Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1)

by Sebastian Blunt

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “Yes, just one more thing, Mrs. Bill, can you just stand back for a second.” The doctor shifted out of the way also, and the nurse let in the two reporters. Almost immediately, one of them was filming and snapping still photos.

  The junkyard boss went ballistic. He started yelling and pushing them out of the room. All that Cassie could think was that if the pics made national news, they would be on the run. She pulled up the vacated chair as her overweight companion chased the newshounds down the hallway.

  Considering what Mike did, he looked pretty good. He was also courageous as heck. Eight miles without water at night. Whatever he was made of, it was hard as steel.

  He stirred and opened his eyes when he felt her warm hand. She didn’t wait for him to speak. “Mike, I love you.”

  “I know,” he whispered back to her. “I’m really hungry. Can we leave and eat?”

  An hour later, after receiving the doc’s approval, they exited the clinic with Mike holding a shirt over his head to keep the reporters from photographing him. He’d been around the tough streets of New York enough to know that the media would get shots of Augustino’s license plate—it was a huge risk.

  His landlord dropped them off at the pub, but then he eased some of their anxiety by telling them that the car was dumped at the junkyard by someone from Naples. It would take a month to trace it back to Pellaro.

  “You seem to know a lot about how criminals think,” said Mike.

  “My parents were from Sicily.” The man grinned and walked out after patting Casper on the head.

  Cassie flipped the open sign to “Closed” and locked the door. She looked at Mike, having rarely seen someone who needed such serious T.L.C. “That’s it. I’m going to help you upstairs. There’s a little storeroom up there with a sofa. Cassie Clark is the doctor around here, so you follow my orders.”

  He didn’t react much but stared straight into her eyes. “I’m sorry I put you through this.”

  “You’d have been in the same situation if I decided to swim for eight hours at night.”

  “I don’t recommend it,” he whispered.

  She wrapped her arms around him. “I nearly died of fright last night. Better it should be me—to be the survivor would destroy me.”

  “I want to tell you what happened,” he said.

  “Upstairs. Let me help you. Hot food. Tell me everything and then rest.”

  “The doc didn’t say anything about avoiding sex.”

  “Mr. Casper! Now I know you’re healing. But after what you just went through? Let’s give it at least 12 hours.”

  “I can’t believe you’re alive,” Cassie was in shock.

  “When the bullet came through the fish hold in the bow, I thought they would start shooting big time. Only one shot means they think I’m dead. We have to keep it that way.”

  “One thing I don’t understand is the guy you saw on the sailboat being on the motorboat. What the hell was that?”

  Mike was laid out on the couch. “Dunno. There are a few things that don’t add up. But I heard them talking. The way they came right at me was a demonstration of malice.”

  “We need to hide for a while,” she said.

  “Why bother? They think I’m dead.”

  “We might have a problem. There were reporters at the clinic.”

  He answered her assuredly. “I had a thing over my head. Nobody saw me.”

  Cassie looked distressed. “Not precisely true. When you were out cold, one of the reporters came in and filmed you.”

  He tried to process that—a local news person, in Italian? “Do me a favor and check the news on your phone.”

  She found a site displaying the regional TV news. They watched for a while. Nothing. Even at the top of the segment, the big story was a bicycle race.

  “Try Cloudnews in the U.K. They like to report all over the EU, right?”

  She nodded and typed in the address for streaming news. It was early afternoon. They waited.

  “Oh shit!” Cassie cursed uncharacteristically.

  There it was. The video already made it onto English-language news. The pictures of Mike lying in bed were captioned by the words: Fisherman Survives Eight-Hour Ultra-Marathon Swim After His Boat Sinks off Italy. The reporter chattered in Italian while the translation appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  “Oh, no! We’ve got to make a plan to get out of here,” Mike swallowed hard.

  “Your face isn’t clear in the video. Who would know?”

  He groaned. “The people that think I’m dead aren’t stupid. They’ll see the news. They will know I’m alive. It may take them a little time, but their first stop will be the clinic. How long before they find the junkyard?”

  “Cops! We’ll go to the cops,” she blurted out.

  Casper put his hands behind his tired head and stretched out. Ideas on how to outmaneuver professional killers from New York paraded through his cranium. He wasn’t dealing with children—the druglord woman in the photo sent these people. The same woman who put a blade into the neck of her own enforcer to make a point. These were the kind of assassins who would cut off a body part and bring it back as a trophy.

  “I should leave without you,” Mike threw down the gauntlet. “I can figure out a way to contact you when it’s safe.”

  “Do you mean in ten years?” Cassie didn’t hide how suddenly pissed she’d become.

  “What kind of life do you want? Running? All the time?”

  “No, Mike, I don’t want that, but I can’t let you go without me. Every day will be misery.” She was quiet for a moment and then stared him down. “We go together, or we go to the cops.”

  “No cops!” he said firmly.

  Cassie glared right back at him. “Well, then you made your decision.” She looked around the little storeroom above her backwater cafe. Then she turned to Casper and sighed loudly.

  “Anyway, this pub sucks.”

