Murder Take Two (eBook)

A Ross Agency Mystery

Delia C. Pitts (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
398 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-0951-9 (ISBN)

Infos

Two bitter friends. Two hustling brothers. Two killers in love. One detective in pursuit When cynical private eye SJ Rook is hired to guard the set of a hot new television show filming on the streets of Harlem, he expects his toughest challenge to be corralling star-struck fans. The task is simple: keep peace between fancy Hollywood invaders, loudmouth tourists, and rowdy neighborhood regulars. The sultry presence of an A-list star lights up the set and enflames Rook's imagination. But the detective's brush with Hollywood glamour quickly turns dark. All week, a TV big shot bids for Rook's attention with outlandish claims of murder threats. Rook dismisses these fears as dramatic excess spiced with Left Coast dazzle. But on the last night of filming, murder writes a grim finale to the production. With his client dead, Rook's pursuit of the truth begins. Hampered by remorse, he battles a secretive killer whose motives are hidden in plain sight. After a second murder, Rook's hopes for solving the case are dashed. He must reset for take two of the investigation. But the tragic past of an alluring actress and Rook's own unspoken desires complicate his hunt. Distracted by stardust, the detective's struggle to sort fact from fantasy takes on deadly urgency when the killer makes Rook the last target.

Textauszug

One

I jabbed my father’s old hunting knife into the mottled oak surface of my desk. Wood chips flew like scales from a gutted fish.

The squeal of gears rippled from the boulevard beyond my second-floor Harlem office. Though my window was shut against April’s chilly dawn air, I heard delivery vans, buses, and garbage trucks choke and grumble on their journeys. Thursday mornings always sounded sad to me: so far from the weekend; so close to exhaustion.

Blocks away, an elevated train shrieked an insult at nobody. My head throbbed in sympathy. I knuckled puffy eyelids as waves of caffeine tilted in my stomach.

Another stab, more slivers of wood jumped from my knife.

Detective work was a hurry up, cool-your-heels business. Lots of down time, ample idle hours. Between the inexcusable, the vicious, and the dreary, my cases left plenty of time for woodworking. Chiseling the hell out of my name was a perfect hobby.

I chipped another flake, then whisked shavings from Shelba Julio. Crisp and clean. That Lone Star between the two names was a cool flourish. Not bad for a city guy. Three years in New York, after two tours in Iraq, and I hadn’t lost all my country skills yet.

I swiped the three-inch steel blade against my jeans to remove sawdust. I wanted a spotless tool to start on ROOK this morning.

My swivel chair wobbled when I leaned back. That move made me regret the empty calories of fake French vanilla creamer I’d dumped in my third cup of coffee. My gut cried that real sugar or honest bourbon would have been a wiser bet.

I felt sorry for my six-forty-five a.m. self; this was not the prime-time version of me. My current job protecting--babysitting--a Hollywood TV crew filming on Harlem’s widest street had wrapped at three-thirty in the morning. Today’s first call was scheduled for eight. The office was closer to the set than my apartment, so I’d spent the brief night wrestling pillows on my leather couch.

As an operative with the Ross Agency, I corralled petty disturbances around our Harlem neighborhood. I dug up criminal records, nabbed thieves who preyed on scatterbrained relatives, or traced runaway spouses and skip-artist business partners. Assignments weren’t always safe or clean. Or even sane. The job stretched my imagination, often tested my grit. Working with my two bosses, Norment Ross and his daughter, Sabrina, I helped people and earned a few hundred bucks a week. The trade was fair: straightforward jobs for low-key clients. Good work, no frills. Ordinary laced with miles of tedium.

But this week in April was different. A taste of excitement after a bleak winter. I was hired security for Zenith Metropole Entertainment, a production company filming an episode of their hit TV show, Undaunted, in our neighborhood. My job was to enforce three-way peace between fancy Hollywood invaders, star-struck tourists, and rowdy regulars from Harlem’s streets. I’d spent four days neck-deep in fake blood and fantasy emotions. Tomorrow would be my last day swimming with the glamazons.

I tested the knife blade against my thumb, denting the skin. Ready for the cut into ROOK, I struck the wood for the first letter.

A shadow darted across the window, its form distorted by the grimy film on the glass. A pigeon. No, bigger. Maybe a hawk.

I slanted my eyes right, catching the shadow glide, waver, then stop. No bird.

An object, silver and thick, exploded the pane.

The knife bucked in my hand. An oak divot jumped from a gash in the desk. Soldier mode kicked in. I dropped my forehead to my knees, tensing fingers around my shins.

From behind the desk, I heard glass spit across the room, then a thunk. Something solid hit the floor. Shrapnel plinked my coffee mug. Five seconds; no blast. Five seconds more; all clear. I straightened from my crouch, knocking the file cabinet behind my chair as I stood.

Heartbeat slowing, I stepped past the sofa to a pile of shards below the windowsill. A brick, wrapped in tin foil, lay in the glass nest. I lifted the block and fingered a red shoelace that tied a sheet of paper to the brick.

