Strange Brew
by
Constance Barker
Copyright © 2021 Constance Barker
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Thanks for Reading
Catalog of Books
Chapter 1
“You know this place is haunted, right?” FBI Agent Drusilla Herald walked around the empty house. She grabbed a monocle from her jacket pocket and snugged her left eye around it.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. This used to be my great-grandmother’s house. Considering I still saw her in the mirrors, I guess it was still hers. I only lived here via a trust set up before I was born. Several cousins and a brother had tried to live here under the terms of the trust, which were simply, you had to live in the falling-down pile of ancient farmhouse. They couldn’t hang.
The cat who lived here wandered in to see what the fuss was about.
“Oh, hi there!” Echo Hutchinson crouched down, and the cat wandered to her. She lifted the nameplate on the collar. “Ugly? Who names a cat Ugly?”
Ugly made a strangled noise. Lately, I’d tried to bond with the cat. In my mind, I heard the cat’s meaning: People suck. I couldn’t argue.
Drusilla and Echo worked for the Paranormal Threat Assessment task force. They were in Delta Vista because of the latest in what was apparently an endless series of paranormal crimes in the area. Some years before, when the police force and city nearly went broke, the federal government stepped in. A lot of DV Metro funding came from the federal level. It was all for the study of the supernatural. While the PTA was pretty up front about their activities and motives, there were agencies from a shadowy part of the government working in secret.
I’m Mary, a Delta Vista Metro Police Department inspector. I used to think of myself as a psychic. Since moving back to my home town, I’ve learned that I’m a witch.
“Is she your familiar?” Echo stroked Ugly under her chin.
“We’re working on it,” I said.
Drusilla pocketed the monocle. “Why don’t you have any furniture?”
There was a card table and two folding chairs in the living room. Upstairs, in my bedroom, was a built-in dresser and vanity mirror. That was all the furniture I had. “Because of my paranormal loan shark,” I said.
The fed’s face went serious. “The Angle Man. Has he visited?”
“Not since I got here.” But it had only been a few months.
“In a couple days, there’s going to be a major conjunction,” Echo said. “Jupiter and Mars, and a blue moon, all on the same night.”
“He’s coming back for his next payment,” I said. “So what do we do about it?”
Echo sighed. “I’ve checked the database. There isn’t an incident with a similar entity to your Angle Man. Encounters with Shadow People are similar, but no one has talked to a Shadow Person, so far as the PTA database is concerned.”
“I don’t really think of Angle Man as a shadow,” I said, “He just sort of behaves like one. He’s flat, he angles on the walls and ceiling, but there’s nothing shadowy about him. He’s solid black, except his green eyes.”
Echo was just a kid, still in college, interning for a few semesters at the Pentagon. Still, she knew a lot. She was a witch, of course, so that gave her some insight. “All Angle Man does is threaten you, right?”
“It’s not me he’s threatening. It’s her.” I took the bubble out of my pocket. Bubble is the only way to describe it. It’s not cold and hard like glass, but very smooth and clear, with a little give to the surface. I handed it to Echo. She looked deeply within.
“This is your niece?”
I nodded. “Memorie. It’s her soul I’m trying to buy out. It should’ve been my ex’s soul the Angle Man wants. Maybe his soul isn’t worth whatever gambling debt he ran up.”
The monocle was back in Agent Herald’s left eye. Echo handed the bubble over to her. “I can’t see anything clearly.”
“What?” I saw Memorie doing a twirly dance, heard her singing with her ukulele, crying about her bangs. Why didn’t they see her?
“It’s a mirror.” Drusilla turned it slowly. “It’s not projecting, but reflecting. It’s definitely magic, but static. I think it’s a psychological ploy, to keep you emotional, unable to act. It’s reflecting your darkest fears.”
Yes, it was. Memorie was my ex’s niece. Patrick Michael Murphy and I raised the girl for nearly two years. Her mother was in jail at the time. When her mother got out, she took Memorie away. Not long after, Murph and I broke up. As a professional gambler, Murph had apparently worked up a very large debt. To pay it off, he sold a soul—but not his own soul.
“I talked to the Supervising Special Agent-in-Charge of the task force. The Soul Brokers has come up before. Selling souls is not illegal, exactly. But anyone who’s talked to the FBI about them is dead. Most of the informants committed suicide after talking. All of them were suspicious deaths.” Drusilla frowned. “Still, the only people willing to work with the Soul Brokers are very desperate. The Lithuania Mob, all under indictment, are desperate people. Even with their illegal operations shut down, their assets and accounts frozen, they’re still amassing funds for their defense.”
Drusilla Herald had been working undercover in Florida. Her cousin, a State Prosecutor, put together a RICO case to bring down the Lithuanians. Unfortunately, the key witness turning state’s evidence was a witch. She had the prosecutor under her spell. Drusilla had helped break that spell, and the case moved forward.