  Chapter 13

  By the following day, the local news media was in a tizzy. The Italian coast guard was also spreading out to search further down the straits and into the Mediterranean. Claire arrived at Syracusa in plenty of time to meet her husband, but he never arrived in port.

  Strategically, at ninety minutes after his scheduled E.T.A., she went to the marina's guard and asked him what she should do. That was roughly at 8 p.m. the previous night—about the same time that Mike Casper was plying the waters north and east.

  Claire’s alert triggered a series of worthless phone calls to the marina manager, the local fire department, and the navy up in Messina. The navy operator had enough sense to call the local Corp or Port Captaincies (otherwise known as the Italian Coast Guard), which finally got the ball rolling. The search for the missing Won Again had begun as Claire portrayed herself as the increasingly distraught wife.

  It wasn’t until around 10 a.m. that another missing boat's report made its way through the maritime officials’ network. Shortly after, it was confirmed that a fisherman miraculously survived by swimming to the beach near the town of Lazzaro. Claire overheard the news of the fisherman while sitting at the local Sicilian coast guard office. She was livid. Internally.

  “Mrs. Clemp?” She turned to find a man in his forties in a dark suit standing nearby.

  “Please, I can’t take any more questions from newspapers.”

  “But I am not the news. I am the police detective from Messina.”

  “Did you find Charles’ boat? Where is he?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry, but so far, we have not found the boat. We are still looking. May I ask you some questions? It is routine as they say.”

  “Yes, but I am very tired and stressed out. I’m not sure what I can add.” Claire noticed a trim, very Mediterranean-looking woman glide up alongside the detective.

  “Mrs. Clemp, first, my name is Detective Larosa, and this is my partner, Sergeant Fettucini—like the noodles.”

  Claire nodded to the sultry femal
e sergeant as Larosa handed her a contact card.

  “When did you last see your husband?”

  “When he left Messina. Maybe at 10 a.m. yesterday.”

  “Did he have anyone with him?”

  She was not surprised that the detective was asking questions that had already been answered. “He had an American guy he hired to go with him.”

  “Name?”

  “Tony something. Wait. It was Reacher, Tony Reacher.”

  The sergeant was jotting down notes and periodically stared at Claire. If it was supposed to be unnerving, it wasn’t working.

  “And this Tony, how did you meet him?”

  “He had signs posted by the marina.”

  “Are you saying that Mr. Clemp needed extra help on the boat? Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t sail any further. We sailed up from Portorosa, but I was too sick. So I told him to continue, and I would meet him here in Syracusa. But I didn’t want him to go alone, so he hired that Reacher guy.”

  “You never saw this fellow before Messina?”

  “No. You’re scaring me. What is the problem with that man?”

  “Nothing. We have no suspicions. I just need to, as you Americans say, fill in the blanks. We will find out more about the crew that Mr. Clemp hired. What did you do after your boat left Messina?”

  “I went back to my hotel and had some food. Then I took the car and drove around and window shopped. Mostly I just walked, and then I spent a lot of time in the woods. Mostly that until I drove down here.”

  The sergeant whispered something into Larosa’s ear. He nodded and returned his gaze to Claire. “When did you arrive in Syracusa?”

  “Around six last night.”

  “It took you eight hours to get from Messina to here? That is quite a long time.”

  “Mr. Larosa, I’m notorious for wasting time. I could sit out in a forest or a park for hours just sleeping or looking at birds. Why are you asking me this?”

  The detective gave her his best apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but I must ask questions. It’s my job. So, may we look at the mileage on your car?”

  Claire put on a mildly aggravated expression. “Charles isn’t in my car! Why are you interrogating me when you should be out there looking for him?”

  “As I said, Mrs. Clemp, my job is to ask everyone everything. Do you have a hotel here?”

  She reduced the indignant look in her eyes to match the situation. “I have been here since last night. Mostly near the guard and then with the coast guard people.”

  “Go to your hotel. Where will you stay?”

  “My husband told me that he wanted to book a room at the boutique up the beach a little.”

  “Very well. Take your car; we will follow you.”

  “Why do you need to follow me? I’m already a nervous wreck!”

  The sergeant spoke up for the first time. Despite her Mediterranean look, she spoke an American accent like she was from New York. It caught Claire off guard. “Mrs. Clemp, your husband is very wealthy. If someone deliberately did something to his boat, then we want to make sure you are protected.”

  Claire gasped. “That can’t be! Everyone loves Charles. This is crazy.”

  “We know how you feel, but you need to be safe. A guard will be posted outside your hotel. Please don’t leave unless the coastguard calls you and tells you that they found him.”

  “Okay. I’ll do what you say. Please tell me when you find my husband.”

  “Larosa was about to speak, but his partner interrupted. “One more thing. How long have you been married?” asked Fettucini.

  “We got married two months ago.”

  “Thank you. Shall we proceed to the hotel?” asked Larosa.

  “She did it,” said Fettucini in Italian.

  “You always say that. And how many times are you right?”

  “Twice, so far.”

  The detective laughed. “That is two out of 38. I did the math because I knew you would go straight for the wife. Your accuracy is five percent. May I use an English phrase? Definitely, I may.” He answered his own question. “Fettucini, your batting average sucks.”

