Angel

Her heart thumped a lively beat as she walked casually through the gaudily decorated hotel lobby. Italy was beautiful this time of year but her mission hadn’t allowed any time for sightseeing, she had to hurry to catch her plane home. 
American CIA interpreter, Charles Albanese, lay on the floor in his hotel room with a bullet lodged in his forehead. The stunningly beautiful woman he had brought back to his hotel room had a lethal smile that could disarm any man as he had soon learned for himself.
Charles always preferred to face the door when frequenting the club, this vantage point allowed for him to view every woman that entered making it easy for him to assess their romantic situation quickly. He always searched for the one woman who inevitably ended up alone at the table while her friends hit the dance floor. Not his favorite type but an easy target for a night of his brand of fun.
She however was different, the long blond haired beauty waltzed into the club and sat alone at the far end of the bar occasionally passing him glances of interest. Charles watched as she adjusted the hem of her short black dress that showed off her delightfully long legs. Her shiny black stilettos were the icing on the cake. He imagined kneeling at her feet licking those heels satisfying his particular fetish. He sent over a drink and made his move.
“Call me Charlie.” He told her as he leaned in to her body daring to touch her knee.
She touched her hand to his moving it up her thigh. “Thanks for the drink, how long are you in Rome?”
Sensing a fish on a hook he answered. “Long enough to please you.”
He playfully buried his nose in her neck inhaling the intoxicating aroma of her high end perfume.
“I leave tomorrow. Care to help me make one last memory of my trip?” Her words dripped with southern honey.
His hotel was only a few blocks away he told her and he described to her the type of fun he was looking for. To his delight she was game telling him she was a lonely housewife and this trip to Italy was her chance to let loose while her husband made boring financial deals. Her husband she said suggested to her to explore the city while he wined and dined clients. He didn’t have to tell her twice she whispered into Charles’s ear as she discretely palmed his groin.
His passion ignited, he eagerly escorted her to his hotel room. Once she knew they were securely inside and alone she wasted no time pushing him to the floor onto his knees. Charles smiled lecherously, delighted the southern beauty who called herself by the unlikely moniker of Bobby Jo, had agreed to be his dominatrix for the night.
“Strip.” She demanded.
“Yes mistress.” He complied as she took a pair of handcuffs from her purse letting them dangle from her finger in front of him. “Hands behind your back.” Another demand met by her willing submissive.
She blindfolded him leaving his world dark.
“You’ve been very naughty haven’t you?”
“Yes mistress.” He bent over to lick her shoes. She kicked his head back and leaned over him. 
“I didn’t ask for you to do that! Sit back and wait Charlie, we have a few business details to discuss before pleasure.”
He dropped his shoulders in disappointment. He berated himself for not having seen this coming she was after all, too good to be true. “Alright how much?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Charlie let’s not be so hasty I don’t want money what I want is far more important, now give me the disk”
“Wh…what?”
She slipped the belt off his discarded pants and snapped it near his ear. “Don’t insult me by playing stupid. You knew stealing it would be foolish. The information on it is too valuable not to be tracked. Did you really think you could broker a deal?”
His body jerked with uncontrollable shakes struggling to lift himself off his knees. “Who are you?”
She flayed the belt squarely across the chest. “Stay down if you know what’s good for you.” She pushed him back down with her heel. “To answer your question, in some circles I’m known as Angel and if you’re lucky and give me what I want then maybe I will be merciful towards you. I’m only going give you one more chance to chose my mercy, where is the disk?”
Charlie sobbed. His scheme to sell new smart bomb technology to the highest bidder was unraveling faster than a snagged sweater and now he knew there was a slim chance he was getting out of this alive. His only choice now was to hope she would be true to her word if he gave it up.
“It’s in my suitcase.” He whispered.
She took off his blindfold. “Where in the suitcase?”
She was cautious remembering her lessons in training to be aware of traps.
“Zipper right side pocket.” He answered gazing into the angel of death’s eyes. “Please don’t kill me I’ll give you anything you want, I’ll disappear I swear!”
“I hate it when they beg.” She mumbled to herself. “Charlie the time to think about that darling would have been before you betrayed your country. These plans get into the wrong hands millions of innocent people could be killed around the world.”
“But they’re not nuclear just localized smart bombs for precision strikes. Governments will get a hold this stuff sooner or later” He tried to argue. “I just needed the money to pay off some debts.”
She shook her head. “You are just too stupid to live ain’t you darlin’! You either think I’m that dumb or you really have no idea what it is you stole.”  She pulled her revolver out of her purse and attached the silencer.  Removing his cuffs she told him, “Doesn’t matter which, either way you’re in it deep, now open your mouth.” She forced the gun practically to the back of his throat making him gag.  “Retrieve it for me and don’t get smart, if you’re a good boy I might consider letting you live understand?”
Nodding his understanding through his tears he scooted on his knees to his suitcase and handed her the disk. 
“Pwease.” He said with a mouth full of cold steel. “Wet mwe go.”
She removed the gun from the crying man’s throat wiping off his tears and spit from the barrel. “I’m sorry darlin’ I lied. My bosses would never allow you to live, in fact they’d never let me breath another day if I didn’t dispense with you, so honey, it’s either you or me and I have a child to think about. If you’re a praying man I’d do it now.”
“You crazy bitch! I gave you what you wanted! Please don’t do this!”
Her cold violet eyes were the last thing he saw as the bullet tore itself through his brain and spattered out the back of his head.
She cleaned the room with precision of any traces of her DNA. Her blond wig now discarded to reveal her natural long raven hair as she exited the hotel with his suitcase in hand. It would be a few days before the smell from the dead body would alert the housekeeping staff that something was amiss, thanks to Charles’s previous demand at the front desk that he not be disturbed for a few days. By then the hotel management will have discovered their security cameras were disabled with a running loop of old footage of vacationers coming and goings.
Charles’s CIA employer will have quietly disavowed any wrong doing on his part avoiding a potential international scandal and he would be forgotten as an unfortunate victim of a robbery gone wrong. She left nothing in his hotel room, not even his underwear. At his funeral his beleaguered wife would be given a folded flag for his service to his country. 
She snuck into her daughter’s room late from catching the red eye and kissed the sleeping child. She slid the new plush teddy bear under the five year olds arm smiling softly as her little angel rolled over hugging her new toy without ever waking up.
Her husband waited in the doorway taking her by the hand leading her to their bed. He respected her need for silence when she returned from her trips instead opting to hug her tightly. Nestled in his strong arms she fell asleep draping her body over his. 
Another mission completed.

Femme Fatale

Enjoy this short story!

The leggy blond sauntered down the long staircase one carefully measured step at a time. Angelique Leone the iconic bombshell with the curvaceous silhouette and come hither pout that adorned many soldiers walls, was in her third day of shooting.  She was headlining in her second motion picture for Sandstone pictures of a four movie deal contract. The studio had pumped a ton of money into the flick and even more money into her glamorization makeover.  Angelique Leone’s name on her birth certificate which was stashed discreetly away in her father’s safe in Texas, was Jane Lenny; not exactly a top billing box office name.

