Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
ISBN-10: 1520985177
Type: Fiction
ISBN-13: 9781520985176
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
After a gritty detective becomes involved with a beautiful widow suspected of murder, slander and obsession obstruct his quest for justice.
A killer plays cat and mouse with a young widow against the snowy backdrop of an Alaskan winter. Branded a black widow after the suspicious death of her millionaire husband, Sarah Palmer flees Seattle for Anchorage. But the peace and quiet she hoped to enjoy in her hometown is soon shattered. The killer is murdering Sarah look-alikes on the 14th of each month, taunting Sarah with a valentine of evidence.
After her experiences in Seattle, Sarah is slow to go to the police. When she finally does, she finds Detective Steven Quaid. Called on to protect the beautiful widow from a stalker intent on her destruction, Steven is convinced he can solve Michael Palmer's murder and arrest the stalker. However, crime is never simple, and before long Sarah has Steven wound up tighter than barbed wire. Is Sarah a victim or a very skilled manipulator? With a killer on the loose and a climbing body count, Steven cannot afford to hedge his bets-or his life.
Excerpt
Determination pushed her forward when common sense should have won out and sent her back inside. She spotted her car and pushed the remote button on her key chain to start it, and the accomplishment thrilled her. Originally, from Ohio, Debra determined that no Alaskan blizzard would defeat her. Her joy lasted only seconds. Someone grabbed her tightly from behind.
"Hey! Wait a min-" Debra's words cut off when her attacker's hand clamped over her mouth. A muffled scream, cold steel slicing deep, and immobilizing terror imprinted as her last memories. She stared up into the falling snow but could no longer feel the sting of its coldness. Tears froze on her eyelashes, and snowflakes, numerous and unrelenting covered her with an icy blanket.
* ******** *
11:00 p.m.
Mesmerized by the blizzard, Sarah ignored the stack of papers on her desk. As the bright white vanquished the blackness of winter to another time, an unexpected joy filled her spirit. For the first time in a long time, she felt unencumbered, adventurous, and truly alive.
The unnatural light gave the park across the street a fantasy appearance where snow angels sang and gnomes and fairies danced. The clock chimed eleven, spurring Sarah to action. She dressed warmly and hurried to the park to make the season's first snow angel. Twenty-two of her twenty-seven years fell away. She marveled at the snowflakes caught on her sleeve, and joyfully played. She fell back on a snow bank, waved her arms and legs to displace the snow around her body, and then jumped to her feet to admire the impression created. Pleased with herself, she smiled, gazed skyward, and opened her mouth to taste the cold, wet flakes.
Wishing for her sketchbook, she carefully recorded the scenes on the canvas of her mind. With an artist's eye, she noted the snow-laden trees and bushes, the children's empty swing and slide, the park benches and the ball field. For the first time in over a year, Sarah experienced life, but more importantly, her creative energy reemerged. The death of her husband, Michael, a year earlier had left her empty and uninspired. The snowfall and the sudden unbridled play had filled the black hole inside her heart with longing. She wanted to capture the scene, the city’s night-lights, and the reflected colors of red, green, and orange. She imagined the blue and gray she would need to portray the evening's eerie brilliance, and on a whim, she created a choir of angels.
The fun ended abruptly when a flashing light and screaming siren interrupted her fantasy. Startled into reality, she shivered; her newfound joy evaporated. She tried to shake off the sorrow, imagining the darkness trailing after the clouds moving east overhead. As the siren moved closer, she caught sight of the officer whose presence had dared to remind her unhappiness followed like a shadow, dark and unshakable even in the brightest light. He nodded, smiled; she glared at him, and trudged defiantly home.
* ******** *
Midnight
The siren and light meant to get her attention, worked. Midnight was not a suitable hour to be alone anywhere in the city. Detective Steven Quaid understood the draw of the season's first snowfall, but he knew firsthand the craziness such storms inspired.
She looked straight at him and he found himself smiling and nodding, despite his concern. Not the teenager he expected, her eyes held a sparkle obvious even in the subdued light, and certain he saw a look of confident defiance in them, he slowed and turned in his seat for another look. His view of long hair turned white from the snowflakes caught in the curls, while lovely, disappointed. "Damn." Had he just caught a glimpse of the woman of his dreams?
