identity thief. If he’s not dirty, he’ll come clean and tell me there was probably some mix up. That he’s not Will Barker—that’s the name of the identity victim,” Jay explained. “But I have a feeling he’ll take the bait.”

  “But you’re posing as a phony agent, my friend. He can always plead entrapment.”

  “Maybe so. But maybe someone in a uniform will have enough balls to run with this. Reopen the investigation. Get a warrant. Search his computer and probably substantiate what the poor Barker family has tried to claim all along. That the bastard took good ol’ Will for a ride.”

  “The poor kid.” Sid’s tone was gentle, commiserate. “Probably got some self-esteem issues; if so, it stands to reason he would allow himself get victimized. You know, Jay, I just hope this Lucy friend of yours won’t play you in the end. You know how people can take advantage of each other. Now, I know you love her. But as your friend, I want you to stand back and take a look at the situation. Just consider for me, if you will, that she might end up hurting you.”

  “She’s not like that. You don’t know her. In fact, she refuses to accept my help to get her off the streets. I know she has a good soul. It’s just like you said though, somebody must have used and abused her, turned her sour on life. So, you see, she’s the victim here.”

  “If you say so and maybe you’re right. Maybe I should lay off these drinks.”

  “Oh, and are you going to stop at a flower stand and get Nancy some roses too?”

  “Okay. I guess a kidder can’t kid a kidder,” Sid said. But inside, he was boiling mad. Jay wouldn’t listen to him, despite his warnings about Lucy. And in repayment, he now mocked his marriage.

  “I think I’m up for a little drive. What do you say?”

  “Drive?”

  “Yeah, remember when we were kids. We used to take off down the beach to unwind, let the wind ruffle our hair.”

  “I thought”—Jay said pointing to the bar—“this is the same thing. Our adult beach if you will.”

  “Yeah, and that’s the problem, Jay. It’s way too easy for me to start knocking back drinks as the wind”—he pointed to the ceiling fan—“ruffles my hair.” He laughed, but the sound he made was restricted, almost bitter.

  “So let’s hit the beach. I’ll even drive.”

  “Uh, I’ve got to meet Lucy in about an hour and a half. How about we drive there separately?”

  “Okay, pal. Sure thing.” A faint smile creased Sid’s face in the darkness.

  “Then let’s hit Beverly Pier,” Jay said opening his wallet to pay the bill. “They’ve got free parking.”

  ***

  They proceeded to stroll down a wooden boardwalk. A railed fence buffered them from the crashing waves below. In the periwinkle darkness of evening, floodlights from above coalesced into one another, providing only a faint hint of light, a dubious sort of accusatory glare. At least that was what Sid saw, knowing full well that their little getaway to the beach had little to do with taking a stroll down memory lane.

  “Ah, so what’s so different about this and Brian’s Bar?” Jay asked Sid. For a private eye you’re painfully unaware. As they walked, their shoes made clomping noises. “We’re still immersed in darkness for Pete’s Sake,” Jay said.

  “Well, for one thing. The air is a lot fresher. Can’t you smell it?”

  “I can smell salt. I hate salt water, makes my skin break out.”

  “Complain. Complain. Complain.” Sid’s voice mocked Jay.

  Jay paused to steal a sidelong glance at Sid who raised his hands. “What you want me to laugh at one of your crappy jokes?” Sid wasn’t smiling tonight and there wasn’t even a faint twinkle of glee in his eyes. Sid Auerbach wanted the clean, natural setting of the beach to remind Jay about why he should come clean with him. Sid couldn’t believe Jay hadn’t said a word about the deaths of Dan Collins or Cheryl Thomas or how the two incidents were much too coincidental to be coincidence. Did Jay really believe he could keep his secret from a trusted friend—and cop—no less?

  “Come on, Jay. Stop shitting me. You did those two murders, didn’t you?”

  “What . . . what the fuck . . . ? Sid . . . ?” The two men stopped walking.

