Murder Is The Deal Of The Day
Robert J. Randisi
Christine Matthews
Contents
Books by Robert J. Randisi
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
A Look At: The Masks Of Auntie Laveau (Gil & Claire 2)
About The Authors
Books by Robert J. Randisi
Miles Jacoby Novels
Eye in the Ring
Beaten to a Pulp
Full Contact
Murder Is The Deal Of The Day is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018,1998 Robert J. Randisi and Christine Matthews
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Wolfpack Publishing, Las Vegas.
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
wolfpackpublishing.com
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64119-414-3
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64119-415-0
With love to Jan and John & Barbara: the reasons
we came here, the reasons we stay.
And for Marcus from his mother:
Thank you for inspiring me with your
exceptional talent and wisdom.
Murder Is The Deal Of The Day
Prologue
“. . . and this is our special deal of the day . . .” the woman on the TV screen said.
The man watching the television turned to the dead woman and asked, “What do you think of this broad?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned away and continued watching. Using the VCR remote control, the killer froze Claire Hunt on the screen. He stared at her for a few moments, admiring her good looks, then rewound the tape. Yeah, she was a babe all right, but that didn’t mean she was special; she could get hurt, just the same as everyone else. When it got to the beginning, he pressed the stop button but left the VCR and television set on. The red power light glowed. Even a cop would notice that.
He stood up from where he’d been sitting next to the dead woman on the sofa and put the remote control in her hand. Her eyes were open—he had seen to that—staring at the television in blind wonder.
“Sorry, honey, nothing personal, but you just happened to get caught in the middle of something.”
Chapter 1
Claire Hunt unhooked the miniature microphone from her blouse and dropped it on the counter.
“Claire,” Harve Wilson, her director, said, rushing up to her, “I’m sorry the damn thing went out at such a bad time—”
“A bad time, Harve?” Claire asked. “How about the worst time?”
“I know, I know . . .”
“When do we get a new mike?”
Wilson shrugged. “I’ve talked to Mr. Thurman about it, Claire—”
“Well, talk to him again,” Claire said, cutting the man off. Harve Wilson was in his late forties and squat, what a generous person would call “homely.” But he was a decent man, which is why Claire instantly felt sorry for snapping at him.
“Look, Harve,” she said, putting her hand on the man’s shoulder, “I know you’re doing your best. Talk to Ben, tell him how important it is that we have a new mike for tomorrow’s show.”
“Okay, Claire—”
“Or I’m not going on.”
“What? Wait—” Wilson shouted as Claire walked away.
Without slowing down, she spoke over her shoulder, “I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”
“Claire . . . Claire! . . . I’ll work on it, Claire . . .”
Claire waved without turning around and walked out of the studio.
TBN was a small cable station based in St. Louis. Founded six years ago, it was now five times larger than it had been during its first year, which still made it one of the smaller cable stations in the country. Benjamin Thurman, the owner of the station, was a contradiction. A rich man who pulled out all the stops when it came to getting his television station up and running, but once it was operating, he tried not to spend any more money than was necessary. That was why Claire Hunt had to worry about things like microphones malfunctioning.
Two years ago, however, she’d had greater worries than a simple piece of equipment. She’d had to worry about surviving in an industry populated with hard young bodies. She’d had so many jobs in small-market TV stations that, without even realizing it, age and experience left her an on-air “personality.” As she approached forty-two, it seemed no one wanted the “mature” woman she had become. She did get one offer to host a game show, but she was saved from accepting it when Ben Thurman approached her.
As she left the Grand Boulevard address where TBN had their studios, she checked her watch. The promotional tapings had gone longer than she’d anticipated, which meant that a few minutes were going to have to be edited out. Good, they could cut the part where she couldn’t get the microwave door open.
The longer taping also meant she was late. She was supposed to have met Gil for lunch ten minutes earlier. She got into her car, a four-year-old blue Toyota Tercel. Claire would never have been described as sentimental, especially by those who knew her best, but she loved that car. It was like an old friend who had seen her through many miles. Like her career, which had been up and down, down, down, up and down, down, and finally, at least for a while, up.
