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Author of Ionshaker, an upcoming screenplay writer, a movie enthusiast and a screenplay collector.
Trey's wife, his wife's shrink and his attorney are shot dead as his ex-girlfriend Robin who narrowly escapes death and gets admitted in ICU in critical condition, soon disappears from the hospital. The four of them knew about Ionshaker - a cutting edge interstate Nuclear arming/disarming software.
Brett - the lead FBI detective pursuing Trey (the sole murder suspect) is soon framed for two new murders and becomes a fugitive just like Trey, when he learns about Al Fakir - a suspected Al Qaeda off shoot that has stolen Ionshaker.
No One knows what Al Fakir intends to use Ionshaker for, but every one knows, the country that possesses Ionshaker will control all nuclear warheads worldwide at the click of a button.
It is feared that Ionshaker has already reached Germany, with China, Russia and Pakistan already bidding for Ionshaker for trillions of dollars. Now, the president needs Trey (an ex CIA) and Brett (an ex FBI) to steal Ionshaker back from Al Fakir before its sold or duplicated.
Its top secret, its urgent, its scary, its war against
, its mission impossible.
The first lady of the house on Foothill road Beverly Hills California, the loving wife, the courteous neighbor, the one and only Mrs. Brooke Woodley had just been awarded new more titles: the late, the deceased, the former, the murder victim.
She had been shot dead in her own house, in her own living room, now titled - the crime scene.
The LAPD were the first to arrive at the house, oh sorry, the crime scene, and were sniffing around, fervently scavenging for signs, facts, suggestions and indications - searching for evidence.
But their stage presence was short lived.
The pompous arrival of the big boys, the tiptop connoisseurs of crime scenes, the so raved about FBI grabbed all the attention from the media, the neighbors and other idlers.
Yet, even these cognoscente investigators were just like dogs, with leaders of the pack. Two detectives a man in his thirties, somewhat conceited, the lead detective and a blond in her late twenties with a pretty face and the body of a model, the deputy to the self-important man, stood out in the elite pack as the leaders.
The two hurriedly entered the house.
“Hi, Brett Dawson FBI, this’ my deputy Nicole Anderson. We’re takin’ over. Got anything that might interest me?”
“We just got here.”
“And what do we have here?”
Brett said stepping closer to the covered body and then squatted to gently lift the white sheet off the face to take a peek. But as soon as he lifted the sheet, camera shutters began clicking as flashlights played over the partially revealed insipid face.
Then, Brett rose and threw random glances around the cozy living room. In the meantime, his aficionado counterparts – the forensic team, were busy foraging the house for all sorts of clues: foot prints, finger prints, hairs, scratches, broken glasses, vandalized locks, you name it.
The murder victim had been bumped off around 7:15 pm.
Apparently, an anonymous caller heard a gun go off in the house and dialed 911, but by the time paramedics and the police arrived at the house, Brooke Woodley had already been titled – the late.
From an array of photos that embellished the living room, the message was clear cut; Brooke’s marriage had been a bliss. The faces of the newly weds were full of life, beaming with joy and happiness, all smiles.
For reasons best known to himself, Brett was strangely drawn to one of the wedding photos. In the photo, the husband was kissing his new pristine wife on the lips.
Nicole quietly watched the lead detective stare at the picture like he’d been struck by some form of brain freeze. The blonde couldn’t simply see anything peculiar with the photo! She couldn’t just figure out what he was seeing.
Brett pitied the husband who’d jet home anytime after a typical excruciating nine-to-five and find the love of his life, the Juliet in his own interpretation of the epic romantic story of Romeo and Juliet, his Rose in his conjured version of the Titanic movie, his young beautiful wife, spread on their velvet carpet in their living room floor, lying under a white sheet, covered in gore, absolutely dead, dead as a dodo.
Truly, death is a game changer and a shaker. It changes and shakes things, game plans, marriages, businesses, governments, and it can even shake ions in the body. Yeah right, death is an Ionshaker. But anyway, back to the story.
It was still very early to accurately profile the murder and the reasons behind it. It could have been a case of a robbery gone bad or the masterwork of an experienced hit man. All the FBI could do was theorize.
The first theory was a robbery theory, where the assumption was, a burglar broke into the house to loot, Brooke returned home much much earlier than anticipated and stumbled upon the housebreaker in the living room, prompting the armed thief to fire a shot, most probably to scare her, but instead popped her there and then.
Across the room, Brett saw the murder weapon on a coffee table - a small J-frame Smith and Wesson air-weight revolver, properly sealed in a transparent evidence bag, after the gun had been recovered in the hallway leading to the back door.
He walked to the coffee table and lifted up the aluminum alloy framed 637 model, with stainless steel barrels and cylinders, to check it out.
The LAPD officer who recovered the gun stepped up to him and briefed him that only one bullet was missing from its magazine. He was optimistic that the bullet that would be retrieved from Brooke’s body would match the remainder of the bullets in the magazine.
After listening to the officer and staring at the gun, he began doubting his robbery-gone-bad theory. He figured, had it been a robbery, broken glass, twisted locks, scratches or abrasions of some kind would be found in the house to say the least. Moreover, nothing appeared to have been pilfered from the house.
But then again, if a hit man was involved, then there must have been a good reason. She must have either pissed somebody off so badly, or knew something she wasn’t supposed to.
To find out the root cause, Brett had to look beyond what was on the table. He had to dig for motives, enemies and secrets.
Still staring at the gun, a coroner approached.
“We’re heading back to the lab to start on the autopsy. Maybe she’ll tell us more in the lab.”
“You go do your autopsy this evening, but I need that report - first thing yesterday morning.”
After the coroner left, Nicole stepped closer to Brett to brainstorm.
“What do you think Nicole?”
“A homicide plain and simple.”
“Well, there’s no indication of a forced entry, no witnesses, the place is super clean with no prints not even a scratch, nothing appears to have been stolen and for sure the shooter was a pro.”
“What about motive?”
“Still a mystery to me, you’ve cracked it?”
“Nope, I pretty much agree.”
“Don’t celebrate just yet. I want you to find out everything about her; did they own a gun? If they did, which type, who registered for it, where did she work, girlfriends, boyfriends…?”
“Whoa! Did you just say boyfriends?”
“You heard correct.”
“Yeah, what’s the problem?”
“I thought I saw you staring at the wedding photo like you’d been struck by some form of brain-freeze or something. Didn’t you see anything?”
“Like, they were happy?”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“I’m not accusing her of anything but what if she was having a fling and her husband found out?”
“So we’re already accusing her of cheating?”
“No we’re keeping an open mind.”
“But you’re already convinced the husband did it.”
“We don’t have anything; anybody could be a suspect, even a loving husband.”
“I think you’re way off on this one Sherlock Holmes.”
“Let’s see. What time is it?”
“Happy husbands get home early to be with their loving wives. We’ve been here what, almost an hour? Isn’t it getting late for a happily married man to still be out?”
“Suppose it was you?”
“Suppose it was me what?”
“Suppose you were married, would you be home right now, no, why, you’re still working, see? Your assumption proves nothing.”
“The cold fact is, many people who work late do so to avoid spending more time with their mates. You wanna guess why?”
“Because they’re not happy? Is that why you’re still single?”
“Hey, when did it become about me?”
“Are you scared to talk about your singleness?”
“So let’s talk about it.”
“I pledge the fifth.”
“The fifth is for chickens.”
“I’m outta here.”