DEAD SET: Detective Jack Creed Mysteries - The Complete Short Stories Collection: 7 Book Box Set (Detective Jack Creed Murder Mystery Books Series 9)

by C T Mitchell

  “That is the truth,” Cassandra said. “Let's just say we have an interesting relationship. James loves to mix business and pleasure. Some days Simone was business, some days Simone was pleasure.”

  “And you just sat back and watched that happen?”

  She shrugged again. That seemed to be her answer for everything. “James has secrets. Secrets he doesn't want anyone to know. Secrets I don't want anyone to know. It's best to stay quiet. Quiet keeps you alive.”

  “I'm going to get the answers out of you one way or the other,” Jo said. “It's up to you whether you make this easy on yourself or hard. Right now, you're picking hard. If I were you, I'd go easy.”

  “Are you married?” The question came out of nowhere. It was strange that ‘She of Few Words’ was suddenly taking an interest in Jo's personal life. “No, I can tell you're not." Cassandra examined her fingernails. “If you are married to someone, even someone nice, you would know there's no easy way. That's how it was with James. I never had a choice. It was always his way, also known as the hard way.”

  Jo leaned far across the table, hoping proximity would make Cassandra trust her and see her as an ally instead of just some lady asking too many questions about her dead ex-husband. “I can help you. You don't have to be afraid of him anymore. He's gone, Cassandra. He can't hurt you anymore. You can trust me. What secrets are you still keeping for him?”

  “Too many.” Cassandra looked up with a pained smile. “I'm afraid that if I start talking, I'll never stop.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Remind me again why we're in this dodgy place?” Jo stepped over a broken beer bottle as they weaved their way through the muddy path and trash of Cabarita Beach’s slummy side. It felt strange knowing a place as beautiful as Cabarita Beach had a darker side, but there was always darkness and light. You couldn't have one without the other.

  “We're here to see a guy I know.” Jack pushed a bunch of crumbled up newspapers and empty chip bags out of the way with the toe of his shoe. He didn't like the thought of getting his Italian loafers muddy, but sometimes it was the price that needed to be paid when you were on a case. He could get down and dirty with the best of them, even at the cost of his Versace shoes.

  “Who can you possibly know in this slum?” Jo crinkled her nose in disgust. “It smells like urine and stale booze. Next time you want to meet your contact, tell him to come up to the pub.”

  Jack checked his mobile phone to see if he had any messages. Sometimes his contact Gerald liked to use technology, but other times it had to be the old-fashioned way – either talk to him in person or not at all. "Gerald knows a thing or two about jewelry. I want to see if he can ID any of the rings we found on Jameson.”

  “Let's hope it works.” Jo gave a thumbs up sign. Jack couldn't decide if it was because she was happy she didn't step in the big pile of dog feces, or if she liked the idea of finally getting a lead.

  “Oh, it will.” Jack stuck his phone back in his pocket. There was no use waving it around in a den of homeless thieves and petty criminals. “Trust me. With Gerald on the job, things just got a little easier for us.”

  They weaved their way through the back alleys, over broken paths and puddles of water. At least Jo hoped it was water. Jack always wondered why a guy as smart as Gerald stayed in place like this. With Gerald’s abilities as a top notch thief, he could live anywhere he wanted just by stealing a priceless artifact. Instead, he chose to live in a dark and dingy hovel. Though, when it came down to it, maybe living in this den of iniquity was actually the smartest thing he'd ever done. By living away from the mainstream hub of Cabarita, Gerald could be anywhere, steal anything, and still disappear as soon as the crime was committed.

  "Remind me again why we don't just arrest this guy?" Jo stepped in an oily puddle. Her face immediately dissolved into the sort of expression that made it seem as if someone had run over her dog. She lifted her foot gingerly and took off her soiled sock and shoe. "You owe me big time for this, Creed.”

  Jack laughed. “Better hope you’re up-to-date on your tetanus shot."

  As they approached Gerald’s place at the end of the lane, a man came out to greet them. Despite his surroundings, he was impeccably dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, expensive slacks, and shiny leather shoes.