She arrived in Hollywood at twenty years of age with ten dollars in her pocket and a prayer to land any kind of studio contract until a friend in the business revealed to her the real game. It was a hard lesson and one Jane wasn’t happy to learn. Crying alone in her small rundown apartment after losing her virginity to a fat balding casting director on the proverbial casting couch, she contemplated suicide. Returning home would only garner her shame for her actions.

The call came that evening just moments before she was ready to swallow a handful of pills with the joyous news of a studio contract. Apparently the casting director liked her ‘audition’ and recommended her for a small role in a new movie. If the camera agreed with her she would be considered for a larger role in the next one.  The meeting she had with the movie’s director the next morning would change her life forever, 1940 was going to be her year.  The first thing he did was give her a new name, a name that would soon be synonymous with sultry sensuality and unbridled sex, a name that went before a team of studio execs to be decided upon and a name she was not allowed to have a choice in deciding.

“Cut!” the grumpy red faced director Ronald Sizemore yelled. “Damn it! Who’s to dumb fuck that put this stupid plant at the bottom of the stairs? Get it out of here.” He kicked the fake potted plants over. “Everybody take five!”

Angelique threw her hands up in the air and marched down the stairs. “How many times are we going to do this? My feet are tired!” She flipped her long platinum blond hair from her shoulders.

The 6’2” stoutly director glared at her. “You’ll do it as many times as I want you to. Don’t forget your place!”

Her place was becoming one of more influence thanks to her overnight meteoric rise in celebrity and he knew it. He hated the idea that this shy little Texan girl was learning how to wrestle control in a male dominated industry.

“I’m going to lie down. I’ll be in my dressing room alone.” She emphasized loudly.

“Lay off the pills today.” He barked back. His brown eyes angrily dared her to disobey.

She turned on her heel sashaying off the set and into the early afternoon sun. Donning her sunglasses she made her way across the studio lot and hopped on a golf cart heading to her private oasis, the dressing room she demanded without hesitation as her star power started to shine. It was a dangerous game of wills and she knew it. The studio machine had the power to make or break her if she didn’t play her cards right, a heady position for a twenty two year old who gained a lifetime of wisdom in the eighteen months since that fateful audition.

Her dressing room was decorated in all pinks, every shade available was represented. From the deep pink special ordered carpeting to the bubblegum lampshades. She hated pink. Angelique was simply sticking it to the studio for what she considered rape by the fat, nasty smelling casting director. The temporary dressing room cost about as much as a new car to redecorate. Ironically the more she misbehaved the more her star power grew.

The public loved her. Young ladies longed to be her. Men self fulfilled their sexual fantasies against the backdrop of her half naked pinups. The attention her small role in that first movie garnered her was a Hollywood dream.  A well placed one liner catch phrase with fantastic lighting of her pouty full lips and she became America’s new sweetheart. It had even taken the studio execs by surprise. No one was more surprised than the demanding narcissistic director Ronald Sizemore who had hoped she would be another young girl in his stable of bevy beauties he could call upon for licentious scenery and behind the scenes sex. He assumed she was an innocent kitten he could use and abuse till she was washed up.

Angelique proved to be tougher than she looked given in part to her hard scrabble upbringing in the vast expanse of her father’s Texas ranch.  Not to mention his liberal use of a belt for discipline. Her brothers fared worse under his tutelage of hard farm work and beatings, both boys leaving his tyranny as soon as they came of age. She was the only one left at home when his second wife also made an escape. Frightened to stay knowing she would be an easy target for his drunken anger, she boarded a bus and headed to L.A. with a promise of fame and easy fortune.

Frantic knocking on her dressing room door woke her from her slumber. Wrapping her silk dressing gown around her she opened the door to reveal two LAPD officers.

“Sorry to disturb you ma’am.  We need you to come with us.” The tall uniformed officer said.

“What is the meaning of this?” She demanded.
 

Officer Brady responded. “Ronald Sizemore is dead. Please get dressed and come with us or we will be forced to take you like this.” The officer looked her up and down lecherously grinning.
 

She stumbled back and fell into her lounge chair. “Dead? But how?”
 

“That’s what we want you to tell us.”

The squad car pulled up in front of the station with its siren blaring, someone had already tipped off the newspapers and fan rags as light bulbs flashed incessantly blinding her even with her sunglasses on.  Officer Brady roughly grabbed her arm from the back of the black and white dragging her away from the throng of cameras and reporters calling out her name.

She was seated in a hard wooden chair in a lonely room, her silk scarf still wrapped around her head and neck. She pulled a cigarette and holder from her purse. “Can I please get a light?” She yelled, aware that they were watching her from behind the two way mirror. Detective Jarden entered with his lighter in hand. Sitting himself across from her he lit her cigarette as she crossed her legs allowing her skirt to rise up enough to tantalize him. It didn’t go unnoticed.
 

“Am I under arrest?” she asked.
 

“No.” he replied.
 

“Do I need a lawyer?”
 

“Depends, did you shoot him?” He licked his lips as she adjusted the hem on her knee.
 

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him. “Up until now I didn’t even know how he died, how could have I shot him?”
 

Detective Jarden snickered pushing an ashtray her way. “You were seen having words with Mr. Sizemore before he died and it’s been rumored you had a beef with him. Do you own a gun Ms. Leone?”
 

“Of course, a single girl has to protect herself in this big bad city, but that doesn’t make me a killer.”
 

“You’re right, but what about the argument? You had words with him and then disappeared.” He lit his own cigarette and placed his fedora on the table next to his notebook.
 

“Ronald was a hard man to work for detective. He made many questionable demands and berated the staff constantly, doesn’t mean I wanted him dead. He had enough enemies for that.”
 

“But he is dead. Can you account for your whereabouts after one o’clock?”
 

Angelique sighed. She knew where this was headed. She had verbally threatened to shoot Ronald if he ever touched her again several weeks before. He didn’t like to be told no so he had punched her in the face daring her to complain, promising to ruin her if she didn’t comply with his demands. The bruises took days to disappear putting the movie shoot seriously behind schedule. The studio attributed it to the press as Ms. Leone’s ongoing bought with the flu.
 

“I was in my dressing room napping.” She advised curtly.
 

Sitting back in his chair unbuttoning his suit coat, Detective Jarden gave her a sly smile. “Napping? Was there anyone with you?”
 

She glowered in contempt. “No, I was alone the whole time.”
 

“Too bad, no one to corroborate your story.”  He said tapping his ash in the tray.

“You also have no proof it was me. I know my rights detective, I demand you let me leave.”
 

Detective Jarden snapped his fingers and the two officers who brought her in appeared. “Take Ms. Leone home please.” He told them. “I’ll be in touch.” He said as she walked away.