Minutes earlier, he spotted her from his apartment window. He smiled at her innocent play, his own memories of childhood fun tugging at him. A telephone call from the dispatch center ended any thoughts of a snowball fight. The department wanted Steven downtown. A body discovered under the freshly fallen snow required his expertise, in answering the call; he detoured through the park to warn the young woman playing alone.
A native Alaskan, Steven Quaid could trace his family's heritage back to the natives, the first stewards of the land, and the gold miners who invaded the Alaskan frontier in the late eighteenth century. His father, Daniel Quaid, a retired statesman, never lost hope Steven would one day change his mind about being a cop, and pursue politics.
However, Steven’s mother, a member of the Tlingit tribe, admired his success and secretly gave her blessing for whatever choice he made. Steven had been a detective for more than ten years, and decided long ago he would never tire of the challenge each case brought.
When he stopped at the intersection on the far side of the park, he checked once more for the young woman. Satisfied with her safety, he focused on the job. Within minutes of the body’s discovery, the department notified him. His destination was the popular Piano Bar in the center of the city, just a mile from the park. On scene, he maneuvered his truck through a maze of aid cars and black-and-whites, and his frame of mind became one of unalterable determination.
Persistent and shrewd, Steven had unequaled success in solving mysteries. While he inherited his unyielding resolve, quick anger, and dry wit from his Irish father, his beautiful, sophisticated mother contributed to his good looks, sharp intellect, and thoughtful manner. Steven stood six foot, had a muscular build, covered by well-worn jeans and a blue sweatshirt, but long black hair tied in a ponytail gave him an unconventional appearance. The long hair and individualistic dress made him stand out, although the sweatshirts he wore were what labeled him in the department, as eccentric. Blue and white, with the words "Seattle Seahawks" across the chest, these sweatshirts were his trademark. He had worn a similar one the night he solved his first case.
Steven located the officer in charge. "Anderson, you the first on scene?"
"Hawk … I mean, yes, sir," Sergeant D. J. Anderson said, shaking Steven’s hand.
"How’d they find her in this blizzard?" Steven asked.
"A city worker ready to clear the alley did his usual walk through for drunks. He noticed bloody tracks and called 9-1-1 immediately. The snow hid her well. Took some probing and a snow blower, to uncover the body. We’re lucky this is a busy alley; otherwise, she might have been here until the spring thaw."
Sergeant Anderson continued, "The assailant cut her throat, and … well, you can see the mess we have here." He pursed his lips.
Steven realized words could never adequately describe such a scene. She rested in a puddle of red slush. The spilled blood stood out sharply against the freshly fallen snow, and Steven experienced an eerie sense of déjà vu.
"Cheechako?" The thin leather jacket gave her away. Seasoned residents knew better. Anchorage is a city of some two hundred and seventy-five thousand people. During the summer, many seeking adventure came to enjoy the novelty of the midnight sun, but termination dust (snow) on the surrounding mountains in early September, could cause a quick migration south. Newcomers unprepared for the Alaskan elements quickly lost their desire for adventure once the temperatures changed. Long, dark hours and biting cold took their toll, and arctic storms gave witness to the ferocity of the weather. Steven knew few newcomers could survive nature's worst, which required serious determination, common sense, respect for nature, and a definite love for Alaska's uniqueness—traits few possessed.
"Yeah, how’d you know?" D. J. asked.
"Her clothes. What else?" Steven asked.
D. J. Anderson, a five-year veteran of the force, determined to make detective, and eager to please, pulled out his notebook. A native Alaskan from the Inuit tribe, and the first member of his family to graduate college, D. J. worked harder than most. With a round bright face, he gave the impression of being a young college student than a seasoned officer. Having worked on a few other assignments with him, Steven knew he could rely on his skills and attention to detail.
"The victim is Debra Johnson, a twenty-eight-year-old cocktail waitress." Anderson read from his notes. "Married to Mathew Johnson. They live in Wasilla and have two children. Employed by The Piano Bar since July. She left at ten o’clock, four hours before the end of her shift. Her purse and car keys were in the snow alongside her. She’s still wearing her jewelry, and her wallet’s full of cash. The motive wasn’t robbery. I have all her personal details here." Anderson handed Steven her driver’s license.
