Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1)

by Sebastian Blunt

  Mike retrieved the serpent earring from his pocket and placed it in the middle of Claire’s back. He looked at his arm. The dead guy in the kitchen had managed to create a small puncture wound with a slice. It was going to require a couple of stitches. Kim wrapped it, and then Mike hugged her for a moment.

  “Grab everything with your name on it. We’ve got to run.”

  She got her bag and put on a hooded jacket. Mike pulled on a shirt, and they padded out of the house with everything they could carry. There was no way the cops wouldn’t find his DNA. It was just a matter of time. But, Claire German-Clemp was dead. That thought gave him some comfort—Claire German was dead.

  In the darkness, Mike took Kimberly by the hand, and they walked out of the quiet Long Island neighborhood to an ominous, uncertain future.

  Chapter 29

  Bruner stood kicking a clump of sod by Baseball Field Number 10 in Flushing Meadows. For some reason, Rosalita set up all of her exceedingly rare meetings with him in Queens. He waited patiently for the most powerful woman in New York. At 1 a.m., the place was deserted, except for a large man walking straight at him in the dark.

  The trees shielded the ballfield from prying eyes—either from the access road or Grand Central Parkway. Bruner felt a smidgen of fear while watching the man, who was undoubtedly an enforcer for his business partner. The guy zipped to his left and melted into the trees, exposing his boss. Rosalita walked delicately over the lumpy, moist grass. If it were a sunny Saturday, he’d have taken her for a mom coming to watch her kid play ball.

  “Buenos Noches,” Bruner said when she was ten feet away.

  “Speak English. This is America.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  She looked him up and down. “You don’t look very calm. What are you worried about?”

  “Hopefully, the same things that you are.”

  “Our two runaways haven’t been found yet. John, I would think that your contacts would have a lead by now.”

  “Casper vanished.”

  The drug queen closed her eyes as if she was deciding something.

  “You’re guys almost had him in Italy.”

  “What guys?”

  That right there was one of the things she most disliked about dealing with men. Her business was big enough to rattle chains that secured the gates of hell. Being underestimated was an advantage, but it also pissed her off.

  “Bullshit,” she said softly.

  John wasn’t a complete ass. He gave up his attempt to bypass Casper’s evasion in Europe. “I had guys looking for him. I’m sorry for trying to gloss over it.”

  “That may be the wisest thing you’ve done this week.” Rosalita sighed. “Until this is put to bed, we are still at risk. I’ve seen the pictures from Pellaro. I’d say that was our Mike. Do you know why he left?”

  “My investigators went up and down the coast. Eventually, they went to Naples, then north. Dead ends. We never got close to him as far as I know.”

  “Do you know about the murder in Pellaro. Two murders? Our friend is connected to them.” She waited.

  “I don’t know how we missed that, but it wasn’t my people.”

  “A woman was murdered, and the man that did it was eliminated in the same room at the same time. My guess is that Casper did it. The Italian cops are baffled, but they don’t know about Mike Casper. My people are saying that he was probably close to the victim, and he walked in on her being knifed. He broke the neck of the hitter—right after putting a broom handle in his abdomen.”

  “Can’t argue with his technique.” Bruner grinned.

  “I’m not feeling admiration. Perhaps, trepidation is a better word, and you should be thoroughly uptight by now. Mike is a pro. He has eluded us with ease to the point that we are in danger.”

  John thought about that. He had a sudden unexplained desire to smoke a cigarette—usually a sign that things hovering just under his conscious brain were trying to bite him. “Do you think he will come to New York?”

  “Think, man. Someone killed this woman in Italy. Her name was Cassie Clark. Mike might think that you or I sent the killer. If I was him, I’d be looking for revenge. And who the hell did kill her if it wasn’t you or me?”

  “But neither of us are involved in that.”

  “Yes, Chief, but Casper doesn’t know that. So he can either go straight to the Feds with pictures, or he can go on a suicide mission and try to get you. Either way, it’s bad for us.”

  Bruner mulled that over. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “At this point, luck may be the only thing that saves your behind. Add to that the fact that our friend knows he’ll only have a fifty-fifty chance of ever testifying.”

  “Maybe he’ll make a mistake and get spotted.”

  There was a moment of silence that was filled by the sound of crickets around the field. Rosalita rarely got into compromising positions. That lesson was learned decades in the past.

  “I’ll focus on Glenda. Take all your people off of her. If a break comes and Casper is sighted, let me know. Don’t try to do it yourself. Yes. And, try to figure out who else wants Mike dead. The guy certainly knows who to make enemies.”

  She turned around, walked over to the treeline, and was escorted away.

  *

  There was a rookie cop barfing outside the crime scene when the Suffolk County Homicide investigator ducked under the yellow tape that read “Police Line Do Not Cross.” He entered with the C.S.I. guys waving at him to avoid trampling the evidence.

  The scene was horrendous. By the laundry room, there was a large bear of a man lying flat in a pool of blood. Near him was a similarly-sized dead victim. Neither of the bodies had been examined other than confirming that they were dead.