Angelique took her constantly ringing phone off the hook, dressed herself in a silk floral nightgown and poured herself a drink. It had gone as planned. That jackass would never force himself on her again. The back alley abortion he had forced her to have that nearly killed her was listed as another bout of illness by the studio. Her son had laid in pieces on a crude table next to the coat hanger used to destroy him and she vowed then to kill the man who did this to her.  She held the evening’s paper in her hands reading the headline. ANGELIQUE LEONE QUESTIONED IN DIRECTORS DEATH! Even bad publicity was good publicity.

She closed her eyes reliving her day. He had appeared in her dressing room ready for another romp. The whole scene on the set of overturned flowers and anger at the staff to call a break was planned by him so he could get her alone. They had done this dance before and she knew her steps well, he had seen to that with his repeated threats and punishments. He showed up to her dressing room fifteen minutes after her departure as to not arouse suspicion. Three knocks on the door was his signal it was him. She opened the door holding a handkerchief as a sign to the unseen men hovering around the corner hallway. George and John Lenny, her older brothers, gagged and bound Ronald dragging him to a waiting car behind her dressing room taking him back to the empty set. The always punctual catering truck took care of any set crew that lingered behind. The studio paid free food was always a sure fire guarantee to draw a crowd.

Her brothers had slipped him in the back entrance unnoticed amid the props and various scenery's. Unbinding their victim and removing his gag, she gave him only one command. “Run.” She said as she raised her hand pulling the trigger.  No one would have paid attention to the shot thanks to the noisy western they were filming in the next sound stage. Her aim was as good as any man’s her father had made sure of that. It was after all a necessary skill if you lived on a Texas ranch.

The bullet landed squarely in the back of Ronald’s head and exited out the front taking half his skull with it. Her brothers stealthily slipped her back to her dressing room and in mere minutes were driving out of town with the fired pistol. 

“Ms. Leone, Ms. Leone, how does it feel to be cleared of all murder charges?” the hapless reporter pestered her on her way to the red carpet premiere of her new movie ‘Femme Fatale’.

She stopped and turned in her red dress designed just for her movie premiere placing her hand on her ample hip with a big toothy smile. “Darlings, was there ever any doubt!”

The Body Hunters: Dirty Secrets, Naked Truth Excerpt- Alistair Brogan's Murder

Enjoy a sneak peek at the first chapter in the third book in The Body Hunters series.

Alistair Brogan’s eyelids cracked open a little after one in the morning. Through sheer stubbornness he continued to lay there, willing himself to fall back to sleep. After nearly an hour of watching the digital digits on his alarm clock mark the passing time, Alistair gave it up. At the moment sleep wasn’t going to allow him to escape the mess of his creation.

He forced himself to sit up. He ran a hand through his tousled grey hair, which stood straight up like muddy icicles.  The space in the king size bed beside him was empty; a few blond hairs on the pillow the only trace of the high priced call girl with whom he’d spent part of the evening.  Obviously his meter had run out and she’d gone off in pursuit of the next paying client.

Alistair winced as the soles of his feet touched the frigid bedroom floor, the wood cut from some rare tree from the Amazon.  He slipped into a pair of handcrafted silk slippers, monogrammed with his initials.  He was considering not even bothering with a shower, until his own body funk assailed him. 

Alistair shuffled to the bathroom with its heated tile floors, his worries heavy on his shoulders.  He gazed at his nude form in the bathroom mirror.  He didn’t look too bad for a chap well beyond the half century mark.  His eye sight had been corrected with laser surgery so he no longer required the grandfatherly glasses he used to wear.  His hair was expertly cut by a stylist known to have clipped the hairs of U.S. Presidents and heads of state.  His fingers pinched his waist, finding no trace of the love handles that had plagued him for years, his belly flat and taut like a fashion model half his age.  His unforgiving personal trainer had seen to that and the man’s exorbitant fee had been money well spent. 

A personal shopper made sure that his walk in closet was overflowing with fine garments and shoes that befitted a man of his wealth and stature.  A fleet of fine automobiles filled the garage of his mansion, while a handful of servants waited on his every beck and call.  When Alistair talked, people paid attention.  Everywhere he went people knew him and wanted to be around him.  To the outside world Alistair Brogan was the picture of power and influence, but why did he feel so hollow inside?

When Alistair looked at himself in the mirror all he saw was staring back at him was the face of a con man and a thief.  Alistair Brogan, CEO of Capital Securities Associates or C.S.A. was guilty of running a Ponzi scheme.  He’d duped corporations, charities, middle class workers, and little old ladies out of billions of dollars.  Over the years, he kept telling himself that he’d go on the straight and narrow and clean up the mess he’d started, but as the years went by he only got deeper and deeper in the tar pit of his own making. 

Just a few months ago, Alistair had developed a plan that would allow him to pay off all his investors back in full. The plan would take time to pay off, precious time he no longer had. Unfortunately, there was no more sand in his hour glass and two weeks ago the whole house of cards came crashing down.

A legion of FBI agents in their windbreakers descended on C.S.A.’s headquarters in Savannah in search of a paper trail.  The SEC had been investigating him for years and finally had gathered enough evidence for a warrant.  Like buzzards swooping down on a carcass, the media was all over the story.  Cameras and microphones were shoved into the faces of clueless C.S.A. employees and Alistair’s equally clueless friends and family.

Alistair was exiled from his circle of friends as soon as the news broke.  He’d gone from a VIP to the most hated man in America in mere days.  His victims now paraded outside the gate of his mansion with their torches and pitchforks, calling for the head of the monster.  His former friends treated him like he was poisonous, avoiding any contact with him.  Alistair felt like he didn’t have an ally in the world.

The arraignment was mercifully quick and his hot shot lawyer was able to get Alistair released on bond and put on house arrest.  Thankfully he was able to avoid wearing one of those awful tethers, since the lawyer negotiated the surrender of his passports.  Alistair was now confined to his luxurious seven bed room, Savannah, Georgia mansion.  With the house empty since he fired his staff, the mansion was even more like a prison.  Save for the occasional call girl, Alistair was in solitary confinement with no other human contact.

As he stood in the shower letting the steaming jets of nearly scalding water work over his exhausted muscles, Alistair reminisced over his past transgressions and his pitiful existence. 

He’d never been much of a husband or father. He knew now that he was never worthy of his first wife, his one true love, Cindy Good.  She was truly a saint who’d put up with his lying and cheating for years, but even saints have their limitations.  She’d taken their children and had been living happily ever after for years.

Wife number two was a conniving temptress who was only after his money.  She’d abandoned him as soon as she’d gotten word of the charges against him and the possibility of losing everything of which she’d grown accustomed.

The disappointment in his eldest son’s face whenever he looked at him was enough to kill him. It was a wonder that Alistair Jr. didn’t change his name to avoid all association with his fallen father. Luckily he was spared the judgment of his daughter who lived in Europe with her husband and children. It was one thing to be a bad father, another to be publicly branded a crook.

