Severed Relations

by Rebecca Forster

  SEVERED RELATIONS

  BY

  REBECCA FORSTER

  © Rebecca Forster 2016

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design: Hadleigh O. Charles

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital bookstore and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are purely the product of the author's imagination. Any license that has been taken is for the tone of the story and the enjoyment of the reader.

  For My Brother, Mike Forster

  My cheerleader, favorite phone call, sometimes California cocktail companion

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe many thanks to:

  My husband and my sons, the men I love, like and admire. They are smart, creative, and, above all, gentlemen. What more could a girl ask for?

  My incredible publishing team:

  Jenny Jensen, the most awesome indie editor. Thank you for making me work so hard.

  Stef McDaid, a formatting artist who makes my books beautiful.

  Hadleigh O. Charles whose artistic talents create covers that capture the essence of my books.

  Robin Blakely of Creative Center of America for guiding my career for so many years.

  Bruce Raterink whose eyes are probably ready to fall out of his head from reading this book so many times.

  Glenn Gallo, my fantastic Twitter friend who waves me on to the finish line with such good humor all the way from Florida.

  Nancy Miller, my gorgeous, smart, patient and kind friend with an eagle eye.

  My tennis buddies who let me whack a ball around a few hours a week to clear my head.

  As always, my wise mom, who knows that hot wings, a Margarita and a good laugh are the best medicine.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1 DAY 1 – MORNING

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8 DAY 1 – AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10 DAY 1 – EVENING

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13 DAY 1 – NIGHT

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15 DAY 3 – MORNING

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19 DAY 3 – AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22 DAY 4 – EARLY AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25 DAY 4 – EARLY EVENING

  CHAPTER 26 DAY 5 – MORNING

  CHAPTER 27 DAY 5 – AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 28 DAY 5 – EVENING

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30 DAY 5 – NIGHT

  CHAPTER 31 DAY 6 – NOON

  CHAPTER 32 DAY 7 – LATE MORNING

  CHAPTER 33 DAY 7 – AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35 DAY 7 – NIGHT

  CHAPTER 36 DAY 8 – AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 37 DAY 8 – NIGHT

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39 DAY 9 – MORNING

  CHAPTER 40 DAY 9 – NOON

  CHAPTER 41 DAY 9 – LATE AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 42 DAY 9 – EARLY EVENING

  CHAPTER 43 DAY 10 – LATE MORNING

  CHAPTER 44 DAY 10 – EVENING

  CHAPTER 45 DAY 10 – NIGHT

  ONE MONTH LATER

  More Books by Rebecca Forster

  About the Author

  Bless you and yours

  As well as the cottage you live in.

  May the roof overhead be well thatched

  And those inside be well matched.

  Irish Blessing

  All happy families resemble one another,

  each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

  Leo Tolstoy

  CHAPTER 1

  DAY 1 – MORNING

  It was late – or early – depending on one's point of view. Neither Mort, the short redheaded guy, nor the man so unremarkable that Mort had christened him Medium Man, cared about the hour. For them it was just time to go to work.

  While they drove, they shot the shit about cars and chicks, the gates, the guard, the price of shoes and booze, and getting into the house. Mort laughed hard and quick and said they would have to quit the business the day they couldn't get in a house. When Medium Man laughed, he huffed and puffed and wiggled like he had to hit the john. Even when he wasn't laughing, Medium Man itched and twitched. But he was reliable and good at his job so Mort didn't mind so much.

  They drove the length of Wilshire Boulevard, deserted this time of night, found the side street that would take them to another side street and yet another that would eventually get them where they were going. Mort said getting to this place was like driving through a damn crop circle in the middle of L.A. Medium Man didn't know what that was, and Mort didn't feel like explaining, so they stopped talking until Mort finally pulled over. He parked the car at the curb between two houses. Anyone who looked at it would assume the car belonged to a kid home from college, a maid, or was just the fourth-car-out in the land of three car garages.

  Mort and Medium Man walked the wide streets, admiring the houses. Mort put his hands in his pocket and kicked at a pebble. Medium Man yawned. They acted as if they belonged, but if anyone bought that then Mort had a bridge for them. Finally, Mort put his arm out. Medium Man stopped, wiped the back of his hand across his nose, and asked:

  "This it?"

  "Yep," Mort said and took stock of the property.

  One light burned in the back of the impressive Tudor with its peaked roof and leaded windows. In front, the outdoor fixtures were strategically placed for beauty, not safety. The flowerbeds pooled with a soft light that didn't reach the ridiculous sweep of lawn on which they stood. The front door was illuminated but brick arches shadowed the entrance. The houses on either side were set back on lots that were just as big as this one. Between them, beautiful old trees and flowering foliage created a natural sound barrier and screen.

  Wordlessly they walked up the driveway, Medium Man cutting off to the side of the house and Mort to the shadows of the entry arches. When Medium Man came around again, Mort tended to the door.

  A jab. A touch. A flick. A click and it was done.

