I’m fifteen years older than Ryan, and I possess not a single one of his virtues. I routinely fail at almost everything I try in life, including my persistent attempts to dislike him. The best I can muster is to officially disapprove of him.
I am what they call a recovering alcoholic. It’s a truly stupid phrase, and I despise it. I still have enough brain cells to understand why you don’t want to call yourself a recovered alcoholic. After all, what’s the point of tempting God or Fate or the Boss of All Shit That Happens? You tell Him you know you’re not going to drink anymore, He’ll make time in His busy schedule to stomp your sorry soul once more—and then hand you a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
You know that old saying, If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans? From where I sit, that’s no compliment. It’s one thing to be omniscient and therefore know that, for most people, things are going to turn to shit. But then to laugh about it? Guy in the next cubicle acts like that, everyone calls him an asshole.
So I’m a recovering alcoholic, which means I’ll know I’m done drinking when they pump me full of formaldehyde. I go to AA almost every day, and most days I stay sober. Drinking cost me my family. Losing my ex-husband, Bruce, was inevitable anyway and probably goes in the Good Riddance column. Not being able to help keep my son, Tommy, out of some serious trouble because I was busy puking, pissing myself, passing out, and frequenting motels that charge by the hour—that one brings me to my knees quite often. But I know I’ll get over that regret—as soon as I get that formaldehyde.
Ryan was talking with Harold Breen, our longtime Medical Examiner. At forty-eight, Harold is a little older than me. He’s about five-seven, three-hundred and fifty pounds, and he walks by pushing the left side of his body forward a little, then his right, then his left. Finally, he builds up a rhythm and his body just keeps moving until he needs to slow it down and stop. He huffs and puffs when he walks, like a steam engine hauling too many cars up a steep incline. He dresses head-to-toe in polyester, shiny with wear, the more hideous the pattern and putrid the color, the merrier. He’s got Velcro on his Hush Puppies, stubble in the folds of his chins, sweat on his shiny scalp, even out here—in Montana, in February, before the sun rises and the temp hits double digits. If I was a guy who eats like I used to drink, I’d look just like Harold. Because he is just about the kindest man in the world, I love him completely and expect to do so until I die or he does, whichever comes first.
The third party near the yellow tape was Robin, our Evidence Tech. To compensate for the indignity of being tall and slender, with good bones, smooth skin, faint freckles, and the kind of blond hair that recalls the early Beach Boys, Robin is on an endless quest to reject traditional ideas of feminine beauty. This week, her hair sports pink and aqua highlights, there’s a new turquoise stone on the end of her silver eyebrow loop, and a second diamond stud has appeared in her left nostril. She’s the only other female I work with routinely and, against all odds, the only person in the whole department who curses more than I do. Her eyes light up and she gets a big grin when she discusses a fan-fucking-tastic semen stain on a vic’s skirt or a motherfucker of an orange pube she just yanked from some dead guy’s crotch. Although I admire her skills and enthusiasm for the job, we don’t socialize.
Ryan, Harold, and Robin were standing just outside the crime-scene tape that formed the perimeter of this little patch of gnarly trees, scrubby shrubs, and wild grasses. The river takes all kinds of weird curves down here, but the Greenpath was laid out a little straighter, presumably so bikers had a better chance of seeing and therefore not flattening any of the hundreds of doddering old bats out for a walk with Snowball. When the Greenpath was paved about twenty years ago, the city left the little patches of trees and brush as they were between the pavement and the river. And that’s apparently where our vic was resting, presumably in peace.
I walked over to the three of them, buttoning up my coat against the icy breeze. It’s always a few degrees cooler here on the river than it is among the buildings downtown, which can be pleasant in our six- or seven-week summer but isn’t that wonderful when the sun hasn’t appeared yet in the middle of a typically ferocious February. My feet crunched the patches of frost as I walked carefully over the uneven ground littered with exposed roots, brittle sagebrush, and river rocks the size of grapefruits.