How ironic that the one child he could truly lean on at this time was his problem child, his youngest son Carl, by his second wife.  It was Carl, the former drug addict, who comforted Alistair with words of wisdom and encouragement. While he was never charged with anything as serious as running a Ponzi scheme, Carl had seen the inside of a jail cell on several occasions in his relatively short life and knew what they were up against.

Ceasing the ruminations on his children and turning off the punishing spray of water using the digital touch screen panel, Alistair stepped out of the glass enclosed shower.  The scent of his musky imported body wash and shampoo lingered on his skin.  Donning just his silk bathrobe, he headed downstairs, taking in the things he’d accumulated over the years.

As he passed the baby grand piano in the living room, he reminisced on the items he’d acquired.  There was the antique Persian rug he’d acquired in Morocco, the antique vase from Malaysia, a collection of hand blown glass ornaments from Italy.  These items he cherished would soon be auctioned to the highest bidder to cover the losses that his clientele had suffered because of his schemes.  His bank accounts were already frozen and it was only a matter of time before his property was seized.

His breath caught in his throat as if he could feel the walls of justice closing in on him.  His lawyer insisted on pleading not guilty, but Alistair knew that his days were numbered.  He was guilty as sin and he was going to spend the rest of his earthly existence and part of the afterlife in a federal prison.

Trying to shake off the stress, Alistair arrived at the room containing his indoor pool.  The combination of the chlorine and the heated water made the room hot and the air hard to breathe.  Shrugging out of his robe, he stepped into the warm waters.  He swam laps around the pool until his arms and legs felt like they’d been injected with lead.  The dull pain helped to lower his anxiety level.

“Nice day for a swim, huh?”  A masked figure dressed in black emerged from the shadows, a gun gleaming in its hand.

“Wh-who are you?”  In near panic, Alistair quickly cinched the robe around his waist.

The intruder never answered, letting the sound of the gunshot speak for him. A jet of red black blood sprayed like a fountain from Alistair’s perfectly tanned neck.  He fell to his knees, his hands around his own throat, desperately attempting to stop the bleeding as his life flowed through his fingers.  Alistair’s voice was replaced by thick garbled static, the blood in his throat nearly gagging him. 

The dark figure stood less than a foot from Alistair’s crouching form and pulled the trigger again.  Grey matter and blood spatter made a mess of the white tile.   Alistair collapsed in a heap.   Death overrode any modesty as his robe fell open, leaving his naked body fully exposed.  The intruder fired two more rounds into Alistair’s skull before kicking the dead man into the pool.

A murky red cloud surrounded Alistair as he floated on top of the water like an overfed goldfish.  Satisfied with their handiwork, the intruder fled the room, carefully avoiding the blood on the floor.

Excerpt from The Body Hunters: Paradise Denied-Eric's Murder

Enjoy a snippet from the second novel in our series The Body Hunters: Paradise Denied. This is the murder of Eric Winston our suspect's first husband.

Eric Winston expertly trekked soundlessly over the rugged Alaskan terrain of Denali State Park. Mount McKinley, the highest mountain summit in North America, was in the backdrop, its snowy peaks stretching into the early morning sky. With the plush clouds and fluffy snowcaps, the breathtaking skyline looked like it had been painted by the hand of God. Denali State Park's scenery varied from lushly populated green forests to seemingly untouched icy tundra. Year round frozen glaciers jutted from the landscape like jagged shards of glass feeding into the cool channels and streams. Denali State Park was a nature lover's paradise.

Opting not to employee a guide like some inexperienced novice, Eric left camp at daybreak to explore the park. Not satisfied with the nature trails that catered to the tourist population of the park, Eric decided to walk on the wild side, literally. The temperature was comfortable, in the mid 60's, his sweat cooling off his body before it could accumulate. Eric was six foot tall, his body composed of lean muscle mass acquired from his active outdoors lifestyle. A mutinous mop of black hair covered his head and his eyes were the color of flint. His female fans on the blogs called him a heart throb. One zealous devotee even commented that he was a pretty boy, but the tangible type, not one of those Hollywood guys that needed makeup before they left the house. Eric liked the critique very much.

Today he was traveling light, dressed in loose fitting camouflage pants, a black long-sleeved t- shirt that clung to his upper body, and a hunter's orange hoodie. His lucky, well-worn Timberland boots protected his feet from toothy rocks and the roughened topography. Over his back he lugged a backpack full of health bars, water, his digital camera, batteries, and other necessary equipment, while on his left shoulder was a quiver full of arrows. He held his newly purchased compound bow in his hand, ready for his quarry.

For the better part of the morning he had been tracking a large, bull caribou. Being mid-August, he was just in time for caribou hunting season, and he wasn't going home empty handed. Eric kneeled, observing the fresh caribou tracks running along the stream. He cursed, having just missed the beast by mere minutes. The creature had stopped to drink from the stream before heading right back into the wilderness. Consulting his compass, Eric noted that the beast was headed east. He had been on the caribou's trail for awhile and wasn't going to lose him now.

Shifting the weight of his backpack and quiver on his muscled back, Eric followed the hoof prints. A stark white snow hare darted out of his path. Songbirds anointed him with their serenades as he entered the wooded area. Solid thickets of plant life impeded his travel, low hanging limbs from young spruce trees slapped him in the face, but he would not be deterred. This is the life he loved.

Eric Winston was the Wildman, or so he was called on his internet viral videos. He had started off filming some of his outrageous outdoor adventures and daredevil stunts, and the videos had become so popular he was nearly a household name. Taking advantage of his Harvard Business degree, the twenty-eight-year-old turned his love of the outdoors and extreme sports into a lucrative multimillion dollar enterprise. His was the face that graced bottles of sports drinks, outdoor equipment, and sportswear. His agent was even working out a deal for an MTV reality show. He had literally become his own brand. He was living the American dream.

A year ago he had finally met the woman with whom he wanted to share that dream. Amanda McDuff, or Crystal Rose as she was called during her stripping days, was now his wife. He had first met Mandy when he was out partying in Boston and visited a topless bar with some of his randy friends. As soon as Crystal Rose took the stage, Eric was immediately mesmerized and had to have her. Model tall with coffee brown, shoulder length hair and topaz brown eyes, Crystal Rose seemed to be looking right into his soul. The woman knew how to captivate the room, leaving every male in the bar drooling and ready to leave their wallets and credit cards with her. With her stunningly perfect breasts and even more perfect backside, Crystal Rose was exactly what men's fantasies were made of. With her first twirl around the pole, Eric was ready to throw her over his shoulder and lock her away in his apartment.

Instead, he waited around for her until the club closed. Sitting on the hood of his Porsche he was biding his time for her. At first she turned him down when he asked her out. But after three consecutive weeks of him showing up at the club on the nights she performed, Mandy finally relented.

Amanda was a Boston Community College Student, a computer programming major, stripping to pay her way through school. When they got engaged, Eric insisted that she give up her college aspirations to help with his career. She’d remained hard headed about the subject, refusing to give up her schooling, but things were about to change.

Two days ago they made it official and finally tied the knot. After a lavish private ceremony, he had spirited them away on a private jet to Alaska. To say that she didn't appreciate their honeymoon destination was an understatement.