As she pulled out of her parking spot, she looked forward to seeing her husband, Gil.
Detective Jason Holliday frowned at the VCR. The red light was lit, the power still on.
“Has this been dusted?” he asked, pointing to it.
“Not yet,” one of the techs said.
Holliday yanked a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, the kind so thin that you could pick up a needle, and pulled them on with an audible snap. He took a pair of half glasses from his pocket, one of his few concessions to being fifty. He used them only at crime scenes or when he was typing a report.
He found the play button and pressed it, then stepped back to watch.
“What’s this?” his partner asked.
He turned and looked at Detec
tive Myra Longfellow. She was thirty-eight, had been a detective in St. Louis for only three years. All in all, she had thirteen years on the job. She and Holliday had been partners since she first received her gold shield, and he had taught her as much as he could. He wasn’t happy back when they saddled him with the “rookie,” but at the moment he was satisfied with their partnership. Hell, since his wife had moved in with her boy toy, Myra was the only woman whose company he even enjoyed.
Longfellow kept her iron gray hair layered and short, favored pantsuits. She detested heels because they weren’t practical in her line of work, but her love for shoes was satisfied by filling her closets with flats in every color, made of every fabric available.
“I know her,” she said when the tape came on.
“Yeah? Who is she?”
“Her name is Claire Hunt,” Longfellow said. “She’s a host on the Home Mall. ”
“The what?” The only cable TV Holliday watched was ESPN.
“Home Mall—it’s a shopping program,” Longfellow said. “She must have been watching this when she was killed.”
They both looked at the woman still propped up on the sofa. They had to wait for the medical examiner before they could move her.
“We don’t know that she was killed,” Holliday said.
Longfellow picked up the sofa cushion next to the corpse. “I’ll bet this is the murder weapon.”
“She was watching TV and just let somebody smother her with a pillow?”
“Ten bucks,” Longfellow said.
“No bet.” Holliday scowled. His partner’s instincts were too good to bet against.
“So you think this is the same as the other one?” Holliday asked.
“I do. Not a mark on her.”
Holliday frowned. “The other one was found propped up in bed, right?”
“Right.”
“Smothered to death.”
“Bed pillows make even better murder weapons.”
Holliday stroked his jaw.
“If I remember correctly, there was a TV in the room.”
“I think there was.”
“And a VCR?”
Longfellow looked at her partner and said, “I guess we’d
better check.”
Holliday nodded. “And have the evidence boys bag the tape from this machine, just in case.”
“You want to talk to Claire Hunt?” Longfellow asked.
Holliday shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s wait and see what we get from the other apartment.”
Longfellow nodded, started away to continue her examination of the apartment, then turned back.
“You know, one more and we got a serial.”
Holliday made a face and waved the suggestion away. “Don’t remind me.”
Chapter 2
Gil checked his appearance in the bedroom mirror and, satisfied, walked into the living room. The apartment he shared with Claire was in a high-rise building on Brentwood Avenue in Clayton. He and Claire had moved there after they were first married. With the combined incomes from his store and her job as a hostess on the St. Louis-based Home Mall program, they were able to afford the rent. Prior to that, he’d lived in a more modest section of town in a small apartment he’d used primarily for sleeping. He’d moved there following his separation—and, ultimately, divorce— from his first wife, because it had been close enough for him to spend time with his two sons. Since that time, however, his wife had taken the boys and moved to New York. Now he got to see them only two or three times a year. It was actually a small price to pay not to have his ex living in the same town.
Gil had stopped home, leaving his bookstore in the hands of his sometime employee, Al Marcus. The Old Delmar Bookstore was housed in a trendy section of St. Louis named University City. The stretch of about six blocks along Delmar was known as the Loop. It boasted indoor and outdoor restaurants, antique shops, bookstores—two others besides his own—and small specialty shops catering to the college crowd.