  “I’m not touching anything important; don’t worry,” said Barkley. He continued to the kitchen. A thin, younger man was on the floor. This guy was face up, and he had a significant bloodstain on his shirt.

  “Sir,” said a patrol sergeant from the far end of the hallway past the kitchen. “You might want to put on gloves and take a look in this bedroom.”

  “Right.” Lieutenant Barkley pulled on a pair of latex gloves and cautiously pushed open the door. He turned back to the sergeant. “Did you confirm that she was dead?”

  “Those paramedics outside confirmed it.”

  “Any I.D.?”

  “We didn’t find anything, but no one moved the body.”

  The lieutenant entered the room carefully. There was a female splayed out on the bed. She was trim in a loose pair of blue khaki pants and a plain dark top. Her brown hair was shoulder-length. Around her neck was what appeared to be a long, blond wig.

  One of the C.S.I. guys came in and began photographing the scene. He pointed to the knife, which was vertically implanted into the wood floor. “On first look, I am completely confused by this whole scene.”

  Barkley frowned. “We’ve got those three out there speared to death with that broom handle and some other weapon—”

  “It was a steak knife that did the skinny one by the fridge.”

  “Okay. But this woman was strangled with a blond wig? Does that make sense?”

  “Maybe our killer had a thing for this one, lieutenant.”

  They both scanned the master bedroom. “What’s that?”

  On the floor was a small maroon drop. Barkley frowned again. “Can we flip her over?”

  “Sure. I’ve gotten everything that I need.”

  The two cops pulled gently on the woman’s arm and thigh, slowly rolling her face up. Both of them looked at her face. She had the look of a strangulated corpse. Still, her facial features were clear. Her head had a significant impact wound. Barkley looked around and saw the frying pan on the floor. It was unusual to see a cooking utensil as a possible murder weapon.

  The lieutenant stared hard at her face trying to figure out where he’d seen her. There was something familiar about her looks when he disregarded the lump above her ear.
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br />   “Holy shit!” yelled the other C.S.I. guy from the doorway. “That’s Claire Clemp!”

  All three of them gazed at the dead brunette while Barkley just kept repeating, “No F-ing way.” Things in Long Island had gone off the rails.

  His phone rang. “Barkley,” he answered.

  “Lieutenant. This is Sergeant Morris.”

  “I’m a little busy Morris. What is it?”

  “Sir. When you’re done there, come to Smithtown. I’ll message you the address. We’ve got another murder.”

  He hung up, shaking his head, and turned back to look at the body of the woman who’d been in the news—a lot. Her face was pale and devoid of life. The markings on the neck were distinct.

  Barkley looked further down. The only other skin exposed was frighteningly white like snow. Strangely, the fingers were extended and frozen like ice. Very odd. They should have been curled up or clenched. He looked back at her face, shook his head, and could only wonder what the hell drew a rich Manhattan widow to her death in Calverton.

  *

  “Where should we go?” Kim looked stressed but was holding her own.

  “Where are we?”

  “That’s not funny. Newburgh.”

  “All right. It’s five a.m. We need to get some sleep. Let's go check in to that little motel over there.”

  “How much did that taxi cost? I’m just curious?”

  Mike had his overstuffed backpack sitting on the wooden park bench. It had everything that he’d brought to Calverton. On the other hand, Kim’s suitcase was full, but some clothes were left behind.

  “Three-hundred bucks, plus another hundred because he deserved it.”

  She got up and began pulling her wheelie bag up the sidewalk towards the motel. Casper hefted his pack over his shoulder. “Kim. Let me do the talking, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  The room was better than expected. Casper told the clerk that they were expecting a relative to come by around midday to pick them up for a trip to Niagra Falls. “That’s great,” was all the girl managed to mumble mindlessly—which to Mike was perfect.

  The first thing was to close the plastic inner drape to conceal them from the outside world. He put two bottles of water in the fridge and some vending machine junk food on the table.

  Kim noticed that there was only one queen-sized bed, but she didn’t think about it.

  “You take the first shower. I’ll wait.”

  She had no strength to argue and headed for the bathroom with her clothes.

  The first thing he did was unwrap the sock that covered the knife wound on his arm. When he pealed it back, some of the clotted blood came with it. A little bleeding was the result, but not awful. A week earlier, he’d dug through his backpack and now remembered the tiny plastic fishhook kit still wedged in a pocket.

  Mike pulled it out. There were three hooks and some thin filament line. For once, he had gleeful feelings about his boyscout tendency to always “Be prepared.” Doing stitches on your own arm was in the realm of unusual, but going to a doctor would put them on the radar. The painful cut needed to be washed first, so he waited for Kim to finish.

  Casper flicked on the television. The cable news was more commercials than current events, but then it came up. Suffolk County Homicide seemed to be doing their best to hush the details, but the report didn’t hide the fact that four bodies were found in a house in Calverton. The lead investigator looked exhausted, and he waved off the reporter. It was a meaningless segment. Then came the story about Smith, the driver. More details were revealed there. It was a stabbing that appeared to be a robbery. The clip of his wife was heartbreaking as they walked her out of the house.

  “I’m sorry, Smith,” Mike said under his breath, gritting his teeth.