At first she complained that she didn't want to sleep in a cold tent, let alone spending their wedding night making love on an air bed. After having to rough her up a little, Mandy let him have his way. She woke up complaining about the cold, and he was forced to get her straight again. Now that they were married, he wasn't going to be putting up with her nagging. She was going to do things his way, or else.

On his way out to hunt, she whined about bears and wolves in the woods, so he decided to leave her with his hunting rifle. The gun was probably too cumbersome for her, but it would stop her bellyaching. Besides, if any wolves or bears came around, she would probably be toast anyway.

Eric tried on a wry smile at the thought of her, the typical city girl, trying to survive an animal attack. He stopped short, spotting his prey in the next clearing. Like a ghost, Eric silently plucked an arrow from his quiver and pulled it back against the bow string, all in one fluid motion. He was envisioning having the caribou's head mounted on his office mantle as a wedding gift to himself.

A crack of thunder sent the startled caribou back into the woods. It was funny because the weather forecast hadn't predicted any rain at all. Eric started to look up and realized he couldn't move, but there was an agonizing pain in his back, like someone had ripped it open with a crowbar. Slowly he touched his fingers to his chest, to find them slick with blood.

There was another crack of thunder and he was face first on the forest floor, slowly slipping out of time and into eternity. The assailant stood over Eric and emptied two more bullets into the back of his skull for good measure. Stepping carefully around the body, the attacker headed back out of the forest.

Eric was dead, steam escaping from his body and dissipating into the cool, morning air. The scent of blood drew carrion crows who began feasting on the body. The crows scattered when a rogue grizzly bear approached. The bear nuzzled the body, before grabbing it by the leg and dragging it to its den.

Excerpt from The Body Hunters: Paradise Denied-Meeting the Cartwright's

Here's an excerpt from Book 2 in our series, The Body Hunters: Paradise Denied. In this snippet, our psychic detectives Aiden and Danielle meet with the grieving family of Jason Cartwright. Enjoy!

The JTC Technology Corporation campus occupied several hundred acres of San Jose real estate. The driver dropped Aiden and Danny off in front of the company's headquarters. For a few seconds they stood gaping at the sharp inclines and daring angles of the building's structural design which looked like some futuristic spacecraft from a science fiction movie. Security officers awaited them as they stepped into the expansive five-story complex. After signing the two of them in, giving them guest badges, and taking Danny's laptop out of her messenger bag and giving it a once over before giving it back to her, they were allowed to pass into the lobby.

Stepping into the headquarters was like entering a time machine into the future. The building's interior consisted of polished chrome, black marble and mirrored glass. Twin, glass enclosed elevators were located in the middle of the first floor, while a staircase that looked more like a glass art sculpture offered access to all levels of the building. The sun was nearly blinding, reflecting off the polished tile floor of the lobby. Since it was around lunch time, the atrium was hectic with activity. Mixed among the mundane sea of neutral office attire were what Danny assumed were the more relaxed creative geniuses in their brightly-colored classic cartoon and superhero T-shirts.

A man, no older than thirty of Asian descent was standing in the lobby near a large bronze sculpture of a hand holding a globe. His thin body was pretty much built like a stick figure, his polo shirt and khakis a couple sizes too large, hanging off his lanky frame. The smile he greeted Danny and Aiden with was as inviting as a bathtub full of ice cubes.

“I'm Carter Wu, lead software developer for JTC Technology. Welcome.” He said boringly as if they were stopping him from doing more important work. “If you come with me, I'll give you a tour of the facility.”
“I thought we were supposed to meet with the Cartwright’s?” Aiden spoke up as they started to follow.

Carter sighed and rolled his eyes, his tone of voice condescending. “Unfortunately, their board meeting is running a little late. By the time our tour is over they should be ready for you.”

Carter didn't sound very enthused to be doing what some would consider babysitting. With as much heart as an automaton, he gave them the abridged history of JTC Technology.

The company started in Boston, where Jason Cartwright a technological prodigy, was attending the Massachusetts Institute of Technology or MIT at the age of fifteen. He had programmed his first computer operating system at the age of sixteen. That same year, with his parents insistence he had started JTC Technology out of the family's garage.

Eight years later JTC was a highly successful Fortune 500 company. Though they were successful in the private sector with their computer programs and consumer gadgets, the bulk of the company's profits came from their contracts with the United States Defense Department. JTC did everything from create simulators where military recruits could enact crucial combat situations to supply electronics military personnel used on the battlefield.

They were given a full tour of the grounds, which included the Research and Development building located east of the main complex and the programming wing where computer programs were born. With the tour completed, Carter took them to the fifth floor of the headquarters where the board meeting was just ending. Sullen-faced board members were filing out as they approached

“Your guests, sir.” Carter snidely announced to Tim Cartwright, CEO and the victim’s father. “Would you be requiring anything else?”

Tim seemed to narrow his eyes on Carter as if silently reprimanding him and his unpleasant attitude. “It's alright, Carter, we can take it from here.”

Dismissing the software developer,Tim took Danny's hand in his own and kissed it. Aiden glared. He didn't approve at all! Jealousy reared its head in him, and all he could do was to keep glowering at the man. Tim Cartwright failed to notice. 

Tim smiled widely showing off a set of teeth worthy of a tooth paste commercial. He was rakishly handsome, the type of man who only looked better with age. He was a few inches shorter than Aiden. His height and wide-shouldered build hinted at a previous athletic career, evident in his stance and the graceful way he moved. His dark hair was surrendering to gray with strands of silver mixed throughout.

He led them into the conference room where Barbara, or Barbie as she liked to be called, was waiting. She and Tim looked to have coordinated their attire, both of them dressed in black power suits. With the shake-up at the company and with their son the brainchild missing and presumed dead, Danny assumed they were trying to keep up a united front for the stockholders.

“Thank you so much for coming.” Barbie welcomed them, offering them a seat at the oblong mahogany table. She took a seat at the table's head with Tim to her right. Introductions were made all around with the Cartwright’s insisting on being addressed by their first names. Danny and Aiden also offered their condolences.

“Do you have a picture of Jason?” Danny asked.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Tim produced a picture of his son and slid it across the table to Danny. Jason smiled back in the photo which apparently was taken on his graduation day from MIT since he was wearing his cap and gown. He was a good looking kid, a scrawny carbon copy of his father.

“Is it OK if I keep it?” She asked.

“Of course you can.” Barbie said with a nod.

“We really hope you can help us.” Tim's jovial expression had softened, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked to be on the verge of tears, worry lines creasing his brow.

“We'll try our best, Tim.” Danny sincerely offered.

“You two come highly recommended. What is your experience with cases such as this?” Barbie asked.

“Well I worked with both the New Orleans and the New York Police Department along with my brief experience with the FBI as a consultant. I also worked as a contractor with the Federal Government solving cold cases.” Danny said, offering her references.

