“That doesn’t explain why Harriet would kill the woman.”
“You figured out that Nina hired me to help Charlie Devoe,” Hannibal said, leaning back against the door. “Maybe you even deduced that Charlie was Nina’s lover. So you figured she must know who the real killer was. That’s why she had to die, before she told anyone. When we talked at lunch it was pretty obvious I didn’t know.”
Harriet shrank into a corner of the couch, but her husband leaned forward. “Why this is absurd. What possible reason would my wife have for killing the Devoe woman?”
“Please,” Hannibal said. “You met Charlie Devoe through his wife Evelyn, right? You didn’t travel in Charlie’s gambling circles but Charlie described his wife as the ballet type, and you are, in your wife’s words, Mr. ballet and symphony. I figure you must have met her more than once. You were very discreet, but your wife found out about your meetings with Evelyn. And I’ve already seen how jealous your wife is. That night, while you were out of town, she went to the home of the woman who was stealing her husband. She was filled with rage. She found a gun in the house, and shot the adulteress in her sleep.”
Harriet made a little whimpering sound, as if the memory of her action was crushing her in the corner. Frankie sat up straighter, and resumed his lawyer’s tone. “None of this holds together, it’s all just speculation. All the evidence concerning the first murder points to Charlie. And whoever killed poor Mrs. Bonnaventura, surely has disposed of the murder weapon by now.”
“Oh certainly,” Hannibal said, noticing the lights coming in the front windows on either side of the door. “But she didn’t leave whatever blunt instrument she had just lying around. She had to carry it away in something. I’m betting it was her purse.” Hannibal opened the small bag and looked inside. “And I’m also betting that the dried blood in here will match Nina’s blood.”
The two-tone bell sound made both Gordon’s jump. Hannibal merely stepped away from the door and reached back for the knob. “That will be the police,” he said.
* * *
Charlie Devoe drove his new white El Dorado through the gate and swung around to stop right in front of the door. He stretched as he got out, clearly not caring if he wrinkled his hand made Italian suit. The sight of Hannibal Jones sitting on his wide wrap around porch did not dampen his smile, although one eyebrow did rise in surprise.
“Well hi there, Mister detective man. Come out to celebrate my release? Come inside and I’ll pour you a tumbler of the best damn cognac you ever tasted.”
Hannibal rose slowly to his feet, his mirror Oakley’s transferring none of the distaste his eyes would have revealed. “No, I’m not here to cheer you on, Charlie. Just to pin down the last of the details of how you did it. Call it compulsive behavior. I have to know I got the story straight.”
“Whoa,” Charlie said. “Slow down, brother. How I did what?”
“I’m not your brother,” Hannibal said through clenched teeth. “I just want to know if you were screwing Harriet Gordon while you were screwing poor Nina Bonnaventura.”
Charlie’s smile dropped and his eyes became wary. “The cops send you here? You wearing a wire?”
“No wire, Charlie,” Hannibal said. “And I’m not working for the police. In fact, I promise you I won’t tell anyone anything you tell me. Just saying that would make my testimony worthless in court. I just want to know.”
Charlie nodded his head a few times, and his smile tentatively returned. “I get it. Okay. You figured out that Frankie Gordon and my wife Evelyn had a thing going on, and you want to know if I nailed his wife in revenge. Well I never touched that whore.”
Hannibal stared out at the perfectly manicured lawn and beautifully maintained gardens between the house and the gate. He wondered how long they’d continue to get the loving care they got when the woman of the house was alive. To Charlie he said “Never touched her, maybe, but you sure used her. You called her, didn’t you? Told her about her husband’s infidelity with Evelyn. Poor, bored, neglected Evelyn, who married for the wild times she’d missed working twenty-four-seven all those years. Then her wild time when out looking for thrills elsewhere. Then I figure she meets a gentleman at the ballet, or the theater. Very discreet…”
“She was cheating on me, man,” Charlie snapped.
“Yeah, like you cared.” Hannibal walked down the steps and perched on the Cadillac’s long hood. “But you told the jealous wife what was going on, probably invented a few juicy details…”
“Hey, man. You can’t put that on me. I just let nature take its course.” For a moment Hannibal thought Charlie might take a swing at him. He left his hands on the car hoping it would happen. But Charlie wasn’t a fighter, and probably realized he would be inviting a beating if he started anything.
“I think maybe you started setting nature up to follow that course weeks before the killing,” Hannibal said, “with phone calls or notes to Harriet about her husband’s affair. The way I figure it, you waited until you knew Frankie Gordon was out of town. Then you called Harriet and told her the two of them were at your house between the sheets. This was the time for her to catch them red handed. You planned to spend the night at Nina’s anyway.”
Charlie’s smile slid entirely off his face and his breathing deepened. “You can’t prove any of that. Besides, she went to the house and did the deed all by herself.”
“Of course she did,” Hannibal said, hopping down from the car and stepping toward Charlie. “You just told her to slip in the back door which you left unlocked. And you just happened to leave your loaded pistol where she’d have to see it. Was it lying on the kitchen table? Or next to the bed? Did you help Evelyn take those sleeping pills that helped her stay in such a deep sleep?”