  "Now I know where you send your clothes to die," Jo teased. "Why didn't you tell me you’re so charitable?"

  "Maybe he gets his suits from me. Did you ever think of that?" the man said. The light flashed off of Gerald's gold front tooth when he smiled. Gerald was as tall as Jack, but instead of a shock of silver hair, Gerald was completely bald. All the better to become anyone, any time. Gerald was one wig away from blending into a crowd and disappearing in a matter of seconds.

  "We have an interesting case for you today.” Jack held out the pictures of the ten rings they found on James Jameson. Gerald leafed through the pictures without saying a word. "What do you think?” Jack asked. “Have you seen these around anywhere? Do you know what they're worth?"

  "Most are just cheap knockoffs." Gerald handed the pictures back. "I know a guy who can make anything out of less than desirable materials that look so real you would never be able to tell the difference even if you saw the copy next to the real deal. Jewelry forgery is an art form. It's even trickier than counterfeit money. It takes real skill and artistry to do what my guy does. Where did you find the rings?”

  "On a dead man, mate. Some accountant named Jameson. We dug a little into his background but couldn't turn up much to help with the case. The only thing that really stood out about him was that all his fingers and toes were broken before he died.”

  Gerald laughed. "What kind of a sadist gets all his fingers and toes broken and doesn't say boo?” If it were me, I’d be screaming and crying like a baby.”

  "We think he could be a dump job," Jack said.

  "So why are you showing me the rings?"

  "Jack here seems to think you're an expert on the finer things in life." Jo shifted from foot to foot. Her muddy Nike joggers dangled from her fingertips. Somehow being barefoot was better than being dirty. Go figure, but Jack was no expert on figuring out a woman’s mind. Best to say nothing. Sort of the married man’s credo. "Have you seen these anywhere before or know where we might be able to find where they came from? Dr. Russell says to follow the jewelry and we’ll find the killer, so that's what we're trying to do."

  Gerald was silent for a little longer than necessary before he shrugged. "If you ask me, you need to find whoever owned that last on the right. The fancy alexandrite on number 10. Alexandrite is extremely rare. Some are even more expensive than diamonds. Find the owner of that ring and you'll get that break you're looking for."

  “Thanks, Gerald. Much appreciated.” Jack reached his hand out to shake. Gerald grinned before vigorously pumping Jack's hand. "If you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

  "Why do you stay here?" Jo asked. "From what Jack says, you could live anywhere, but you're in this, um, place. Why?”

  Gerald opened the door to his abode. "Clearly you've never been inside my ‘mansion.’" Inside looked like a small interior designed studio apartment. The room (and that’s all it was, just a room) sported a memory foam mattress, a tiny cook stove, a lantern hanging from the roof like a chandelier, and even a small table and chairs. It was small, cozy, and best of all, it was free. "Home sweet home.” Gerald winked at Jo. "You know the ladies never complain when I entertain here. If the building is rocking, don't come a-knocking.” Gerald laughed.

  Jo grimaced. “Thanks but no thanks."

  “To each his own, I suppose.”

  There was no way a woman, or what Jo considered to be a woman, would ever enter here. But it takes all types to make the world go ‘round.

  As they picked their way back through the muddy trail weaving its way through the alleyways and burning barrels, Jo and Jack reviewed what they knew so far. "So someone kills Jameson off-site and dumps his body behind the Beach
Resort. He has 10 broken fingers, 10 broken toes—"

  "But broken before he died,” Jack reminded her. “That's one of the big mysteries here. Why so many rings? Why break all 10 fingers and toes while the guy is alive? Who did it?”

  Jo waved her hand as she talked. It was as if waving her hand in a circle would somehow make the words come out. “Now I don't necessarily like your methods or your man Gerald, but he does have a point. Find the alexandrite ring owner, find the killer."