“I served with the Marines for three tours in Afghanistan. After that I worked with the FBI for two years in their Criminal Investigation Division.” Aiden informed them.

“You were the one with Cassie when she was kidnapped by Gerard right? Weren't you his fiancée?” Barbie asked Danny. Upon hearing Gerard's name, she took a deep breath to answer, but Aiden spoke up before she could get a word out.

“Yes, she was, and I was the agent that rescued them.”

“Well then it looks like we're in good hands.” Tim observed, nodding to his wife. “Hopefully you can help us track down that woman our son was fool enough to marry.”

Danny looked confused. “I thought we were also trying to locate your son? He's still missing isn't he?”

Frowning, Barbie waved her hand indifferently. “At this point it's more of a recovery operation than a rescue. The authorities were only able to recover two bodies from the yacht's wreckage. They say we may never find Jason's body.”

“You try to protect your kids, but sometimes they just won't listen.” Tim hid his reddened eyes with the palm of his hand and started bawling. Supportively, his wife clenched his other hand.

Vengeance blazed in Barbie's eyes. “Whatever it costs to find that murderous bitch, we'll pay it. We'll give you access to our private jet, and we'll provide you a company credit card to cover any expenses you may incur. Whatever you need, name it and it will be provided to you.”

Danny and Aiden considered the offer to be quite generous, and they were able to come to agreeable terms with the Cartwright’s as far as their fee for their investigative services.

Curiosity got the best of Barbie. “Tell me, you two are working together, but are you lovers as well?”

Danny gave a sharp intake of air, the sound similar to someone suddenly letting the air out of a balloon. “What?”

Aiden stepped in for her, his tone stern and reproachful. “With all due respect, whatever our relationship is, it's between us. Danielle and I have worked well together in the past, and it will in no way affect how we work on finding your daughter-in-law.” Just because they were rich and paying for their services didn't give them the right to pry into their personal lives.
 
Barbie apologized profusely. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend or be so forward. Since that business with Gerard and hearing that you were her rescuer, well there just seems to be a certain kind of chemistry between the two of you.”

“Please don't mention that monster's name again. It's over and in the past now.” Aiden said.

“Please accept our apologies. I can see that would be a very horrible memory. We didn't mean any harm, right honey?” Barbie nodded in agreement with Tim's statement.

“Apology accepted, Now if we can get down to business let's just focus on finding your daughter-in-law.” Danny changed the subject and opened her laptop ready to take notes. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She's a gold digging, white trash bitch. How's that for a start?” Barbie spat venomously.

“Ah OK, let's start with where did she and Jason meet?” Aiden clarified the questioning.

Barbie turned to Tim, and he shrugged. “I think they met when she was still married to Jason's friend. What was his name?” Tim snapped his fingers repeatedly as if it would help him remember. “What was his name…Winston? Eric Winston. I know for a fact Eric met her at a strip club where she was performing.”

Danny and Aiden exchanged a look. They weren't privy to that particular nugget of information.

“She was a stripper?” Aiden asked.

Tim nodded grimly.

“She killed him, you know. Shot that poor boy to death and left him in the woods. The animals had devoured him before his body was found.” Barbie informed them, snatching a handful of tissue from a nearby box and blowing her nose. “My poor son. We don't even have a body to bury. I swear she's going to pay for what she did.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss.” Danny offered, patting Barbie's hand.

Barbie sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. “It's OK darling.”

Tim had since composed himself. “She killed the Winston kid on their honeymoon. Good kid that he was. Jason felt sorry for her and offered to pay for Amanda's legal defense. The prosecutors didn't have enough to bring her to trial so they dropped the case. Next thing I know Jason is hanging around with this girl, and last week we find out they've eloped.”

“Eric didn't put her in the will as his beneficiary so his family contested her inheriting his millions. She didn't follow through with the legal battle because she got her hooks in another rich victim; my son.” Barbie said.

“I think the wise thing to do is start where it all began and track her from there.” Danny said to Aiden. “It's only been a few days. She hasn't gone that far.”

He nodded, turning to the Cartwright’s. “You said they eloped to Hawaii?”

“Yes. They were secretly married two days before the boat explosion.” Tim said.

“Jason and the girl used our private villa in Hawaii before the explosion. The police weren’t able to find any leads there and have given it the all clear. You two are welcome to use it. I'll have it prepared for your arrival.” Barbie said, taking her smart phone and rapidly sending a text message.

“That's fine. It may take a day or two, though” Aiden agreed. “We need to get back to Georgia, touch base with our government contacts and go from there.

After another twenty-five minutes of ironing out the details and arrangements, both of them caught the waiting Town car back to the hotel. 

Danielle and the Jewel Thief

Please enjoy another short story on our heroine from The Body Hunters and The Body Hunters: Paradise Denied.

The Body Hunters by Raven Newcastle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009X971ME/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_N6xQrb13R6TGQ … …

The Body Hunters: Paradise Denied by Raven Newcastle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CODG81Q/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_r7xQrb0RWBN1N … … the fun continues in the sequel.

The glaring red and blue flashing lights of police cars are out of place in this neighborhood. It's one of those communities where people always say 'that kinda thing doesn't happen here', usually said after that ‘thing’ that couldn't happen, does happen. The Garden District of New Orleans' is known for its lavish mansions and high society living. I ought to know, I have estranged relatives living in this particular neighborhood somewhere.

I've never laid eyes on them since they disowned my mother after she defied them and married a man not only of Creole-Haitian descent, which in their eyes was already sinful, but also a man below her station, which was to them downright societal blasphemy. I’ve never even met my maternal grandparents, not by my parent’s choice but theirs and if they had a coronary about her marrying him, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be happy to see the biracial child produced from what they considered an unholy union.

I push away the annoying memories of forced debutante balls and frilly gowns as we approach the crime scene. I let out a deep breath and get my mind focused on the task at hand. You see, there's something you didn't know about me; I'm psychic.

This ability has run in my family for generations. My father’s mother, my beloved grandmere Marie, trained me how to use my gift, just like her mother trained her. My ability to communicate with the dead allows me to witness the last few moments of a victim's life.

You don't need to be psychic to find this the address because the emergency lights are like a beacon filling up the sweltering New Orleans night. That cynical part of me wonders if there would be this kind of police presence if this shooting happened in the seventh ward or any of the other bad neighborhoods, but I shove that thought aside, a victim is a victim.

I pull the New Orleans Police Department issue Crown Vic into the circular drive a little too fast for my partner, Charlie Robinson's taste.

Unlike me, a New Orleans native, Charlie is a transplant from Detroit. With the economic downturn in Michigan, he left the Detroit Police Department and headed down to New Orleans where good officers were needed.

He’s built like a pro wrestler, over six feet tall and burly. I tease him all the time about how his bald head looks exactly like a giant milk dud. Charlie was my mentor when I first made detective and he’s like the big brother I never had. I also school him on all things N'awlin's, so we learn from each other, which makes our partnership work.