I had been living in Jacksonville at the time, unaware of any of this. Mostly, I was unaware that Murph was in debt to the Lithuanian Mob. I guess he tried to sell his soul to get out from under. When his soul proved unworthy to the Soul Brokers, they reached out to me. And if I didn’t pay the ridiculous amount of money they wanted, they would reach out to Memorie. The thought chilled me, and made me nauseous.
The FBI agent handed the bubble back. “I wish Paisley were here. She knows about magic objects. If we knew more about this bubble, we might gain some insight into the Soul Brokers’ MO.”
Paisley Cartwright had helped out on a recent case. Like Echo, she consulted for the Paranormal Threat Assessment task force. But she has an insurance company to run in Massachusetts.
“I’ve dealt with a shadow entity before,” Echo said. “They aren’t something that acts independently. Someone is pulling the strings on your Angle Man. When we find out who that is, we’ll find the Soul Brokers.”
“How do we do that?” I asked.
; “Two ways, neither one comes with a guarantee. First, we’re monitoring your bank accounts with specialized Anti-Money Laundering and Counter-Terror Financing software. We don’t usually work this way in the Bureau. You’ll still be paying out, which is a problem for you. But it’s the only way to find out where the money is going,” Drusilla said.
Considering the first extortion payment cost me my house in Florida as well as all my savings, I’d been spending next to nothing. My bank accounts were full, as I already intended on paying the latest installment. I had to. My niece’s soul hung in the balance. “Okay, I’m down with that.”
“Beyond the AML and CFT tracking, Echo and I thought we’d try to get a handle on the Angle Man himself. Itself. Whatever. I’ve contacted a local paranormal investigator. Her team will do a real time investigation during the conjunction and blue moon.”
“Paranormal investigation?” I said. “Like on TV?”
Echo nodded. “Cameras with an array of spectrums, EVPs, specialized tools, the whole enchilada.”
“In this house? It’s already haunted.”
Drusilla shrugged. “They may want to try and capture that, as well.”
“So we get the Angle Man on camera. Then what?” I asked.
“Hopefully, we get more than that,” Drusilla said. “We might be able to figure out what he’s made of, where he comes from. Then we can determine whether he actually has some hold over your niece, Memorie.”
“You think this is a big scam?” I felt myself flush.
“There’s a psychological component to it, which makes me think that these guys don’t have the power they say they do,” Drusilla said. “We’ll see how the money goes out of your account, what the Angle Man looks like under close scrutiny, and then figure out how to bust them all.”
“Yeah, yeah, but don’t let on you might think they’re just scamming you,” Echo said. “It might force their hand, make them prove to you what they can do. Keep dealing with the Angle Man the way you have been.”
Mostly, I’d been frozen in fear. When the Angle Man came, spreading his shadow form on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, hovering over me, glowing green eyes focused, it was easy to be afraid. Hopefully, my real terror would fool him. “Okay. I’ll stay afraid. Tomorrow, I’m going to have some friends pull some furniture down from the attic. That won’t spoil this investigation or anything, will it?”
Drusilla shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
“Might be nice if the investigators had a place to sit,” Echo said.
Chapter 2
I got the call-out at oh-seven-thirty. It was Sunday, my day off. After months of working endless gang shootings, I was burning out. Investigating gang-related violence in Delta Vista, California, usually went like this: no one saw anything, no one heard anything, Reporting Parties were either anonymous, or the RP was a relative, frequently the mother of the victim.
Interviews of the victims and their associates usually went the same way. No one knew who shot at them, or why. Being psychic didn’t help much. As cops, we knew the shooters were a rival gang. My abilities usually picked up the same things from the victims: we are gonna shoot those mother-f-ers back, I’m going to try to look like a bad-ass in front of the cops, I’m not sure I’m being respected, here, so I better comment on it.
Interviews of the mothers usually went this way: “My son is a good boy. He’s never in trouble.” Psychically, I picked up something similar. I hope my son is a good boy. I hope he’s not in trouble.
One thing about juvenile gang-bangers in Delta Vista is that they are terrible shots. Six rounds into a car, all misses: up-close and personal point blank shooters usually hit a foot or an arm. Don’t get me wrong. This is not a criticism. As a cop, I prefer it this way. Assisting the Gang Unit investigating a shooting is a whole different ballgame than looking at a homicide.
In this case, the call-out was definitely a homicide.
“DRT.” My partner, Chuck Shen, was already on-scene.
“DRT?” I asked.
He nodded, face a little green. “Dead Right There.”
We were in the parking lot of the Safeway in Links, a tawnier neighborhood of Delta-V. The store wasn’t open yet. There were more official vehicles in this lot than parked at HQ. First shift at the grocery store were preparing to open for the Sunday morning crowd when they heard the shots. The victim was found around back, by the loading docks.
Trees lined the south end of the lot, sheltering an apartment building beyond. In the shade lay the victim. Medical Examiner people had beaten me to the scene, and the body was covered. Keeping out of the CSU photographer’s way, I checked out the scene.