  “I don’t care, boss; she did it. Check her mileage. Check the video cameras on the highway. She is married for two months, and suddenly the husband is gone? Follow the money. How much of his company stock does she get?”

  “Let the New York police deal with that.”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all. Maybe you get to fly to America to get answers from your city people there.”

  “If we can’t turn up any dirt here, they won’t touch it—even if Clemp is rich. We have to give them something to go on. Even if we catch a picture of her with some strange guys, that would be good, and a picture of her with the Tony Reacher guy…”

  “Yes, I know, that would be the best. If we got that picture, then she is lying to us, and we hold her here. I know the system.”

  The sergeant sighed. “We’re not that TV show, Law and something. She did it, but we are going to find nothing. Claire Clemp is going to go back to America and be a rich widow.”

  “Who knows? Maybe the rich husband is out sailing and will show up here tomorrow.”

  “I’m putting my fingers in my ears, so I don’t have to listen to your optimism. The guy is dead. He’s at the bottom of the Med. The Tony guy is either dead or already in Africa or Australia with a lot of money. You should tell the Coast Guard to go home—they are going to find only fish and water.”

  Larosa turned out of the lot and followed Claire’s car up the beach highway. If she set up her husband’s death, then Mrs. Clemp was damn good—and that made her dangerous.

  He thought about the other big story of the day, the fisherman from the Italian side of the Straits who swam overnight to save himself. The last time two small boats disappeared on the same night was—maybe never. It would be good to talk to the fisherman, but that case was Italian jurisdiction, not Sicilian.

  Fettucini poked him. “I think we should go talk to the fisherman.”

  “Let the Italianos talk to him. Besides, after he left the clinic, no one has seen him.”

  “You know, Larosa. Did you ever listen to yourself? That’s why we should find him and talk to him. Did you ever think that maybe he saw something, and that’s why he ended up in the water?”

  “You are a genius, sergeant. Your imagination is fantastic. And it could make you a lot of money—in Berverly Hills.”

  The detectives watched as Claire pulled up by the hotel lobby, and Larosa stopped to focus on her. “Call the locals and have them post a guard here.”

  “Right.”

  “Then let’s get out of here and leave it to the coast guard. We’ve got other cases. I want to be home in Messina tomorrow. If you want to slay imaginary dragons, do it on your own time. Capiche?”

  As badly as Casper wanted to leave Pellaro, Cassie insisted that they rest. She helped Mike back to his junkyard after dark. Augustino was still in his office, and they went to tell him that they would be leaving and maybe be gone for a month. It was bullshit, but they had to be careful.

  She gently pushed Mike down onto his bed. He already looked a thousand times better than when he was in the clinic—he looked strong again.

  “What’s the plan? I don’t think we have agreed on anything yet.”

  “We go to Naples. There are risks, but we can maybe get onto a freighter and get to North Africa.”

  “That’s it? Africa?”

  “Every journey starts with a first step.”

  “How much money do you have?” she asked.

  “Less than a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That’s not very much.”

  He looked up at the low ceiling of the container home. Everything was going wrong. That same feeling of desperation and hopelessness washed over him like it had when he was swimming for his life.

  “What about the police?”

 
“Do you know what happens, Cassie, if I go to the police? Bad shit. They arrest me. I’ve got no identification, and I’m in Italy illegally. The New York cops are dirty—not all of them, but the chief sure is. The average cop on the street is a freaking hero, but Bruner, the chief, is a drug dealing murderer. How long do you think I would last in a holding tank in Italy or New York? I’m guessing twelve hours.”

  “Then we have to run.”

  “Um. Yes. I think I said that yesterday?”

  “It doesn’t count until I agree. Now I agree.” She kissed his stomach and laid her head on his chest. “Mike, I have money.”

  “I don’t think your pub profits are going to be enough to get us very far.”

  “Funny. The pub is in the black, darling, profitable with a capital P. I’m talking about other money. Real money.”

  “And when were you thinking of actually telling me that?”

  Cassie pushed him over a little in his bed and squeezed herself up against his taut body. If only the world would just leave them alone. The pub and fishing would be enough—enough for a lifetime.

  “I’ve got two million pounds in a Belize bank, and I figured I would tell you when I get a ring on my finger.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Go ahead, let it out.”

  Mike stared at her. “Alright. Holy shit!”

  He lay there for a bit, trying to process that.

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m afraid to ask. Do you have an estranged royal husband or something?”

  “No, not that tabloidish. But I also have another 15 million pounds in a different bank.”

  He got up on an elbow. “Why? Why? Why are you running a pub in a Podunk town like Pellaro? Are you nuts? What does that say about me?”

  “Life isn’t just about money, Mikey.”

  He laid back down and felt the heat generated by their close contact. “You really are—let’s just say—unusual.”

  “No, I’m not. I wanted to live some of my life like a normal person, not just galavanting around Rodeo Drive and having vain conversations with over-perfumed brats.”

  “Oh. Is that how you feel?”

  “Yes. I pissed off my parents and came to Pellaro to live like everyone else for a bit.”