“She took those things all the time,” Charlie said, backing away from Hannibal. “And you can’t prove any of this stuff. Harriet did the murder and that’s that.”
Hannibal stepped slowly past Charlie, down the smooth asphalt toward the gate. “I don’t need to prove anything. And you’re right about one thing. Evelyn Devoe’s murderer has been caught. But there are people who care about the man responsible for Nina’s death.”
Charlie Devoe stared past Hannibal and began to sweat. A black sedan crept past the gate, and when the tinted window powered down, a big Italian face glared back at him. Then the car moved on.
“Ever meet her husband Vinnie?” Hannibal asked. “He really loved his wife. And he’ll want to meet you. Not today, Charlie, not this week, maybe not even next month. But he will be visiting you.” Hannibal stopped at the gate, turned, and smiled broadly. “And then, you know, I think maybe he and his friends will be able to show YOU a little wildness.”
THE END
MEET AUSTIN CAMACHO
Austin S. Camacho is the author of six novels about Washington Dc-based private eye Hannibal Jones, five in the Stark and O’Brien international adventure-thriller series, and the detective novel, Beyond Blue. His short stories have been featured in several anthologies including Dying in a Winter Wonderland – an Independent Mystery Booksellers Association Top Ten Bestseller for 2008 - and he is featured in the Edgar nominated African American Mystery Writers: A Historical and Thematic Study by Frankie Y. Bailey.Camacho is also editorial director for Intrigue Publishing, a Maryland small press, and works with their authors to improve their manuscripts. And Camacho is deeply involved with the writing community. He is a past president of the Maryland Writers Association, past Vice President of the Virginia Writers Club, and is an active member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime.
web site - http://www.ascamacho.com
blog: http://ascamacho.blogspot.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/austin.camacho.author
THE POWER OF DECISION
by
JERRY HATCHETT
A criminal will eventually understand the power and consequences of decision-making.
***
&nb
sp; Rich people disgust me. It's one reason I so enjoy stealing from them, and sometimes they make it too easy. Like this time. Some big shot's daughter is getting married and instead of having a party for giving gifts to the bride at home like normal people, this guy has it on a luxury cruise. Pays the fares for a bunch of other fat-and-happies so there will be a crowd telling his homely daughter how beautiful she is. And showering her with expensive gifts, of course. These people don't like to be out-done, so it should be a haul for the ages.
“Let's go,” I said. We were a team of three:
Yours truly, decked out in finery I had appropriated from the ship's laundry center.
Pete, my oldest friend.
Louise, a shipboard employee who had of course fallen hopelessly in love with Pete over the past few days. (Pete has that gift with the gals.)
#
The partiers saw the gift-giving as the peak of the party, so they scheduled that part late, which meant they were sloshed. Perfect. I stood among the icons of money, kept my nose up at a snotty angle to fit in, and watched as each gift was presented to Bride Margaret, a girl so buck-toothed she could eat corn-on-the-cob through a picket fence.
When she finished oohing and ahhing over each present, Louise the lowly shipmaid would take the item from her and stow it in the bedroom, where Pete was stationed. If I looked at Louise when she took the gift, that meant we wanted that one. In the bedroom, she notified Pete and he procured the item and put a rock or two in its box. With any luck, the spoiled brat wouldn't even bother looking in the boxes until she was home and we were long gone.
#
When the party finally broke, each of us sauntered away in separate directions as per the plan. I checked my watch. 11:05. It was bone dry out on the deck, but the cold night air was damp and clingy as I walked toward the back of the ship and our rendezvous. What looked like a billion stars twinkled in the black sky. I arrived first, Louise second. Pete had to stash the goods in our cabin. We stood by the rail at the ass-end of the big ship and made small talk while we waited for Pete. He showed up a few minutes later with a giant grin on his face and plastered a loud smooch of a kiss on Louise's lips.
He slapped me on the back and said, “We're rich, man! Rich!” Then he turned to Louise and said, “Rich, baby! We're rich!”
I watched the way he looked and her and wondered how I hadn't seen it already. Damnation. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Come here a minute, we need to talk,” then walked a few yards away and waited while he fawned over her like some schoolboy. “Pete!” I said, and twirled my finger in the air for him to hurry up. A gust of wind hit and I drew my coat a little tighter.
When he got to me, I leaned in close and said, “What are you doing?”
“Huh?” He still had that goofy smile wrapped around his face.
“Pete. She has to go. You know that.”
The smile disappeared. “What? You mean—no. No. I like her. She's the real thing, man.”
“This is our biggest score ever, the kind that can set us up for a long time. With her gone, there's no way they can ever tie it to us.”
“She's on our side, man. She's with me.”
I said nothing.
“No way she'd turn on me. Ever. She loves me.” He looked me in the eye. “And I love her, too.”
“You've known her a couple days, Pete.”
“Sometimes you just know, no matter how long it's been.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, buddy.”
As casually as I could, I walked toward the girl while he stood there gawking at me. She shivered in the cold. As I reached out, Pete yelled, “NOOOOOOO!” I took her shoulders, smiled at her, and shoved her over the rail.