"I swear Labouleaux, are you trying out for NASCAR? Next time I'm driving!" He complains, releasing his gripped fingers from the dashboard, but I know he doesn't mean it. He gets out of the car wobbling like he's getting off a roller coaster. “This is not your Camaro.”

“Sorry gramps but we needed to get here before the turn of the next century. You know you drive like you're driving Miss Daisy!” I rag him on his grandfatherly driving skills. He just scowls at me and growls under his breath, something about ‘damned kids’.

I laugh at him as I pull my black hair into a ponytail. It's hot and sticky out here and it's driving me crazy clinging to my neck. At the moment I'm giving serious thought to chopping it off again, but that fact that my mother liked my hair long makes me reconsider.

My attention is drawn to the ambulance, which is stationary and not rushing away from the scene. That doesn’t bode well for our victim. Our initial call of ‘shots fired’ is probably a homicide at this point.

We approach the grand mansion’s large double doors that are guarded by two uniformed officers, acting as if they’re club bouncers than men in blue. After checking my badge, which hangs around my neck on a chain and Charlie’s which is on his hip, they allow us entry.

My eyes are assaulted by a riot of color, sequins, feathers, and rhinestones. The festive attire now seems out of place since most of the partygoers are in tears behind their masks or wearing looks of outright shock. The DJ has since stopped playing music, but the disco ball is still twirling, beads of light striking every possible surface in the room making the scene look like a surreal nightmare. Out of the hundred people in attendance, a few are quarantined to tables that once held refreshments as they give their accounts of the events to officers.

“Okay, tell me again what’s going on here.” Charlie requests, as he shakes his head at a shirtless man in a mask and sparkly pink tutu. We’re heading up the grand staircase to the bedroom where the crime happened.

“Oh Dear Charlie,” I begin in my patented snarky southern belle tone. “We are in the very mansion that belongs to Genevieve Lablanche. Every year for the past ten years, Madame Lablanche throws her summer masquerade extravaganza for the elite citizens of N’awlins.” I exaggerate the word extravaganza with a quick hand wave.

“She lets all these people in her house?” Charlie asked unbelievingly as he soaks in the mansion’s well placed but overpriced antiques.

“Yes, usually there are around one hundred people or more in attendance.” I provide in my normal voice.

“And every one of them is a suspect.” He says. His Detroit distrust is showing on his face.

We arrive in the bedroom of Genevieve and the first thing I see is red. It’s everywhere, on the white carpet, on the walls, just red everywhere. Genevieve is laying face up, a large blossomed flower of dark maroon spread all over her beautiful white sequined gown, her bottle blonde hair spread like a halo over the floor. There’s a large hole in her forehead right above her sequined mask and her dead eyes are open. Held in a literal death grip in her right hand is a diamond necklace, now splashed with dried blood.

“Shit.” Charlie mutters, stepping around the body.

“Gunshot wound to the chest and forehead.” I announce, not at all perturbed by the sight of a dead body. I’ve been trained since I was a child to use my psychic gift, so I’ve seen the ugliness of death several times over the years.

Getting our fill of the crime scene, we seek out the witness in the adjacent bedroom. Talking to a uniformed female officer with a wadded snot rag in her hand is Genevieve’s best friend, Bianca. Her dark hair is a tangled mess, like the cats have been sucking on it, as my grandmere would say. Her hands and dress are covered in the rusty red of dried blood. She’s shaking like a leaf and a road map of running mascara covers her face.

The female cop introduces us and leaves the room.

“Aren’t you a little too young to be a detective?” Are the first words out of her ruby red painted mouth.

“Aren’t you a little too old for that dress?” I shoot back.

She immediately looks down at the cotton candy pink garment, which looks like she got it on sale at Ho’s R Us.

“Uh, ma’am.” Charlie intervenes. “Can you tell us what happened to Ms. Lablanche?”

She recants the story of how Genevieve retreated upstairs for her third costume change for the evening, when she heard the commotion. Checking on her friend, to her horror, Bianca caught Genevieve tussling with an armed intruder over a necklace when she saw the man shoot her. She tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate her friend, but it was too late.

As she starts to describe the murder, she gets more and more hysterical. After asking for a description of the killer, which she can’t provide, we release her.

We question a few more witnesses and see the body off to the coroner. Charlie and I decide there’s not much more we can do until the crime scene team has gone over everything. Or rather, there’s nothing more Charlie can do.

Even though it’s nearly five in the morning, my grandmere is waiting for me when I arrive. She’s bundled up in her housecoat, slippers and an old lady scarf wrapped tightly around her head. She gives me a sleepy smile as I walk through the door. No matter how late I’m out working, she always waits up for me.

“What are you doing up so late?” I ask her as if I don’t know the answer. I kiss her with a light smack on the cheek.

“Now you know I can’t rest until I’m sure you’re home safe. What’s going on?”

She never tires of hearing my cop stories. “Somebody murdered Genevieve Lablanche.”

She wrinkles up her nose like she does when she’s thinking. “I knew her mama when I was coming up. She was a real nice lady. I can’t say the same for her daughter, though. Clara would be turning in her grave at some of the stories I’ve heard about her daughter.”

For years, Genevieve parties had been the talk of the town. Her mansion she inherited from her blue blood family had been turned into a den of debauchery. Her family fortune was often spent on wild parties and designer drugs for her so-called friends. The sterling Lablanche name was now tarnished and rusty, thanks to Genevieve’s actions. Now with her death, there would be no chance to redeem it.

But it wasn’t my place to judge her life. She was my victim and I was her advocate. After a few more words with Grandmere, I head upstairs to my bedroom.

I spill the minimal contents of the case file on my bed, but I’m not interested in the paperwork or the police reports. My doorway into the spirit realm is Genevieve’s photo, which I found at the house.

My eyes focus on the picture of the woman, just probably an hour before she made the transition into eternity. I let my eyes shut and I get that distinctive tingle in my back that feels like I’m being touched by someone with icy fingertips.

My eyes open and I’m in the middle of a party. Genevieve is standing beside me in that gorgeous white gown, only it’s not splattered with blood. She's my guide through the last moments of her life.

The chaos of a party is going on around me, but due to the limitations of my gift, I don’t hear a sound. It’s like watching a movie with the mute button on. It’s why I really concentrate on the visual details.

Around me the guests gyrate and bounce to the music I can’t hear. Their faces are concealed behind masks and I find myself searching their eyes for any sign of malice. It’s a little hard when there are people dressed as devils, demons, and grim reapers staring back at me.

After a little while, I watch as Genevieve ascends her staircase, never to return again. I follow, to the second floor, ignoring the drug use and x-rated acts that are going on in the other rooms. I’m standing in Genevieve’s bedroom, bearing witness as she pulls a glittery purple cocktail dress from her walk in closet. From the jewelry box on her dresser she removes the same diamond necklace she died holding within her hand.

 A shadow in a corner of the darkened room comes to life, eyes intently watching her. The shadow moves and she drops her mouth. He approaches; a duffel bag dripping diamonds on the floor is slung over his shoulder. Their limbs tangle until the prowler has Genevieve in a headlock. The two of them thump against the bedroom wall as she fights back. In the struggle, Genevieve removes the burglar's mask.