"Excellent." He read the card. "And the coroner?"
"He’s on the way."
Steven stared intently at the body. His attention continually diverted to her eyes. Her license told him they were green. Now they stared heavenward, a muddy gray reflection of the drab concrete buildings sat like silent sentinels to her horrific death. Steven saw surrender on her face, she recognized death, gazed at it fully, and accepted her fate. The thought chilled him. They knelt next to her, careful to avoid any contact with the blood.
"The footprints belong to the city worker," Anderson explained.
Steven noticed they were marked evidence, he observed no others. "The snow is wet and heavy, probably obliterated any evidence of the killer’s footprints. Notice the blood on her thigh?"
"Yeah, like he cleaned his knife there," Anderson surmised.
"Exactly, and although she took a few minutes to die, she didn’t have a chance to fight. He came up from behind her. The direction of the cut, left to right—one deep, well placed incision. The coroner will tell us the weapon and with a bit of luck pull some evidence off her gloves." Steven stood and looked around taking in the whole scene.
"Her car was running and it’d been cleared of snow. You think she forgot something and went back inside?" Anderson asked.
Steven pondered the question. ". Good question. What else?"
Anderson continued his report. "We’ve cordoned off the entire alley, the parking lot, and I have two men gathering evidence, one searching the general area and the other the vehicles. You’ve worked with them before, Andy Right and Don McNeil. We’ll collect film from all the security cameras in the area, not one camera back here—no break there. Still the others will give us the comings and goings on the main thoroughfare."
"Excellent work, are you interested in seeing this one through to completion?"
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Anderson stood up straight.
"Good. I’m going inside. You stay on top of things out here and with the coroner. I’ll see you later, with the rest of the team."
"Consider it done," Anderson’s stature heightened considerably by Steven’s request.
The police photographer began recording the grisly scene.
"Beautiful girl," the photographer commented.
"Yeah," Steven grumbled, "they always are."
"Notice how she fell," the photographer observed. "A snow angel. Ironic, isn't it?"
Steven took notice and recalled the young woman he had seen playing in the park earlier. She made a choir of snow angels. He left the scene. Snow angels with green eyes occupied his thoughts as he made his way to the bar.
Familiar with The Piano Bar and its reputation as a trendy venue, Steven recalled the last time he enjoyed a drink and a dance here. He knew the owner, Chancy Forrest. Frequented by the upper class and sometimes referred to, as Menopause Alley by the younger generation, now the scene of a brutal crime. A murder on Fourth Avenue, known for its topless entertainment, would not have been a revelation. He wondered how The Piano Bar patrons would receive the news of this crime.
Chancy and his employees had gathered near the kitchen. The customers were at the back giving their names and addresses to several officers. Steven joined two other members of his homicide team, Helen Gabble and Joe Donner. They divided the work and began questioning the co-workers and customers individually. First, they collected basic information from the owner, who claimed the victim a happily married mother of two and the sweetest person in the world, had no enemies. A favorite with the customers, evidenced by the size of her nightly tips, everyone liked Debra. She planned to work long enough to save for a down payment on some property her husband wanted in Wasilla. Chancy had never noticed any problems with customers, and Debra never complained of harassment.
Steven knew differently. Someone had chosen her for a reason; otherwise, she would not be dead in the alley, her blood spilled on dirty concrete.
Although clearly upset, her co-workers were willing to help, except one young woman who sat in silence. He tried to question her about the evening. She sat motionless, hardly blinking.
He gave her a glass of water and several napkins. He put the water in her hand. "Drink, it will help." A petite redhead, her hazel eyes scarlet from crying. "Are you Ginger?"
"Yes . . . I’m sorry, I can’t think, I just keep seeing Deb."
"Seeing her?" He asked.
"At the door, just before she left. It’s just so hard to believe. I can’t . . . are you sure she’s dead?"
"I’m sorry. There’s no question."