#
She was barely visible in the waves by the time Pete got to the rail. He stared at me with a crazed look in his eyes, his mouth hung open. Then he turned back to the rail and screamed down, “Hang on, baby!” He spun and made toward the bulkhead behind us, but I was ready. I pay attention to my surroundings and I had noticed the big red buttons around the ship as soon as we boarded, sure that they sounded some kind of emergency bell when pushed.
I caught Pete from behind when he was six feet from the button, wrapped my arms around him and held on while he thrashed. “No,” I said. “You can't.”
“We have to save her!”
“There's no saving her. She's gone.”
“We have to try!” he said, frantically fighting to get a hand on the button.
Enough. I yanked him back, hard, and we both fell to the deck, him on top of me. “Stop it!” I screamed, right into his ear.
He started crying, blubbering in great heaves in my arms.
#
We stood at the rail. Pete stared at the waves, a mournful look drooping his handsome features. “You killed her,” he said.
His voice was vacant, flat. “We should have pushed the button. Maybe we could have saved her.”
“If we had pushed the button, they would've stopped the ship. We need to get to New York and disappear, not draw attention to ourselves. And remember, I saved us from the possibility of being caught, Pete. I saved us.”
Suddenly exhausted, I checked my watch. 11:35. A tough but rewarding day was almost over. I suspected I would remember April 14, 1912, for the rest of my life.
MEET JERRY HATCETT
Jerry Hatchett was born and grew up in the creatively fertile Mississippi Delta, and lives and works now in Houston, Texas. A lifelong admitted geek, he loves to create fast stories around characters you can cheer for and against. His work features a crisp tight voice that pulls you in and doesn't let go.
Thanks so much for reading this brief story. It was written as a piece of flash fiction and I had a bit of fun putting it together. My normal genre is pure thriller, and I hope you’ll take a look. I currently have three thrillers out there, each with hundreds of reviews and star ratings between 4.2 and 4.7 stars. I’d be honored to have you as a reader!
Jerry’s Author Site www.jerryhatchett.com
Jerry’s Facebook site https://www.facebook.com/JerryHatchettAuthor
Motive, Opportunity, Means
by
MARK BASTABLE
“Americano double-shot, no frills, name of John?”
“That’s me.”
John Fuller took the coffee and walked out on to Wisconsin Avenue. His cell trilled, and he read the incoming text.
I have photographs of the Vegas trip. Think about that, Mr. Congressman. Think about that splashed all over the Washington Post.
Fuller shrugged. She was getting weirder. He flicked back through messages over the last month. She was going to ruin him. She was going to kill herself. She was going to tell John’s dad what a douche his son was. She was going to relocate to Australia and take Erin with her.
He’d probably have to pony up for counseling or something. Given the hassle all this crap could cause the party, therapy for his insane ex-wife might even constitute a legitimate expense claim.
* * * * *
“She mentions a Vegas trip?” Detective Pinski asked.
“Wedding anniversary three years ago – we went to Vegas,” Fuller replied.
“And photographs?”
“Beats me. We spent all our time at the craps tables.”
“You play high stakes?”
“I like risk. It’s in my nature.”
“So what did you think when you read that text?”
Fuller shook his head. “Detective, you have to understand that Alison has a very, umm, unique view of events. You might want to bear than in mind during your investigation.”
* * * * *
John Fuller walked up the front path of what used to be his house. Technically, it still was. He put the key in the door, and sighed when it didn’t open. She’d bolted it from the inside. He turned and mimed a ‘what can you do?’ shrug to Laura, who was watching from the car. Then he pressed the button on the entry phone and looked up at the camera.
The speaker crac
kled. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Of course. Is Erin ready?”
“Not yet. You’ll have to come in. I’ll get the door.”
In the kitchen, Fuller poured himself a coffee uninvited, simply to make the point that he could.
“Just one time,” he said, “you’d think that she’d be ready when I got here.”
“Maybe she’s not sure you’re going to show,” Alison said.
“Oh, get real. When have I ever not shown up for her?”
“Her birth.”
“You have to go back twelve years to find one? That’s a stretch.”
He almost added, “And, by the way, I’m not responsible for lightning storms over JFK,” but that was the first line of a three-act argument they’d played out too many times before.
Alison rinsed out the empty coffee pot. “She hasn’t eaten. Again.”
“We’ll grab a burger on the drive to my dad’s.”
“Oh, right. So your whore gets to meet your dad now?”
Rather than say something incendiary that would set off a series of explosions, Fuller took a swig of coffee.
Alison opened the fridge. “Anyway, I don’t want Erin eating fast food crap. Can you make her a sandwich for the car? I’ll go hurry her up.”
“Sure. You have cold cuts?”
Alison put some ham on the counter, and a tomato.
“She’ll complain about the tomato, but don’t let her ditch it.”
Making the sandwich, Fuller realized that there were things in this house that he missed. The knives, for instance. He liked to cook, and he’d spent a small fortune on a top quality set of Swedish knives. But you can’t take that stuff with you. It looks petty. You have to just walk away.
The Thrill List Page 6