  Kim emerged from the bathroom. She looked great for almost six in the morning. The slice on his arm made her squint. “Where can we find a doctor?”

  “No doctor. Let me wash it, and then I’ll deal with it.”

  She looked askance at his brave expression.

  “Don’t worry. I got this,” he said, heading in to wash the wound by the sink.

  A minute later, his arm looked clean, but the laceration was bleeding. “Do you have any cosmetics?”

  “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman. What do you need?”

  “Maybe you have some alcohol?”

  She zipped open her travel bag and pulled out a small bottle. Mike took it and poured about a half-inch into a cup. He then dropped in the smallest fish hook with some nylon line.

  “You must be joking, Mike.” She was incredulous. “They only do that in the movies; who are you? Chuck Norris?.”

  “There’s no need for you to watch, Manshu.”

  She ignored him.

  He threaded the hook and tried to squeeze the skin together, but it was impossible. “Damn it! Alright, Kimberly. You’re gonna have to do this.”

  “How ‘bout we find a doctor?”

  “No. We need to make our trail disappear.”

  She cringed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Too late for that now. You’re an engineer. I’ll tell you what to do.” Kim nodded and focused on his instructions.

  “Take the hook. I’m going to squeeze the sides of the cut together so that they are kind of making a lip. It’s less than an inch, so two stitches will have to be enough.”

  “I’m sorry in advance,” she said while moving the hook close to his arm.

  “Now just poke it through both sides. Rotate the hook and pull the line. Leave that little loop at the end to slip the hook. Are you getting that?”

  “Got it. Here goes.” Kim pushed the point of the hook through. Casper groaned but didn’t cry out. After rotating the thing, she fed it through the loop and pulled it tight. “Did that hurt?”

  “Not at all,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just finish it.”

  The next two hurt, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Kimberly tied it off neatly and cut the remainder with a nail clipper.

  “Mike, I think I have a few bandaids in my bag.”

  “Pour some alcohol on it first.” So she did, and that really hurt.

  Kim crawled under the covers in her pink shorts and top, shifting over to the far side of the bed. The only light was coming from over the sink, but the wall blocked it, mostly. After his shower, Mike tip-toed out from the bathroom and turned off the light. It was nearly pitch dark as he bypassed the bed and went to lay down on the small sofa.

  Kim was depleted and couldn’t go beyond simple thoughts, but she could see the outline of his form just a few feet away. “Mike,” she said in a whisper. “Come into the bed with me.”

  At first, he didn’t answer. Could he have fallen asleep so quickly? Kim was unsure if she should urge him to join her, but then heard him moving on the small sofa.

  “I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” he said.

  In the dark, it was easier. “Mike. Please come sleep next to me.” He got up, eased around to the other side of the bed, and slipped under the covers.

  “Closer. Please?”

  Casper slid close to her. Her warm body made him feel safe somehow. Kimberly was thinking the same thing about him as he wrapped his arms around her, and they both fell into a deep sleep.

  *

  Detective Harley sat waiting patiently outside of Bruner’s office, periodically smiling at the Chief’s beyond-hot secretary. As time passed, she noticed and looked up to return the smile. The routine repeated three more times before she held up her left hand and pointing to the ring. “Stop flirting. I’m married.”

  He accepted getting shot down and picked up a magazine on the table beside him, but then Bruner’s door opened, and a couple of Asian men in suits exited. The chief looked over to Harley. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Detective Harley.”

  “Hold my calls, Kristin. Come in, detective.”

  Harley sat down in front of the chief’s desk. After a fe
w seconds of skewering the detective with a wicked stare, Bruner did an outstanding job of barking at the volume of a whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’ve got something that you need to see.”

  “What?” asked the chief vitriolically.

  “You know the Clemp murder?”

  John wasn’t in the mood for a quiz. “Claire German? Seriously, Don’t you think the press is hounding me day and night about that?”

  Harley stood up and reached into his pocket. John flinched for a second—his nerves were that rattled.

  “Look at this, sir.” The detective laid a photo on the desk.

  The chief cop in New York leaned forward. He then picked it up and studied it.

  “No way.”

  His corrupt underling smiled. “I wasn’t completely sure, but I guess I got it right.”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “A camera at a neighbor’s house out in Calverton. Suffolk called me to ask me about the widow. One thing led to another. I ended up seeing this.”

  Bruner was lost in thought. He finally had something that he could take to Rosalita that would not paint him as incompetent. “Did Suffolk I.D. him yet?”

  “Nope. They are clueless because the angle is bad, and the lighting is pathetic. But that profile made me think. Part two—who’s the woman?”

  John looked more closely. There was a hooded figure that had to be a female. The angle was poor, and the hoodie obscured everything. “Did you try to increase the clarity?”

  “Yes.” Harley handed him a lighter, more defined pic that focused on the other figure.

  “They’re holding hands. Is this other person black? That hand looks like it belongs to an African American.”

  The detective exhaled loudly. “That’s what I thought. And above-average height for a woman.”

  “What the hell was Casper doing at the scene of a murder? Claire Clemp’s murder?”

  “Sir. Without being too ambitious, maybe Casper is the killer?”