I turned and looked back at the parking lot. Even though I didn’t know anything except that there was a croaker in the area, my instinct was this was probably a drop site, not the murder scene. It was a little too exposed for killing someone. With the Greenpath and the company buildings within sight, it would be smarter to kill the vic in the comfort of your own home, then take him for a ride. If you knew what you were doing, you could carry a body from your car to the cottonwoods in less than thirty seconds, then be back on the road in another ten.
“Good morning, gang,” I said to my three colleagues. Ryan gave me a good smile. Harold and Robin muttered something about morning. We all had our hands shoved in our pockets and were bobbing up and down on our toes.
Ryan said, “Female, eighteen to twenty-five. Three stab wounds in her abdomen. Some green slimy stuff from the river stuck to her body, and sand all over her back, her buttocks, and the backs of her legs. All underneath her clothing.”
“Two sets of tracks on the ground, like heel prints,” Robin said. “Like she was dragged down to the river and then back up to where she is now.”
“She was stabbed and dunked?” I said.
Harold pulled his hands out of his pockets and shook them. He blew on one fist, then the other. “What it looks like. Can’t tell what order. Robin might be able to figure it out by looking at the holes in her tee shirt.”
“Yeah,” Robin said. “I took a quick look at the shirt. The holes in the fabric don’t exactly line up with the wounds.”
“Come again?” I said. Did I mention it was early? And really cold?
“Follow me,” Robin said. I lifted the tape so Robin could duck under it and lead me to the body, which was underneath a tent that had been set up earlier to protect the crime scene from shit falling onto it. The common-approach path had already been laid out with our new metal stepping-stone plates. We started using them a few months ago. Robin had put out the plates on a path she hoped didn’t have any forensic evidence. Everyone who entered the scene had to walk on the plates. It was a pain in the ass, but worth it: we didn’t waste as much time looking for a murderer wearing the shoes on Ryan’s feet.
The vic was fifteen yards in. A young girl. Black hair, pretty. Asian or something. The copper skin on her arms and face was a mottled grey, the arms covered with goose bumps. She was wearing just a tee shirt, jeans, and socks. Looking at her, I felt a shiver run through my body.
Robin bent down, still standing on a metal plate. “She had her shirt on when she was stabbed,” she said, pointing to the three identical slices through her shirt in an area maybe three inches square, stomach-high but a little to the left. “If you look close at the area, you can see the ridges on her skin through the cloth.”
“Yeah.” I crouched down. “I see it.”
“The holes in the shirt don’t line up with the wounds. Same pattern, but they’re about an inch off.”
“As in the killer took her shirt off and then put it on again.”
Robin nodded, then stood up straight. It took me a little more effort to stand up. We walked back on the metal plates, out to the tape, and over to Ryan and Harold.
Ryan said, “For some reason the killer took the girl’s clothes off, dunked her, getting the slimy green stuff on her, then brought her back on shore, laid her down on the sand, and dressed her.”
Harold said, “I might be able to help you with the sequence when I put her on the table.”
“When did she die?” I said.
“Rigor is just starting,” Harold said, bobbing up and down on his toes. “I’d say ten pm to two am.”
I looked at Ryan. “She didn’t have a co
at or anything?”
He shook his head. “I’ll get some uniforms to do a grid search, but I didn’t see anything when I did a quick once-over in the area here.” He was pointing to the area inside the tape.
“You see it as a dump job?”
Robin said, “Looks like it. No blood under her or in the area.”
“You got a purse or something?”
“Nothing yet. No ID. A twenty and three ones in cash folded in her pocket,” Robin said. “A bandanna in her back left pocket.”
“No keys, no phone?”
“Not that I’m seeing.” She pointed her chin toward the river. “Maybe they’re in there,” she said. “Wanna roll up your pants?”
“Sounds like fun,” I said. “Lemme see what we’ve got first. Who discovered the body?”
“A jogger,” Ryan said, “about an hour ago. He saw her from the Greenpath.”
