Ten years ago Frank Lester, a Chicago homicide detective, thought he had rid himself forever of the Mud People Killer who’d kidnapped and murdered six people. Frank had shot him as he’d fled through a snowy night; had killed him, he believed, though a body was never found.
But the killer wasn’t dead. He’d only been waiting to take his revenge on Frank and those he cares about now…ten years later. Frank retired early and is living back in his hometown of Spookie when the killer resurfaces to take up where he left off. Kidnapping more innocents and tormenting Frank and the people he cares about.
Unless Frank and his artist girlfriend, Abigail Sutton, can find and stop him before he kills more people and perhaps both of them.
Prologue
(Ten Years Earlier)
Frank Lester didn’t have time to think, it happened so quickly. Think how dangerous it was rushing headlong and alone after the suspect in the dark. Think what he would do if the man he was jumping fences for and trampling through unlit backyards to get at, would turn and attack him. What if the perp had a weapon? Backup hadn’t arrived but Frank’s police instincts, honed by nearly twenty years of being a homicide detective, were hounding him to pursue.
Don’t let him get away…catch him and lock him in a cell so he’ll never be able to hurt another person. Catch him!
Because Frank’s instincts also told him the lumbering shape ahead was the kidnapper who’d abducted and killed six people in the last month and a half. Frank wasn’t about to let the man escape. He’d been close before, but the kidnap- per had been clever and had eluded him.
It’d been a gut hunch, Frank guarding the latest victim’s mailbox, waiting for the inevitable delivery, and it had paid off. The kidnapper, who Frank thought must be a frustrated artist of some kind, left clay figurines representing his victims as a personal signature to his crimes. Looked like little lumps of dried mud to Frank. The mud creations were tiny, primitive, and barely recognizable as people. They were placed in a mailbox or somewhere else around the victim’s house under cover of night and often in foul weather to pre- vent being seen.
The press had dubbed the serial kidnapper/killer the “Mud People Killer” after Frank’s partner, Sam Cato, had called him that in an interview. This time, after hours of waiting and shivering in the snowy dark, Frank had caught the man in the act of delivering his tiny mud person to his latest victim. When yelling “Stop. Police!” failed to impress the guy, Frank had taken chase without regard for police procedures or his own safety.
Now he wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. The wind was like a stone wall in front of him, tossing shorn tree limbs at him or in his path. The icy ground made it difficult to stay upright, much less run. He’d already fallen twice, messed up his knee, and done something painful to his left hand while trying to catch himself.
Winter in Chicago could be brutal. It was the northern air off the lake that made it so vicious.
What was he thinking?
A bullet, then another, zinged through the air inches from Frank’s face. The creep was shooting at him! It had to the kidnapper. Frank hurled his overweight body behind an underweight tree. As frigid as the weather was he was sweating underneath his coat, though shivering beneath that. His wife was right. He needed to go on a diet. Out of shape and out of breath, that’s what he was.
He drew his Beretta 9mm automatic with frozen hands and switched it to his left one. He’d called in Sam and some backup right as he’d taken chase. He prayed they’d arrive soon as he concentrated on where the bullets were coming from. Concentrated on staying alive.
He wanted to catch the man he was chasing more than anything. It’d become personal, plain and simple. From the beginning the kidnapper had singled Frank out, of all the investigators on the case, taunting him in notes he’d send the newspapers or hand-written messages left in places where Frank could find them. In Frank’s mailbox. Taped to his car window at the police station. Never the same place twice, though. Once Frank unrolled his daily newspaper and a note from the kidnapper fell out. It made him so mad. How dare that psychopath intrude like that into his life. The kidnapper had even called him once at home to taunt him.
If you’re wondering…yes, I kill them. All of them. And you can’t stop it. You aren’t going to catch me, Officer Lester…I’m too smart for you. You dumb fat cop. I’m too smart for all of you.
The worse thing was, Frank was afraid what the man said was true , though he preferred to keep thinking of him as a kidnapper. The realization that the suspect was also killing the people he was kidnapping was too much for Frank to stomach.
Regardless, the man was evil and had to be stopped.
But why was Frank getting all this unwanted attention from a soulless kidnapper? Probably had something to do with his being head detective on the case and being mentioned so often in the newspaper and on television. The love notes from the kidnapper weren’t the worst side effect. The man had taken to snatching people from under Frank’s very nose. People Frank knew and cared about.
Last week, Charlotte, a waitress from his favorite lunch spot, disappeared, and he feared his nemesis had taken her. She was a middle-aged divorcee who was an artist in her real life, as she used to say with a smile. She had two grown kids and a teenager at home. It was Charlotte’s house that Frank had been staking out on that night. Perhaps she was still alive. He could hope.
Frank wasn’t letting the kidnapper go. He’d catch him or have a heart attack trying, which, according to his wife, was a possibility waiting to happen. Peering around the tree, gun ready, Frank squinted his eyes looking for a target.