"Horrible. I just want go home, lock the doors, and never leave again," she whispered. "It’s just so . . . unbelievable." She shivered. "Deb, she’s . . . she was my best friend. We traded hours all the time. What if I left early? What if I served a drink to the man . . . to the monster?"
She grabbed his forearm. Her fingers were like ice. He could see the terror on her face.
"I mean, if someone could kill Deb . . . ." A tear rolled down her cheek.
Steven's wanted to assure her he would find the person responsible, because he knew he would. Yet, the task before him should never be lightly, or arrogantly. He gently removed her hand from his arm, continued the interrogation.
"Can you tell me about your best friend?"
"Sure." Ginger used the napkins he gave her to blow her nose, took a deep breath, and relaxed. "I tried to stop her. I tried to get her to wait. I knew the road crews would have their work done by closing time, she wouldn’t listen. She insisted on leaving. Why’d she have to leave early?" She said thoughtfully.
Ginger looked at Steven as though he would be able to tell her. "Good question. Why did she leave before her shift ended?"
"She was so unhappy. Deb had never been away from home before, and she found Alaska just so . . . foreign. She just wanted to talk to her husband, and Chancy said she could leave. Their schedules didn’t always allow them a lot of time together, Matt’s and Deb’s," she said for clarification. "She planned to tell Matt the truth."
"Did she plan to leave him?"
"Oh, no, you misunderstand. Deb loved Matt. She would have followed him to the ends of the Earth. She planned to defeat her unhappiness. She just wanted them to take some of the money they’d been working so hard to save and go home for Christmas. She wanted to see her family. Homesick, is all, but afraid to tell him."
"What made her afraid?"
"She didn’t want to disappoint him. She knew how much he loved Alaska, and she didn't want him to know she hated it."
"What would’ve happened if he found out?"
"I’m sure Matt would’ve understood. He’d have given her time. She’d only been here for eight months. She just wanted to take the little ones home for the holidays. Oh dear, those poor little ones," she said wistfully, tears gathering.
Steven gave her another cocktail napkin and waited. "Were you the last person to talk to Debra?"
"I think so . . . no . . . Jim. He spoke to her. He worships her and would have driven her home if she’d asked him to."
"Which one is Jim?"
She glanced around the room and pointed him out. "He’s the guy at the corner table with his head in his hands. He’s devastated."
"Thank you. Miss Hardin? You’ve been a big help. Please be patient. We’ll need a formal statement."
He moved to Jim’s location. He pulled out a chair, straddled it, and stared coldly at the young man.
Jim glared at him; his eyes red from tears, he blew his large nose on a used-up hanky, and waited for Steven to begin.
Steven looked him over. Average, pudgy, about twenty-two years old, his dark hair stuck out messily from under an Ohio State baseball cap, and the apron he wore had a variety of stains on it. Quaid motioned another officer over.
"Son, can you give me your apron." The young man removed his apron, and the officer placed the heavily stained article in an evidence bag.
"You think I killed Deb? Honest I didn’t."
"Just routine. Jim, can you give me your last name?"
"Lawrence, James Lawrence, sir."
"You spoke to Debra before she left?"
"Yes, sir, just before she left. I cleared her car of snow. She barely had the clothes to get her to the car. I didn’t want her out there in that blizzard.
"You cared for her."
"She worked hard, long hours, here and at home. She deserved a break. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more determined. She just wanted to buy the land and raise her kids the right way."
"When you were out there did you see anyone?"
Jim thought for a moment. "No sir, there wasn’t a soul in sight."
"What about in the bar, right before she left. Anyone leave right before or after her?" Steven asked while he watched the young man closely.
"Mr. Jacobs, he’s sixty, comes in everyday on his way home from his janitor’s job, and gets a shot and a cup of coffee. Nice guy, he couldn’t hurt Deb. Besides, I think he teased the other girls till 10:30. Chancy let Deb go. I should’ve driven her home. I never should’ve let her go out there all by herself!" Jim rubbed his temples.
"You were in love with her?"