  “Oh, and like I’m supposed to be surprised. I’
m a cop, god damn it. I saw the look in your eyes, the way you talked about Dan Collins. How the fucker screwed over his wife. How Cheryl Thomas was never going to stop bringing her family heartache. So you went vigilante, did something about it. I’m not saying a lot of cops couldn’t put themselves in your shoes—some might even shake your hand, off duty of course—but one of those sympathizers wouldn’t be me, Jay. You just threw away your life over a womanizer and a go-go dancer. Tell me something. Was it worth it? Because you don’t look too fucking happy to me—and I don’t buy into your philanthropic nonsense about Lucy either. I think if she doesn’t see things your way soon, you’re probably going to do something about it . . . I mean why not? What’s one more at this point . . . anyways?” Sid wagged a finger at him. Then Sid closed his hand to a fist and waved it in the air.

  Jay staggered, light headed from Sid’s tirade he fumbled for purchase, his hand reached for a wooden railing. But Sid grabbed him, pulling Jay back toward him, back toward the truth.

  “You can’t just slink off into the night ol’ buddy. I’ve got to do something about this. Maybe I could look the other way when you were banging a hooker. But this is a little more serious—don’t you think . . . ?”

  “Stop it,” Jay mumbled. To Sid, Jay sounded as if he is the one who’s had too much to drink. Perhaps, a passerby—if there were any—might believe the clean crisp night air had made him suddenly drowsy. But more likely, Jay was drunken by a sick realization, a revelation he might had been able to bury deep into his subconscious. Maybe Jay really thought somebody else did kill Dan Collins and Cheryl Thomas. But who and what for? Did Collins’ wife, Therese, really go to pieces over her cheating asshole of a husband? She was independently wealthy. Why would she throw her life away? And would Anna Wong the acupuncturist—a holistic healer no less—stoop to murder like some lovesick teen hell bent on revenge?

  And what about Cheryl Thomas? Did some wayward psycho just happen to get lucky and hit a jackpot? What were the chances that Cheryl Thomas would be tailed on an infrequently traveled road and that her car would just happen to break down? Would her boyfriend truly be genius enough or vindictive enough to haul her dead body to the city and strap it to some goalpost, to put it on view like some macabre and pornographic art exhibit? More than likely, a ‘no’ would be the answer to those questions. More than likely, Jay Fishburne, a disgruntled PI haunted by cop envy, was the SOB who decided to take a sick stand and meter out justice for the families who hired him. In one way, Jay was braver than he ever had imagined him to be. It took a lot of balls, a lot of moxie and a lot conviction to stick a man with a hundred needles or to put a half naked girl on display for the entire city to see—including children. Sid felt bad Jay couldn’t become a cop, but not bad enough to look the other way. Not bad enough to let failure condone his Paul Kersey like behavior. Sid felt pretty sorry for himself too. He hadn’t made detective. He did the legwork for the big wigs like Stanford Carter. Knocking on doors, at all odd hours of the night, only to get the door slammed back in his face or worse yet, he was lied to, they said they didn’t see or hear a thing. And at the end of the investigation, it was the Carter’s who get the accolades, or if not him, it was the science geeks who wore the white smocks in the crime lab. God how they beheld science as a means to answer every frickin’ question in the universe. If the killer walked with a limp—he might make an odd foot fall pattern in the sand—if the killer was a left hander, he might slash his victim in a specific way, if the killer stopped to sneeze while he bashed in an old lady’s head, he would be leaving his DNA imprint for the good old boys and girls in the crime lab to nab him, those righteous young dudes and gals in the white coats who had become overnight heroes thanks to technology. But where was the pat and back for the good old boys? The poor SOB who chased a suspect down a rat-infested stinkin’ alleyway, the patrol cop who risked getting his balls blown off each and every time he confronted someone over a speeding violation or the desk sergeant who filled out reams and reams of paperwork, dotting all the ‘I’s and crossing all the ‘T’s’ so the city didn’t get sued? No. Don’t go into police work if you expected to be a hero. Jay should have seen been glad they rejected him. He should have been glad he investigated cheaters and scammers because there’s little risk he’d get shot by an adulterer or identity thief. Jay should know what was good for him. The poor stupid asshole.