A blurry shape slithered around a shed, barely an outline, but it could have been a man. Another shot torpedoed through the snowflakes and Frank felt agony in his left shoulder.
Stifling a cry, the detective aimed at the shadowy blob and fired several times in succession, mentally counting the bullets spent so he’d have some left if he found himself facing the guy.
Screams of rage—something about a leg and fingers—pierced the night and the sound of something thudding to the ground was trailed by an eerie silence. Frank waited, breathing hard, the pain in his shoulder spreading like fire, praying he’d hit the kidnapper. That it was over.
After an eternity, Frank stumbled out in search of the body but didn’t find one.
He returned to his car and checked on his backup. Bad weather had slowed it down, but it was coming. Soon the area was swarming with strobe-flashing squad cars, cops, and dancing flashlights. The falling snow morphed into icy daggers and the night slipped into a gray, wretched day, but other than a pool of crimson in one spot on the ground, there was no blood trail, body, or corpse ever found. Just like the victims’ bodies were never found. Alive or dead.
Days, weeks, months went by. No more phone calls or notes to the newspapers. No more people were taken, no more mud figurines were left as gifts on back porches, in mailboxes, or on windowsills. Eventually the investigation grew cold, the paper files dusty, and the computer file rarely opened. Frank’s shoulder healed.
Frank wasn’t worried. He was sure his bullets had hit the man and he’d dragged himself away to nurse his wounds, which were either so severe they’d scared him out of the kidnapping business forever, or he’d dragged himself off to die. The kidnapper’s death or the discovery of a dead body would have been better, more final, but Frank was relieved the kidnappings had stopped, as was the city of Chicago.
As the months turned into years, Frank convinced himself the man had either ended his crimes or was dead. He wouldn’t have been able to let the case go otherwise. Though the media interest in the case faded more quickly, Frank didn’t stop searching for the missing people for a long time afterward. But other cases just as heinous came along and filled his days. There were more murders to solve and criminals to arrest. There were reports to fill out. Life to live.
Time passed.
Frank Lester lost his wife, Jolene, eight years later in a car accident.
His son, Kyle, went on to medical school in Chicago. Frank took early retirement and, longing for a simpler existence, moved back to Spookie, his hometown, where he built a log cabin in the woods and settled down to enjoy life, find himself again, and write the mysteries he so loved to read. Bought a motorcycle and rode it often. Met an artist named Abigail Sutton and became close to her. Got his first novel published and fell into the easy rhythm of small town life with childhood friends. Was happy.
And more time passed.
He’d all but forgotten the Mud People Killer he was so sure he’d mortally wounded that long ago Chicago winter night.
But the killer hadn’t forgotten him.***
In this Silver Sisters Mystery it's trouble at sea when Goldie and Godiva's eighty year old mother and uncle are invied on a relaxing cruise. Magic turns to mayhem for these former vaudeville magicians when a star magician is murdered on board.
Prologue
(Ten Years Earlier)
Frank Lester didn’t have time to think, it happened so quickly. Think how dangerous it was rushing headlong and alone after the suspect in the dark. Think what he would do if the man he was jumping fences for and trampling through unlit backyards to get at, would turn and attack him. What if the perp had a weapon? Backup hadn’t arrived but Frank’s police instincts, honed by nearly twenty years of being a homicide detective, were hounding him to pursue.
Don’t let him get away…catch him and lock him in a cell so he’ll never be able to hurt another person. Catch him!
Because Frank’s instincts also told him the lumbering shape ahead was the kidnapper who’d abducted and killed six people in the last month and a half. Frank wasn’t about to let the man escape. He’d been close before, but the kidnap- per had been clever and had eluded him.
It’d been a gut hunch, Frank guarding the latest victim’s mailbox, waiting for the inevitable delivery, and it had paid off. The kidnapper, who Frank thought must be a frustrated artist of some kind, left clay figurines representing his victims as a personal signature to his crimes. Looked like little lumps of dried mud to Frank. The mud creations were tiny, primitive, and barely recognizable as people. They were placed in a mailbox or somewhere else around the victim’s house under cover of night and often in foul weather to pre- vent being seen.
The press had dubbed the serial kidnapper/killer the “Mud People Killer” after Frank’s partner, Sam Cato, had called him that in an interview. This time, after hours of waiting and shivering in the snowy dark, Frank had caught the man in the act of delivering his tiny mud person to his latest victim. When yelling “Stop. Police!” failed to impress the guy, Frank had taken chase without regard for police procedures or his own safety.
Now he wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. The wind was like a stone wall in front of him, tossing shorn tree limbs at him or in his path. The icy ground made it difficult to stay upright, much less run. He’d already fallen twice, messed up his knee, and done something painful to his left hand while trying to catch himself.
Winter in Chicago could be brutal. It was the northern air off the lake that made it so vicious.
What was he thinking?