Jim blushed. "No, not in love with, I mean, sure I liked her. We were both from Ohio, had a lot in common. She struggled with homesickness. I did too, my first year. Deb she’d go out of her way to make you feel good, no matter how bad she felt. She just cared about people. I admired her, sure, but she loved Matt. Whenever someone here gave her a hard time—you know, tried to make a pass at her or ask her out—she’d tell him she’s married to an Army Ranger who'd served in Desert Storm and he wouldn’t be pleased to learn someone’s harassed her on the job. That statement alone earned her the biggest tips around, and when folks learned of her goals or saw pictures of those two young towheads, well, Deb quickly earned the money for their new home. Special, that’s Deb. Why do they always take the special ones?" He rubbed his eyes.
"Sorry, son, I wish I knew." Steven gave Jim a minute and then continued. "Is there anyone who gave her a hard time?"
"I’ve thought over and over about every customer who ever gave her any reason for grief, and I can’t picture any of them doing to Deb what they say . . . I just can’t." He buried his head in his hands.
"Tell you what, give me those names. Let me make that determination." Steven gave him a pen and a piece of paper. "Write down every name you can think of, and we’ll check them all out."
"Yes sir." James perked up and took the pen.
"Thank you, son." Steven patted him on the shoulder.
After an hour of questioning the staff and customers, Steven gathered his team and compared notes. "I have a young man suffering from unrequited love. He needs to go to the station for a formal statement, and the apron, possible evidence. Helen, what did you learn?"
"There may have been an affair, Debra’s husband, and her best friend. Ginger, the young lady you talked to." Helen said proudly. The sole woman on the homicide team, Helen worked hard to prove herself, more due to her own lack of confidence than what others thought of her. Steven knew the respect she garnered and admired for her background. A former MP with the U. S. Army, wiry and strong, with a sense of humor that kept her in good standing with the other team members. Helen kept her shoulder-length, dirty blonde hair in a tight ponytail, with wispy tendrils constantly gathered around her eyes.
"Explains why they traded hours instead of working the same schedule." Steven added.
"Exactly, from what I understand, they used to work the same schedule, a few months ago, Ginger asked for different hours."
"Bring her in too, and get on the phone to the chaplain; I want the husband brought in tonight. Tell him it’s to make the ID."
"I’m on it," Helen said.
Good work, maybe we’ll have this one solved before morning." Steven closed his notebook and looked directly at Joe. "Well, Joe, what did you get from the customers?" Joe a fifteen-year veteran, former beat cop from New York, brought a good perspective, and worked well with large crowds, and his observances were uncanny. All brawn and bald, but call him Mr. Clean and you would regret your words. He had a Brooklyn brogue leaving no doubt about his origins.
"Sorry, Steve, not much, just the usual night out for a drink, first date, or standing dates. Two people were new to the place and the rest are regulars, I’ve information for follow-up if we need it. Most surprisingly, no one can imagine anyone threatening the girl."
Sergeant Anderson joined the group. "Have you solved it?"
"Joe, Helen, meet D. J. Anderson. First on scene, I’ve asked him to join us."
After a nod of acknowledgment, Steven continued, "We do have a few good leads. What did the coroner say?"
"The coroner’s taken her, and the alley’s been searched and cleared. No footprints, no trace evidence—at least not yet. The body may give up something. Oh, and no weapons have been located. The coroner is betting on a hunting knife." He looked at Steven. "Said he takes his coffee light, and will see you in an hour."
Steven nodded.
We’re done outside, but we still have a few security tapes to collect. Chancy has given us permission to go over the entire establishment. Forensics is on scene."
"Good work. Let’s get this place cleared out."
On the way back to his office, he planned his next step in anticipation of a long night. The computer would be helpful in finding background and financial information about the victim and suspects. Forensics would give him specific details about her death; however, those reports would not be back for hours, maybe even days or weeks. The husband, always the first suspect, claimed to have an alibi, babysitting. He knew a face-to-face interview would tell him much more. Tonight he would find out just how happy the Johnsons were and just how good his alibi was. If there had been an affair, he would discover if Debra’s unhappiness, or maybe unrequited love, played a part in her death.
He knew a long night waited, because he struggled to get those haunting green eyes from his thoughts.