“The jogger legit?”
Ryan nodded. “He stuck around for me to get here. I interviewed him.” He patted his chest pocket, where he keeps his notebook. “I let him go a few minutes ago. He was all dressed up in spandex gear, complete with those shoes that look like feet. I got his contact information. He’s a lawyer downtown.”
“Okay,” I said.
Ryan said, “Want to get the dive team to look for a phone?”
I shook my head. “There won’t be anything in the river. He killed her somewhere else, dropped her here. All he’s left here is the stuff he wanted us to find. If there’s a phone, it’s at his place or he tossed it somewhere else.”
“Any thoughts on why he wanted her to be found here?”
“No idea.” I shook my head. “There’s a bunch of other places he could’ve dumped her if he didn’t want us to find her. So he thought it through, a least a little bit.” I paused. “Why don’t we wait and see what Robin and Harold figure out. We’ll probably be able to ID her easily enough from a Missing Persons, and we’ll get her phone records. The only thing we’ll miss out on from not having a phone is her speed dials and her pissed-off birds.”
I looked over at Harold, who was gazing across the river at nothing in particular. “You okay?” I said.
He shook his head. “Hate it when I see a kid like this get killed. Young girl, I look at her and see my daughter.”
We stood there a moment, and I squeezed his arm gently through his puffy coat. “Okay, Harold, anything you need from us before we head back?”
“No, the scene is secure.” He gestured to the tent. There was one officer there, and two protecting the perimeter. “The wagon will be here in a couple of minutes. I’ll get together with Robin when we get the girl back to the station. We’ll talk to you later this morning.”
“Thanks, Harold.” I turned to Ryan. “Think it might be time to figure out who this girl was.”
He nodded. “See you back at headquarters.” He started walking toward his car.
I pulled my coat tighter against my body and walked back toward the tape. I ducked under it and followed the steel plates to the tent. I looked down at the girl’s body. “What happened to you?” I said softly.
“Did you say something to me, Detective?”
I looked up, startled, at the uniform on duty, a woman whose name tag said Brown.
“No, I just … No, I didn’t say anything.” I turned and headed back on the steel plates.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Markel teaches writing at Boise State University and is the author of many articles and eight books about writing and literature.
He also writes the Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery series, which is set in the fictional small city of Rawlings, Montana, home of Central Montana State University. That university is somewhat like Boise State University, but in Rawlings the weather is colder, the football team less successful, and the murder rate much, much higher.
Mike lives with his wife in Boise.
Follow Mike Markel on Facebook: https://on.fb.me/1kyJHFE
Read Mike's tweets: https://twitter.com/mikemarkel
Visit Mike's website: https://mikemarkel.com
HOODOO MONEY
Book One inThe Stolen Nickel Series
by
Sharon Cupp Pennington
Copyright © 2014 Sharon Cupp Pennington
Cover design by Sharon Cupp Pennington
A vicious mugging outside a New Orleans cemetery shakes up author Braeden McKay's quiet, structured world -- but that's only the beginning of her misfortune. Accident, betrayal, murder. Is Braeden's run of bad luck caused by the nickel her friend stole from the grave of a hoodoo woman? What can she do about it now? She has no idea where the confounded nickel is. Clearly someone or something is bent on harming Braeden McKay, and it's up to Detective Sanderson Montgomery to protect her while keeping his heart out of the mix. Can love, the very entanglement Braeden wants no part of, be the one force greater than any adversary -- even a hoodoo curse?
Please press “Next Page” on your e-reader for the first chapter of Hoodoo Money.
Hoodoo Money
by Sharon Cupp Pennington
PROLOGUE
Chicago, Illinois...
Sweating profusely, Lee Allen Dalrymple carted his 280-pounds up a second flight of stairs. “Damn elevator,” he huffed. “Been on the fritz more times than not since I moved into this overpriced apartment.” But a broke-down elevator was the least of his aggravation. Braeden McKay had flat refused to give him the crime scene photos from the Dodding murder. “Bitch.”