A bullet, then another, zinged through the air inches from Frank’s face. The creep was shooting at him! It had to the kidnapper. Frank hurled his overweight body behind an underweight tree. As frigid as the weather was he was sweating underneath his coat, though shivering beneath that. His wife was right. He needed to go on a diet. Out of shape and out of breath, that’s what he was.
He drew his Beretta 9mm automatic with frozen hands and switched it to his left one. He’d called in Sam and some backup right as he’d taken chase. He prayed they’d arrive soon as he concentrated on where the bullets were coming from. Concentrated on staying alive.
He wanted to catch the man he was chasing more than anything. It’d become personal, plain and simple. From the beginning the kidnapper had singled Frank out, of all the investigators on the case, taunting him in notes he’d send the newspapers or hand-written messages left in places where Frank could find them. In Frank’s mailbox. Taped to his car window at the police station. Never the same place twice, though. Once Frank unrolled his daily newspaper and a note from the kidnapper fell out. It made him so mad. How dare that psychopath intrude like that into his life. The kidnapper had even called him once at home to taunt him.
If you’re wondering…yes, I kill them. All of them. And you can’t stop it. You aren’t going to catch me, Officer Lester…I’m too smart for you. You dumb fat cop. I’m too smart for all of you.
The worse thing was, Frank was afraid what the man said was true , though he preferred to keep thinking of him as a kidnapper. The realization that the suspect was also killing the people he was kidnapping was too much for Frank to stomach.
Regardless, the man was evil and had to be stopped.
But why was Frank getting all this unwanted attention from a soulless kidnapper? Probably had something to do with his being head detective on the case and being mentioned so often in the newspaper and on television. The love notes from the kidnapper weren’t the worst side effect. The man had taken to snatching people from under Frank’s very nose. People Frank knew and cared about.
Last week, Charlotte, a waitress from his favorite lunch spot, disappeared, and he feared his nemesis had taken her. She was a middle-aged divorcee who was an artist in her real life, as she used to say with a smile. She had two grown kids and a teenager at home. It was Charlotte’s house that Frank had been staking out on that night. Perhaps she was still alive. He could hope.
Frank wasn’t letting the kidnapper go. He’d catch him or have a heart attack trying, which, according to his wife, was a possibility waiting to happen. Peering around the tree, gun ready, Frank squinted his eyes looking for a target.
A blurry shape slithered around a shed, barely an outline, but it could have been a man. Another shot torpedoed through the snowflakes and Frank felt agony in his left shoulder.
Stifling a cry, the detective aimed at the shadowy blob and fired several times in succession, mentally counting the bullets spent so he’d have some left if he found himself facing the guy.
Screams of rage—something about a leg and fingers—pierced the night and the sound of something thudding to the ground was trailed by an eerie silence. Frank waited, breathing hard, the pain in his shoulder spreading like fire, praying he’d hit the kidnapper. That it was over.
After an eternity, Frank stumbled out in search of the body but didn’t find one.
He returned to his car and checked on his backup. Bad weather had slowed it down, but it was coming. Soon the area was swarming with strobe-flashing squad cars, cops, and dancing flashlights. The falling snow morphed into icy daggers and the night slipped into a gray, wretched day, but other than a pool of crimson in one spot on the ground, there was no blood trail, body, or corpse ever found. Just like the victims’ bodies were never found. Alive or dead.
Days, weeks, months went by. No more phone calls or notes to the newspapers. No more people were taken, no more mud figurines were left as gifts on back porches, in mailboxes, or on windowsills. Eventually the investigation grew cold, the paper files dusty, and the computer file rarely opened. Frank’s shoulder healed.
Frank wasn’t worried. He was sure his bullets had hit the man and he’d dragged himself away to nurse his wounds, which were either so severe they’d scared him out of the kidnapping business forever, or he’d dragged himself off to die. The kidnapper’s death or the discovery of a dead body would have been better, more final, but Frank was relieved the kidnappings had stopped, as was the city of Chicago.
As the months turned into years, Frank convinced himself the man had either ended his crimes or was dead. He wouldn’t have been able to let the case go otherwise. Though the media interest in the case faded more quickly, Frank didn’t stop searching for the missing people for a long time afterward. But other cases just as heinous came along and filled his days. There were more murders to solve and criminals to arrest. There were reports to fill out. Life to live.
Time passed.
Frank Lester lost his wife, Jolene, eight years later in a car accident.
His son, Kyle, went on to medical school in Chicago. Frank took early retirement and, longing for a simpler existence, moved back to Spookie, his hometown, where he built a log cabin in the woods and settled down to enjoy life, find himself again, and write the mysteries he so loved to read. Bought a motorcycle and rode it often. Met an artist named Abigail Sutton and became close to her. Got his first novel published and fell into the easy rhythm of small town life with childhood friends. Was happy.
And more time passed.
He’d all but forgotten the Mud People Killer he was so sure he’d mortally wounded that long ago Chicago winter night.
But the killer hadn’t forgotten him.***