* ******** *
A gust of wind reminded Sarah of the frigid air, after invading the warm confines of her fur-lined coat. In the warmth of the lobby, she removed her jacket and gloves while she waited at the elevator. She stepped inside just as a dark figure passed through the lobby. Sarah took little notice until right before the elevator door shut. She thought she recognized the person and fumbled with the button to open the door again, but the elevator began to ascend. She shrugged and relaxed for the ride to the top.
She opened the door of her apartment and a flash of red caught her eye. Kneeling to pick up the bright envelope when the telephone rang, she lost her balance and practically fell headfirst into the living room. She caught herself and raced to answer it. A sense of dread filled her. Calls after midnight usually brought bad news.
Cautiously she said, "Hello." She heard no sound, not even breathing from the other side. "Hello," she said a little louder. The individual on the other end waited a few moments and then disconnected the call without saying a word. She checked her caller ID: Caller Unknown, with no number. She put the card on her desk and walked to the fireplace to turn on the gas fire logs. She removed her boots and hung her jacket to dry. Still captivated by the weather she continued to watch the clouds sail east over the city’s skyline and to the mountains. The panoramic view of Cook Inlet to the north and the city to the east gave Sarah a feeling of being on top of the world, and she would often stand for hours contemplating life. She watched the flashing lights converge downtown, and a sense of trepidation filled her.
Despite the momentary distraction, her attention drifted to the envelope. Impatient to know its meaning she sliced the envelope open with a silver letter opener from her desk. She pulled out a red Valentine heart with the words "YOUR DEAD VALENTINE" printed in large block letters. The words struck her like an arrow, and an anguish she thought she would never feel again stole her breath. Standing, took too much effort. She settled onto the arm of the sofa. She looked the card over carefully, and tried to figure out who made vulgarity an introduction. Cut from construction paper, the letters were practiced and neat. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create the simple card, but with no signature, no clue identified the sender.
She stared at it, unable to grasp its meaning. She went back to the windows and gazed out at the inlet. Her heart pumped furiously, and a cold sweat covered her. She attempted to achieve calm by gazing at Sleeping Lady Mountain across the harbor.
She felt a connection with the mountain; its presence gave her peace. Mt. Susitna acquired the name—sleeping lady, because its shape resembled a maiden at rest. Legend said the young woman came from a tribe of giants that occupied the land in a bygone age, and when warring factions required her groom to negotiate a peace settlement, she lay down to sleep and awaited his return. He died in the war, and no one wanted to awaken her to give her the news. Sarah empathized with the story.
When she first visited the condominium, the view of the Sleeping Lady convinced her to buy it. Tonight the breathtaking view held her attention. The sky had cleared of clouds and the aurora borealis shimmered brilliantly above her. Sarah identified with her, because she had also lost the love of her life, and now she danced with Michael, only in her dreams.
The telephone rang. She reluctantly picked up the receiver because "unknown caller" flashed on the screen.
"Hello." Silence and then the click of a disconnection greeted her, again. The Valentine and the mysterious calls concerned her. Frightened by the thoughts racing through her head she began to feel paranoid. She pushed such thoughts aside, but disconnected the telephone anyway. Whatever the reason for the card, its intrusion, along with silent phone calls brought back a deep, piercing sadness, just as the police siren just minutes earlier in the park.
Her energy drained by an act of hate, she carefully put the offensive thing on her desk. Determined to fight her sorrow, she moved to the bathroom to fill the tub. A bubble bath always chased away the blues. She finished undressing and put a warm terrycloth robe around her chilled body. While the tub filled, she went back into the living room and poured a brandy. Gulping instead of sipping, she winced from the alcohols warmth and taste. The liquid coated her throat, but failed to chase away the chill. She stared out at the snow-filled night.
Remembering her bath water, she checked the locks on her door and tried to unwind amid bubbles, steam, and the scent of roses, but relaxation proved impossible. She put on a warm flannel nightgown, settled down in front of the fire, and slowly sipped another snifter of brandy. Finally warm she fell asleep. In dreamland, she danced with Michael.
The distant ringing of a telephone startled her, not the disconnected telephone on her desk, but the telephone insisting she answer, was in her bedroom. She glanced at the clock and shuddered when she realized the time—2:14 a.m.
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