New shoes pinched Dalrymple’s swollen feet. His head ached. Perspiration stung his eyes and plastered his white shirt to his back under a suit jacket that cut into his shoulders.
“McKay’s the cause of all my misery.” He lumbered through the door of his darkened apartment juggling mail, his laptop and battered valise.
During this most recent trip to Texas, he called forth every ruse concocted in nineteen years of free-lance journalism. Three days of impromptu meetings, deep-fried meals and all-out groveling, and he hadn’t worn her down a lick.
He kicked the door shut, and the vibration skewed the signed lithograph on the wall next to the framed dust jacket of The Stoning of Renzo De Benedictis, his one and only bestseller. “Integrity’s for Boy Scouts,” he grumbled. People had lewd appetites, and satiating those appetites had made him a lot of money.
He couldn’t recall any other time a woman looked him straight in the eyes and told him her conscience wasn’t for sale. But McKay had leaned across a glass of expensive merlot, shook his hand and said in that irritating drawl of hers, “My decision is final, Mr. Dalrymple. Herbert Dodding is dead. I can’t change that. But neither will I contribute to a tell-all book that will follow those boys for the rest of their lives. You understand, sir, I’m sure.”
Like hell, he understood.
Why did she hold onto the photographs if she didn’t plan to use them, or any of the research she’d done into the old pervert’s murder? Her genre was children’s books, and the “Platypus Pearl” mystery series had made her the newest darling of the preteen set.
Not that she bragged about it. McKay was too refined, too genteel. Too damn Southern.
He dropped the mail in the wastebasket -- nothing but bills from his accountant -- placed the laptop on his cluttered desk and his valise on the floor. Lamp on, he shrugged out of the torturous jacket and headed for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in his kitchen cabinet. Frustration mothered an awful thirst, and Dalrymple was the thirstiest he’d been in forty-seven years of scandalous living.
He carried the bottle to the living room, grabbed the remote and switched on the television. He switched the set off just as quick. Today the news depressed him. Braeden McKay and her unwavering morality depressed him.
Anger surfaced in his shaking hands when he unscrewed Johnnie’s cap, splashed two fingers in a glass and threw back the amber liquid.
The muffled pop never registered as a gunshot, but an explosion of white light inside his
temple dropped Dalrymple to his knees. The last image his brain recorded as blood filled his mouth was a shadow lifting the laptop from his desk.
CHAPTER ONE
St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans, sixteen months later...
“What do you get when you bite a ghost?” Braeden McKay managed a weak smile and whispered, “A mouthful of sheet.”
The joke wasn’t any funnier now than it had been the first time her neighbor’s nine-year old nephew told it. Neither was spending an entire morning of her vacation in a cemetery. But she had promised Angeline she’d be her guest during the Fournier Cosmetics photo shoot. With the lure of a decadent lunch and antique shopping afterward, she could hold out a bit longer.
Four hours spent in the merciless Gulf Coast humidity, and Braeden’s natural curls resembled coppery cotton candy. She twisted her hair into a haphazard roll, fastened it with a large plastic clip, then fanned the back of her neck with the brochure from her pocket. Not that either helped.
Heading down the stone path dividing two rows of staggered sepulchers and patchwork grass, she was struck by the contrast between a century-old mausoleum and the camera crew packing their high-tech gear. She supposed the scene was no more odd than looking at a panoramic view of the cemetery with the city’s modern skyline behind it, or the honking of car horns carried through the old iron gates on a July breeze. This glorious mix was one of the characteristics she loved most about New Orleans: the blending of past and present, with ample deference given both.
“Now what are you doing?” She found her supermodel friend standing before a small tomb they’d discovered on a break earlier in the day.
“I’m gettin’ myself a souvenir.” Angeline leaned over the rusted iron fence marking Simone Dubois’ grave and plucked a coin off the mutilated brick. “You want me to get you one?”