  “Find the killer,” Jack repeated. He wished it was as simple as finding the owner of the ring, but 30 years on the force told him it wasn't as cut and dry as all that. Jameson had secrets. Finding out the secrets would lead them to the killer.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jack wasn't one to take his work home with him, but this case was eating away at him. He had never seen anything like it. He had seen plenty of dump jobs from plenty of criminals, but this one stood out. His mind kept coming back to the rings. If they were as valuable as Gerald said, why did the killer leave the alexandrite ring alone? It would have fetched a pretty penny on the black market. Instead, the killer undressed Jameson, drove him away from the scene of the crime, and threw him out like the trash they obviously thought he was. You don't put a man in an industrial waste bin if you have a lot of respect for him.

  Jack sat down in his favorite overstuffed leather chair and kicked his feet up onto the matching leather ottoman. He had already hung up his suit coat on the peg next to the door. Now he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, made sure his whiskey glass was in range, and started to read.

  Deceased male. Fifty years old. James Jameson. Accountant. Self-employed with one son, one ex-wife, two known residences.

  Jack stared at that last bit. Why hadn't he seen it before? Two known residences. He knew forensics had been through the apartment at the Beach Resort. He had seen pictures. It looked almost like a hospital. It was so neat you could run a white glove down the counter and not pick up any dirt. Everything was stereo white, leather and impeccably clean. There was nothing personal about the Beach Resort apartment. There were no pictures hanging on the walls or set on the tables, family or otherwise. There were no knickknacks, drawings from Carol's childhood, or special family heirlooms. There was nothing at all that pointed to the fact Jameson actually lived in the Beach Resort penthouse, which meant his real residence was the one listed 30 kilometers away in Queensland. Jack bet even money that's where the crime occurred. He picked up his mobile phone and punched in the number for the station.

  "Monroe, this is Jack. We've overlooked something. Jameson's Beach Resort penthouse is not the same as the scene of the crime. It's a business residence, not his main home. He had another place 30 kilometers up the coast at Tugun. That's where you need to send your team. Call me as soon as you have the report finalized. No, call me before you have the report finalized. This could be the break we've been looking for.”

  Almost immediately after Jack hung up the phone, it rang again.

  "Jack, it's Jo. We got a match on the fancy alexandrite ring. We got a match on all the rings, actually.”

  Jack sat up straight in his chair and clutched the phone to his ear. “You found a match? Where?”

  “It was something forensics found when they went through his apartment. It didn't make any sense until now. Jameson kept a photo album. Each page had a picture of a different girl.”

  “So?” Jack ran a hand through his silver hair. “We've already established he liked to keep trophies. Pictures of his conquests aren't out of the ordinary.”

  “Each of the girls was wearing a different ring.” Jo's voice was high-pitched in excitement. “The same rings that we found on Jameson's body. Find the ring, find the killer, remember? Well, we've found them. Monroe tracked down their names and numbers. He's setting up interview times. Are you up for some good cop, bad cop?”

  “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

  *****

  Tuesday was a revolving door of interviews with the former owners of Jameson's rings. One came in, gave a statement, left, the next came in, gave a statement, and left. They all told similar stories and denied knowing each other. Despite a promising start to the day, they were no closer to solving the murder than when they found Jameson in the dumpster.

  "I can't believe this," Jo complained. She looked down at a transcript of the interviews in front of her. “Ten potential suspects and not one of them seem to be the killer. Now I know you don't just walk into the police station and confess to a crime, but I'm pretty good at reading people and these girls gave no sign they were hiding anything. It's like we keep running up against a brick wall."

  Jack sipped his black coffee. Every one of them, to the last letter, told the exact same story. They met Jameson and he gave them a ring as a token of his affection, as long as they wore the ring when they were together. Once they took the ring off, the relationship was over. Every one of them gave the ring back. Why?

  “There has got to be something we're missing,” Jack said. “It's got to be staring us right in the face."

  Jack spent the rest of the day reading through Monroe's forensic report from Jameson's second residence and the ten interviews with his former flames. Jack combed every inch of every interview looking for hidden secrets.