  Inside, they got the lay of the land. Mort had seen better but not by much. Medium Man, though, stood in the foyer with his mouth hanging open. He looked at the grand staircase, the shiny marble floor in the entry, and the hardwood floors beyond that. He looked at the entry table and all the silver-framed pictures on top of it. Tears welled in his eyes when he saw the picture of a woman caught in a moment of happy surprise. She was so beautiful. Medium Man wished he had a picture of someone like that to put in a frame. He was picking it up, thinking to take it with him, when Mort hissed:

  "Don't touch nothin'."

  Medium Man wiped the frame clean with his shirt, put it down, and circled back to Mort like a dog returning to the place where the scent was strong. They went up the stairs, Mort first. There wasn't a creak and that impressed Mort. The place was quality all the way.

  Upstairs, there were five doors as expected. Three were closed, two ajar. He looked into the first room, stepped back and nodded to Medium Man who reached into his pocket for the gun. It was heavier than the knife he preferred, but Mort said they were th
ere to do a job and not make a statement. Medium Man didn't quite understand that since he never said anything at work. Still, he never argued with Mort so he held the gun and waited for the signal.

  When he got it, Medium Man went into the first room and bee-lined for the brass studio bed. A couch by day, the frilly cover was now folded neatly at the foot of the mattress. The woman in it made little sighing sounds while she dreamed. At first Medium Man's heart sank. She looked pretty and that was too bad. He hated hurting pretty things. When he got a little closer, though, he saw that she wasn't all that pretty so it was okay.

  His footfall wasn't even a whisper on the plush carpet, yet as he raised the gun the woman threw back the covers and bolted out of bed. Shorter and stockier than he had imagined her to be, Medium Man was shocked as she lunged for her phone on the night table. He let out a yelp, threw out his arm, and knocked her back. She tumbled to the floor only to roll and push off again. This time, she lowered her head and ran straight for Medium Man. Her skull caught him hard under the ribs.

  He doubled over, grunting, the breath pushed out of him. He went down clutching his stomach. The gun dropped out of his hand and fell to the floor. He could feel it against his knee but had no time to grab it up because the woman was everywhere: hands and teeth, arms and knees, hair flying, fighting silently like she was mute, fighting hard like she was an animal. She reached for his face and her nails grazed his cheek. Those nails were short so she didn't draw blood. Her nightdress was long and she tangled in it as she tried to scramble over him. He was mad that she was causing such trouble; he was repulsed by her big breasts, her plump butt, and her woman smell. Still, he was determined not to let her get the best of him so he kept pulling at her. Her foot caught his thigh and she tried to use it for leverage, but she got no traction. In fact, she got nowhere at all because Mort was there.

  Yes, there he was, in the room filled with muffled grunts and desperate breathing. He grabbed the woman's arms and twisted her wrists one over the other, flipping her onto her back. Medium Man scampered up at the same time, swiping up the gun just as Mort knelt down hard on the woman's crossed arms.

  "I coulda–" Medium Man began, but Mort shot him a look so he shut up.

  The woman was gurgling like she was trying to say something, but her lips weren't working. Medium Man watched Mort, the master, as he looked into the woman's wild, terrified eyes. He put one hand on top of her head, and said:

  "Hush now."

  The woman trembled and then stopped struggling. That's when Medium Man swooped down, put the muzzle against her temple, and pulled the trigger. In the same instant, Mort moved his hand. The small caliber bullet made a clean exit on the other side of her skull. It brought with it bits of her brain and some bone and a spray of blood.

  Mort brushed at the blood spray on his shirt, but it was only a reflex. He knew that you never got all the blood out of anything so it was useless to try to wipe it away. That was too bad since he was especially partial to this shirt. All in all, though, the job went okay. He would have preferred it went perfect, but he blamed himself for not anticipating this woman's reaction and preparing for it.

  She was trained to listen for the slightest noise: a call, a moan, a cry in the night. It was her job to protect and she had tried as hard as she could to do it well. Mort admired that in the same way he admired Medium Man for doing his. He would tell that to Medium Man when they were in the car. It wasn't easy to do the kind of work they did. Now they were finished. It was time to go. Yet when he looked at his compadre he saw that something was amiss. Medium Man was looking past him, so Mort turned his head to see what had caught the guy's attention. All he saw was a flash of color like you see when someone is running away to hide.

  Before he could do anything, Medium Man was out the door, his beloved knife in hand. Mort hung his head for a second and then picked up the gun his partner had dropped. He pocketed the piece and took a second look at the dead woman. If she were alive he would have apologized. He would have told her this wasn't part of the plan. He would have explained that there was no stopping Medium Man once he got the fever.

  That was a pity.

  Not a crying shame.

  Just a pity.

  CHAPTER 2

  Murder behind the gates of Fremont Place was unheard of. A triple homicide, two of the victims children, in the home of a wealthy, young attorney was downright bizarre, and it was Finn O'Brien's bad luck that it was his first call since reporting to Wilshire Division. It was the kind of call that would put his heart crossways, as his mother would say. He would have agreed with her except his Irish heart had been crossways for years already – ever since Alexander died – and he had learned to live with it. He doubted what he found in Fremont Place could do more damage.