Allyn Marcus was a good customer who always spent time in the store talking books with Gil, whether he bought something or not. Gil had taken to using him in the store whenever he wanted to get away—like today—to have lunch with his wife. Always wanting to look good for Claire, he had stopped home to freshen up.
Gil changed into his new leather jacket and left the apartment, heading for the Central West End, where they were meeting for lunch.
The moment Claire Hunt appeared, Gil’s heart leapt a little. He’d never known a woman who had caused such a reaction in him. How lucky he felt that the excitement was still there after four years.
Gil Hunt was thirty-nine, three years younger than his wife, Claire, but his hair and beard were peppered with gray and this, coupled with her youthful looks, convinced people he was actually the older of the two.
Claire had an apologetic look on her face, which Gil found adorable.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Gil.” She sat down opposite him and explained.
“Why don’t you just go to Thurman?”
“I did. Well, I told Harve to tell Ben about the mike. I’m afraid I came off like a prima donna.”
“You’re entitled.”
“Did you order?”
“I never order until you get here.”
“You’re sweet.” She pushed away the menu that was in front of her. “I’m going to have the chili and a burger.”
“I can hear your arteries hardening as we speak,” he joked.
Culpeppers, in the West End, was one of Gil and Claire’s favorite spots, and they had a lot of them. St. Louis’s West End was the city’s version of New York’s Greenwich Village. Three distinct sections and commercial areas were separated by blocks of private homes; the Pulitzers even had a small estate there. The intersections of the commercial areas were cobblestoned. Shade trees and huge ornate streetlamps looking more like chandeliers stuck on top of green poles lined the streets. Each area had its own restaurants and shops. In the spring and fall, the Hunts enjoyed sitting for hours, eating dinner, or just having coffee, while they people-watched.
Claire smiled across the table and Gil found, as he always did, inordinate pleasure in just looking at her. Her blond hair was shiny, and so clean that he could smell it. She had a straight nose that he found most attractive, and a wide mouth. She was intelligent, independent, loving, and easy to get along with—most of the time.
The waitress came over. Claire ordered her chili and burger.
“You want fries with that?”
“Sure.”
“And you?”
“I’ll have the Caesar salad,” Gil said.
“Is that all?” She was young and attractive, and she smiled warmly at him. This was something Claire had trouble getting used to. Gil always seemed to be able to form a special bond with waitresses. He said it was because he treated them well; he even admitted to flirting with them.
He smiled and said, “I’ll steal some of her fries.”
When the waitress left, Claire asked, “Did she wink at you?”
Gil laughed, not quite sure if his wife was jealous or just pretending to be. She couldn’t believe he was so naive. His warm smile and gentleness weren’t his only outstanding qualities. Those eyes of his, those big brown eyes, always made women want to approach him. How could he not know that by now? she wondered.
“So what do you want to do today?”
“I have to go back to the store,” he said. “I’ve got a shipment coming in.”
“When?”
“At four.”
“And after that?”
“After that . . . nothing.”
“Then I’ll come by about four-thirty.”
“Better make it six.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s when I close, Claire. You know that.”
“Close early today.”
“What do you have in mind?”
She winked. “I’ll think of something.” But she didn’t have time to.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know why you wear that beeper.”
She looked down at the gadget hooked on her belt and noticed the station’s number flashing. “For the same reason everyone else wears one, love, so I can be annoyed at lunch. Excuse me.”
She got up and walked to the pay phone by the door; she may have given in to Harve’s request that she wear the infernal thing, but she would never be one of those people who carried a phone with her. She dialed the studio and asked for Harve Wilson, knowing he was the only one who would beep her.
“Claire?”
“What’s so important, Harve, that it can’t wait an hour?”
“Claire, the police are looking for you.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. Cops.”
“But why?”
“Mr. Thurman didn’t say.”
“What did he say, Harve?”
“He wants you to go to the Major Case Squad Office and talk to Detective Jason Holliday.”
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