At the edge of a pool of blood lay a flat, square reusable shopping bag. Pale blue jeans and fresh, too-white sneakers poked out from under the blanket. Shen stood a few feet away.
“Early morning shopper gets whacked in a grocery store parking lot?” I theorized aloud.
Shen pointed. “Nope. Bag already has something in it. Vintage vinyl.”
“Vintage vinyl? Records? Record albums?” What was the vernacular? “I suppose all vinyl is vintage now.”
“Vinyl is really hot right now. Lots of new releases.” Shen’s eyes strayed over the sheeted form, and quickly away. He was still new to the homicide game. We worked Crimes Against Persons, and murder was only a part of what CAPs investigated. “The sound is a lot warmer than digital.”
“There are records in the bag? So this isn’t a robbery,” I said.
“It kinda is. No wallet on him. There’s a square wear pattern in his back left pocket that indicates he carries one regularly. Tan line on the left wrist says watch.” Good for Shen. He was getting to be a better investigator every day.
I saw the Medical Examiner’s van pull up. Until they made their way over, I would wait to look at the victim. The first responder from the ME’s office took a step back and lowered his camera. “What was the MO?” I asked Shen.
He swallowed and took a breath. “Shotgun to the head.”
Yikes. Messy. And here in a nicer part of town. “You find a shell?”
“Nope. I’ll have the uniforms do a wider search, but I think our doer policed his brass.”
If our killer picked up his empty shotgun shell, that raised the stakes a little. To me, it sounded like a more professional hit. “The killer took the wallet and watch, but not the records? Are they valuable?”
“I’m not sure,” Shen said.
“Where did our vic get records before oh-seven-hundred on a Sunday?” Not even the Safeway was open yet.
Shen watched the ME move in. “No receipt in the bag. He might have been carrying them around for some other reason.”
I looked around. To the east was an empty lot, terminating in the West Side Freeway. Trees blocked the view from the south. Southwest and west, more empty lots. This was an excellent place for a hit, even if the timing was terrible.
“We’re going to need a canvas of the apartments facing the lot,” I noted a lot of uniforms standing in knots, and doing little else. Murder scenes tend to degenerate into cop parties, pulling in units from all over town. “Fine tooth comb the area for a shotgun shell. Find the first responders, and make sure they noted the tags on all the cars in front when they arrived.”
Shen got on the bus. “Maybe our victim’s car is still parked up front.”
“Roger that,” I said.
Chuck Shen was happy to have anything to do other than look at the dead body again. He trotted off to find the supervisor for the uniforms. Sheila Brandt, Assistant ME, always seemed to catch the cases in Delta Vista. She walked over to the body and set down her black doctor’s bag. Her diener had already secured the body with the help of the photographer.
“What have we got?”
“Shotgun to the head, I hear,” I said.
After a moment of silent communication with her diener, the burly guy readied his camera and Sheila reached for the covering sheet. “Oh, you poor guy,” she said,
revealing the injuries.
There wasn’t much left above the neck. I’ll leave it at that.
“Dave, get a close up of this,” she pointed. “Powder burns to the skin and collar.”
“That close?” I said.
Sheila nodded. “Contact burn at the nape. From the fully flat prone position, the relation to the spatter, I’m thinking execution style. This guy was on his knees. I’ll confirm it in the post.”
It was sounding more and more like a pro hit. With the sheet removed, I saw tortoise shell pieces and glittering plastic on the ground. The victim’s spectacles. He wore a red and black bowling shirt, hiked up to reveal a plumber’s crack from his sagging dad jeans. Our vic was overweight by a lot.
“A hipster, or a nerd, by the look of him.” Sheila gently pulled up the bowling shirt to insert her liver probe. “I’m not sure what the difference is anymore.”
Someone had lit a fire under the uniforms. The boys in blue started moving around, searching the edges of the lot for a shotgun shell. I heard vehicles moving in front. A canvas had begun, although there wasn’t much to cover. A car pulled up, and the head of the Crime Scene Unit got out.
Burl Jefferson was all metro-sexual and well-appointed, even this early on a Sunday. Despite the tailored suit and handsome good looks, I knew he was probably wearing Spider-man underpants or Superman socks. Jefferson was a nerd, even if he hid it under meticulous grooming.
“What are you doing here, Burl? You’re a nine-to-fiver,” I said. The crime lab ran on business hours, with only a skeleton crew on weekends. Jefferson scowled at the victim.
“This is the Links,” he said. “We’re a block from Jones Canal. Wealthy residents, quiet neighborhood, Sunday morning—the chief’s calling out the A-Team.”
The CSU tech already on the scene hurried over. “I’m done with the pictures. Uniforms are looking for the shell.” He gave Burl, his supervisor, the run-down.
“What’s in the bag?” Burl asked.
“Records,” I said.
Jefferson pulled on gloves and crouched down. He carefully pulled the square jackets out. There were three. The CSU supervisor looked each one over. There was no blood on the bag, or on the album sleeves.
Strange Brew (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 2) Page 1