  Finn made a right off Wilshire Boulevard, drove a hundred feet to the guardhouse and stopped at the waste-of-money fancy iron gates stuck into the high stone walls. Inside the shack, a kid barely out of his teens slumped over the desk. He was dressed in an ill-fitting, puke-beige, polyester shirt with an official looking patch on the shoulder.

  When the kid realized someone was waiting on him, he swung his head and eyed the dark car and the man wearing a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. It took a minute, but eventually he figured out who Finn was and dragged himself off his chair. He stood in the doorway of the faux house, arms hanging, his face so long he would have asphalt burns on his chin by the time his shift ended. Finn showed his badge and then started the conversation while he slipped it back in his pocket.

  "Been here long, have you?"

  "Since midnight."

  "Good boy to hang in." Finn swung his head in sympathy. "Tough times. I know how it is. Very rough for you, don't let anyone tell you different."

  A little sympathy was all it took for the kid's mouth to run away with him. He stepped down, lowered his voice, and grabbed onto Finn's open window.

  "The only people that came through belonged here. I logged every single car and called up to the houses to confirm visitors. I swear I did. Nobody walked through. I would have done something if somebody tried to walk through. I have a good sense for stuff. If somebody tried to come in who shouldn't have been here, I would have known. If they had tried to talk their way in, I wouldn't have let them. I would have called someone… I would have called… I…"

  Finn winced as he listened to the boy. He had made those same declarations to anyone who would listen after his brother's death. If he had only known, Finn swore, he would have done heroic things. But he hadn't known because Finn had been seventeen and full of hisself as his mother told anyone who would listen. That day he was behind the bleachers, so lost in the deep wet kisses of a cheerleader that he forgot to pick the little boy up from school. The next time Finn saw Alexander he was in a coffin, dressed in a stiff shirt and dark suit bought especially for the occasion of his burial. Still, if he had known what was going to happen, Finn swore that he would have been brave and he would have saved Alexander – or died trying. Finn's father had nodded as if he knew that to be true, his mother had held her oldest son to her and said she believed the same. It was bull but people were kind all those years ago, so Finn was kind now.

  "There's no stopping the devil from his rounds. There's nothing you could have done," he said. "And if there had been, I know you would have done it. I can tell you're a brave sort by looking at you."

  With that, the young man actually focused on Finn and the detective saw that he had eyes the color of caramel and a heart that was just as soft. He wouldn't have known a liar if he saw one. Finn lifted the edge of his lips and gave him the slightest nod. The boy's chest caved with relief. His relief proved Finn right; the boy didn't know a liar when he saw one.

  "We're going to be needing to talk to you, so don't go upsetting yourself when someone calls. It will probably be me; might be my partner. Can't give you a name on that yet, but they'll identify themselves as working with Detective O'Brien. You being in law enforcement yourse
lf, you know how an investigation goes. We'll want to be thorough. You understand?"

  The kid nodded, and licked his lips, and nodded some more. He looked like a bobble-head doll.

  "Rest up when you get home," Finn went on. "Calm yourself. Don't think too hard about what happened last night. Sometimes you remember more things when you don't think too hard."

  "Yeah, okay. Okay." The young man swallowed hard. Color was coming back to his cheeks, but it wasn't the right color for a healthy person. He straightened up. His voice was more measured when he said:

  "The last car came in at one-thirteen. By the book."

  "Good man." Finn handed him a card. "Hang on to that log of yours and give it over to your supervisor, not your replacement. If you think of anything call me. If you just find yourself needing someone to talk to, I can manage some time for that too."

  If the boy answered, Finn didn't hear him. The detective's eyes were on the gate. The boy with the caramel eyes now knew what was what, and they both had to get on with this terrible day. The kid stepped back, punched whatever button raised the gate, and by the time the arm lowered again he was slumped back in his chair. Now he was holding tight to the card with the name Finn O'Brien, Detective printed neatly under the logo of the LAPD.

  As Finn drove on, he took note of his surroundings in the same way a boyo at the pub might admire a beautiful girl who was out of his league. Fremont Place was an impressive enclave: wide streets, big, beautiful houses, set backs the size of small parks, and garages bigger than most people's apartments. These stately homes were built of brick and stucco, leaded windows faced tree-lined streets, and inside the walls were crafted of real lathe and plaster. New money owned them, but old money had built them in the thirties. There were two elite schools and a tennis club within the boundaries.

  Just beyond the wall surrounding Fremont Place, the real world was a mash-up. Wilshire high rises, bustling during the day, were deserted after seven. A few blocks over were neighborhoods that had no names where people of color owned houses with bars on the windows. A little further to the east was downtown Los Angeles. Hollywood spread north into the hills. Koreatown, Little Tokyo, and Chinatown were all within spitting distance. Fremont Place was a suburb held hostage in the heart of a big, ugly city and it just got a reminder of that in spades.