  He kept going back to one interview in particular: Lydia Lindstrom. Lydia was Jameson's first wife. They married right out of high school and went to the same college before Lydia dropped out without finishing her degree. There was nothing particularly unusual about that.

  The red flag was that Lydia owned the alexandrite ring. When he asked how it got on a dead man's finger, all she would say was, “You need to ask his secretary.”

  The problem was this secretary was the one person they were having trouble tracking down. It was like she vanished. They already spent countless man-hours and resources to find someone who didn't want to be found. It was clear to Jack the more she hid, the more he wanted to talk to her. Jack grabbed a yellow highlighter and marked every mention of Jameson's mysterious secretary. Every time he or Jo slid a picture of the ring in question across the table, and asked the previous owner how it got on the dead man's finger, each and every one of them answered the exact same way: “You need to ask his secretary." They couldn't look more suspicious if they planned it. Was Jameson having an affair with this mysterious secretary? Jack knew someone who might know. Carl.

  *****

  Carl sat across from the detective and drummed his fingers on the table. What was he doing here? They already got the information they needed. He pointed them in the direction of his dad's secretary. What more did they want from him?

  "So do you just plan to sit there drumming your fingers on my desk all day or are you actually going to talk?"

  Carl scowled. "What is there to talk about? I already told you everything I know. I don't like being interrupted when I'm in the middle of something.”

  “In the middle of something or someone?" Jack asked. “Your girlfriend won't miss you for long. Besides, sonny, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and you are fast becoming my number one suspect. So start talking or those little darlings of yours could be missing you for a very long time.”

  "My parents sent me to boarding school. I never saw my dad much. I've already told you he was my personal ATM. If I needed money, he gave it to me. There's nothing else to say. Mum was the one that was around him all the time. She got all the cars and gifts.”

  "Like this ring here?" Jack slid a picture of ring number five, a pretty little gold number with an opal set in the middle, across the table toward Carl. “Did you ever see this on your mother's finger?"

  “Yeah, she wore it every day. He gave it to her even before they were married. It was a promise ring. As long as she wore it, they were together. As soon as she took it off, it meant they were through.” Carl slid the picture across the desk like he was playing a game of air hockey. “What does this have to do with me? If you want to know about the ring,
you should be talking to my mum."

  “We want your take on the situation.” Jack sipped at his black coffee. “Did you notice anything a little off about your mum, especially toward the end?”

  “If you mean the photo album, mum always knew about that." Carl ran a hand through his intentionally messy hair. “Most guys save athletic trophies, but not Dad. Mum was the ultimate trophy. The ladies in the pictures were past trophies. Dad was a collector. He collected girls. That's all I know."

  “What do you know about this secretary of his?” Jack asked. “Got an address for me?”

  “Why would I know Simone's address? My dad was the one having an affair with her.”

  “Oh, I don't know.” Jack tried to play casual. “You're young, she's young, the math adds up.”

  Carl shook his head. “Not how I do math problems. Once Dad got with someone, they were off-limits. I'm not into the double dipping. Sorry.”

  “Tell me more about Simone.”

  “There's not much to tell.” Carl shrugged. “She started working for him last year. Around the same time, Dad started getting calls from that mental ex-girlfriend Lydia of his from way back in the day. Lydia called, like, nonstop. Every time I answered, she hung up, but we could trace the call. We knew it was her. Simone showed up around the same time. Dad wasn't even hiring, but she must’ve had great credentials, if you know what I mean." Carl motioned at his chest to say what Simone's great credentials were and it wasn't her typing skills. “Things were on the rocks with Mum, so Dad decided to enjoy a bit on the side plus get some work done. Can I go now?”

  “Not until you give me Simone's address.” Jack slid a yellow notepad in his direction. “Just give me something to go on, Carl, and you can leave.”

  “If I'm not a suspect, I should leave already.”

  “Everyone's a suspect. You're no different than any of the women we're following.” Jack stopped and thought about what he’d just said. Of course Carl was different from all the other women because he wasn't a woman. They had ten women, one dead man, one son, and no daughters. What does that say?