“Fucking spineless clown.” I wanted the coward who’d wrecked my window. And my morning.

Cold streams of sunshine poured through a star-shaped hole in the pane. Cradling the brick, I looked past the cracked web to the roof of the grocery next door. Fumes of rotten flowers and bruised fruit pulsed on the updraft in the narrow gangway.

I saw a Black kid tip-toe along the roof edge, arms outstretched for balance. Steel-wool clouds framed his head, spikes of hair outlined against the morning’s raw glare. Snub nose, soft lips sucked in concentration. Jeans and yellow sweatshirt bagged over skinny limbs. I knew the brick-slinger: Randall Blunt was a twelve-year old neighborhood hotshot climbing the rungs to career criminal.

If I moved fast, I could cut off the kid’s escape in the alley behind our building. I counted on surprise. I figured Randall would retreat to his sister’s place or the local boxing gym. The quickest route to either was by the alley. I sprinted through the empty reception area to the hall beyond the suite’s outer door. At the end of the corridor, I plunged down the steps to the rear entrance.

A deli occupied the first floor of our building. When I pushed through the door to the outside, the stench of sausage, vinegar, and garlic fluttered across my face. Smashed produce boxes were stacked waist-high next to garbage bins along one side of the narrow cement court.

At the foot of the yard, I eased open the gate in the chain-link fence and waited. Clanking marked Randall’s trip down a fire escape. When he crept by, I sprang from behind a dumpster, grabbing the hood of his sweatshirt.

“Randall, my man. What’s up?” I twisted the cloth until the boy’s throat bobbled under my fist.

“Mr. Rook. I – I didn’t see you.” Wriggling, the boy clawed my fingers.

His eyes bulged, the brown pupils swimming. Sweat popped across his nose. A nice face, sweet even. Rich brown skin over baby features, cute gap between the two front teeth. Chocolate and nougat on Randall’s breath was Snickers, not the breakfast of champions. The lower lip tremble could have been fake. But no one was that good an actor.

I held the brick to his face. “You saw enough to toss this through my window.” A gust flicked the white paper.

“You--you were inside? I didn’t know. I swear, man… I didn’t mean to hurt nobody.”

“Not hurt, kid. My pride’s dinged, though.” I relaxed my grip but didn’t smile. He staggered. I jerked him vertical. “Who put you up to this?”

“I ain’t telling.” He straightened to his full four-foot-ten, bony shoulders squared. “I’m no snitch, Mr. Rook.”

“Sure, kid.” I nodded, holding my stare.

We agreed on the code of the street: secrets demand silence. My left hand on the boy’s neck, I pinched the paper with my right thumb and forefinger. This page was cream-colored and stiff as a starched handkerchief. When I shook it loose, the brick plunked to the pavement. I unfurled the page and scanned it.

Perfume crawled from the paper. I recognized the mash of coconut, potting soil, and gardenia. My temporary TV boss, Opal Cunningham, smelled like this--earthy and obvious. I held the sheet at arm’s length to dodge the stink. Hand-printed block letters and four exclamation points screamed in black ink, the message a mile-high heap of drama:

“ROOK – PROTECT ME! MY MURDER IS NOT FAKE!!! -- Opal”

This was the fourth time in three days she’d made the same plea. Always with scowls and sighs galore. But no leads, evidence, or suspects. Opal gave me nothing to bite on. I’m a private investigator. I shred lies for a living. I needed more than a brick wrapped in a smelly memo to believe her death threat claim was real.

I barked at the kid, “How much did she pay you to deliver this note?”

Randall’s eyes bugged. He whispered, “You know her?”

“Of course. She’s my boss. She signed it, see?” I waved the paper, but I didn’t let him read it.

“No disrespect, man. But that butch with the shovel face is your boss?” Randall kicked the brick. The foil split. We watched pink chunks tumble through the rip. “I thought you worked for Old Man Ross at the detective agency.”

“I do.” Off his frown, I added, “Opal Cunningham is my temporary boss. This week only.”

Randall chewed the inside of his cheek as the plot twists fell into place.

“I saw you hanging around the set,” I said. “Scrounging errands, picking up extra coin.” I’d seen him sell baggies of weed to Zenith crew, including two deliveries to Opal Cunningham. I twisted his collar. “So, Opal hired you for this job?”

Maybe he was tired; maybe baffled by the mystery of adult ways. Whatever his reasons, Randall sighed, then spilled.

“Yeah, she asked me if I knew you, where you worked. I said sure. She handed me the brick, wrapped like a friggin’ birthday present with the note on it. Her funky perfume all over it.” He sniffed, then paused like a pro. “And she told me to throw it in your window.”

“Why not deliver at the front door, like a regular letter?”

“Naw, Opal’s a stone freak, man. She’s...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 22.2.2022
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-0951-2 / 1667809512
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-0951-9 / 9781667809519