He's Cajun, with stringy brown hair and dark brown eyes. I commit his facial features to memory.

Genevieve and the burglar are now tussling across the bedroom floor. Genevieve knees him hard in the crotch, crab crawling away from him and into a far corner of the room. Somehow she's still holding on to that necklace, her chest heaving heavily. Wobbly on his feet, the prowler stands up, holding his crotch.

Both their heads turn as the bedroom door opens and the lights flicker on. Wearing a look of surprise, Bianca enters the room wearing that tacky pink dress, shutting the door behind her. She looks first to the burglar before turning to her best friend. She removes her mask and saunters up to the man, her hand groping around his waist till she finds what she’s looking for. The gun she retrieves is obscenely large in her small hand.

Bianca handles the gun like a kid with a toy. She poses like one of Charlie's Angels before walking over to her best friend. The burglar grabs Bianca's arm, mouths no to her but she shrugs him off.  Her eyes are set on Genevieve and what I see in them I don't like.

She levels the gun at her best friend and pulls the trigger as easily as taking a breath. I rewind the scene and play it again as the muzzle flash illuminates Bianca's face in an evil light. After she puts the bullet into her BFF's abdomen, Bianca puts one between Genevieve's eyes for good measure. I rewind the scene and watch it play out five more times. It's not that I'm naive and can't believe it, I am a cop after all. It's just that this is so unbelievably cold blooded. Bianca and Genevieve have been besties since kindergarten.

I'm also curious as to how this cat burglar plays into things. What exactly is his involvement?

I rewind and playback the murder over and over until I'm mentally exhausted. I decide to finally call it night and drift off the sleep, though the murder still plays in my head whether I like it or not.

The ringing of my cell phone, desperate for my attention is what wakes me sometime around noon. Charlie is on the line saying that they've caught the killer and to be ready in ten minutes. I'm fresh out of the shower and dressed by the time the wheels of the Crown Vic touch Grandmere's driveway.

Before he can even put the car in reverse, I tell him that the burglar is not the killer. He gives me a look and nods his understanding. Though I have never gone into details about my abilities to Charlie, he knows that there's something going on with me and that most times my hunches are correct.

The Cajun cat burglar, Remy Fontaine, as his fingerprints identify him is waiting in an interrogation room with his court appointed lawyer. His hairy hands are shackled to the metal table.

Charlie goes in playing bad cop, threatening bodily harm and the electric chair if Remy doesn't come clean. Remy's lawyer advises his client to remain quiet. I tell Charlie to go take a break before he runs up his blood pressure and he goes into the hall.

"I know you didn't kill Genevieve." I whisper to the Cajun.

His eyes look at me questioningly to me as if this is some form of police trickery.

"I know who pulled that trigger and I need your help to put her away." I continue in that quiet voice. "Her fingerprints are on that gun, aren't they Remy?"

The lawyer hisses for Remy to remain silent, but the flood gates open.

With tears streaming down his face, Remy tells his sordid tale of seduction and collusion. Bianca was insanely jealous of Genevieve, ever since their girlhood. To her Genevieve was always more popular, prettier, and richer than she could ever be. Wanting to get recompense for her imagined slights, Bianca hooked up with Remy, a two time loser with a rap sheet for small time burglary. The plan was for her to leave Genevieve's window open so Remy could come in and pilfer her collection of diamond jewelry. No one was to be harmed during the burglary.

In the midst of the theft, Remy was shocked by Genevieve's arrival, since Bianca was supposed to keep her busy. They tussled, with Remy trying to keep Genevieve quiet so he could make his escape, but the woman was frightened to death. Bianca arrived and using the gun Remy kept as a bargaining tool in case he was discovered, killed her so-called best friend.

I have him write out his story and get the prosecutor involved for negotiations. Remy's testimony in exchange for a lighter sentence and the murder weapon. In his case, it's the most he can hope for.

The crime lab goes over the gun and luckily we have Bianca's fingerprints on file from a previous drunk driving arrest. Just as my vision and Remy's confession indicated, Bianca handled the gun that killed her friend.

The look on Bianca's face is priceless, as she's leaving the country club and heading to her Porsche when the cops swoop in on her. I personally slap the cuffs on this treacherous society princess. It seems that Bianca just got the popularity she so desperately wanted.

Lucius Johnson

 This is a short story featuring one of our, supporting characters, Lucius Johnson, from The Body Hunters. In this story he's 16 years old and not quite the uptight g-man he is in the book.  Enjoy!


“Lucian Tepes, the headmaster will see you now.” The pretty blonde secretary sitting politely at her desk is waving me into his office. I know I’m in trouble, I have once again pissed off the headmaster and now I’m apprehensively walking into his office where my uncle Miroslav waits.

 He goes by Mike now since living in America.  I am surprised to see him and I know that I must be in real trouble for him to fly all the way to England. He is pissed.  I have broken curfew and disappeared for 3 days. I’m not telling them I was on a bender in Paris. My parents are dead and it falls to Uncle Mike to look after me. He has wasted no time squirreling me away to boarding schools all over Europe. Every time I get kicked out of one school he puts me in another.  He has the money to do so having made his fortune in paper products in America. I don’t care about him or his money. He really doesn’t want me around and I don’t want to be around him.

 A few minutes later and I am packing my things under the watchful eye of the headmaster and Uncle Mike. Kicked out of yet another boarding school.  I must be setting some type of world record.  With my shoulder bag and suitcase I am led out the door to the waiting oversized Black English taxi. This is not going to be a fun ride to Heathrow.

Uncle Mike is staring me down, he starts to yell in Romanian at me, I yell back at him to speak English; I refuse to speak my native language. He gives me a stern look “OK.” he says. “If you want English then we will speak English, but you boy, will listen and listen well if you know what is good for you.” 

The cabbie seems to be snickering at my predicament. I nod my agreement to my uncle and wait to hear what heavy handed sentence he plans to lay down on me this time. Another boarding school? Perhaps Switzerland this time? Maybe Germany? I have been to one in Italy and two in England already. Why doesn’t he just take me to the States?  I am sure he is afraid I will really act out like the American teenagers he sees on television.  My uncle is glaring at me, daring me to say something stupid. “You are going to get your wish.” He says to me. “I’m taking you to the U.S.”  I am ecstatic. Finally! 

“Military school?” I yell out and the whole plane turns to look at me. Uncle Mike is hushing me. “You can’t be serious!” I ignore his hushing and yell. In my imagination of what my American life will be, military school was not in the picture.

“You need the discipline.” Uncle Mike says ignoring his own voice level. The female flight attendant sidles up to our chairs and squats down asking us to please lower our voices. I see several people staring at us. Her smile is false and she is giving us a tone reserved for unruly children. I look away from her. Uncle Mike reassures her we will be quiet and she leaves us alone. He doesn’t speak to me much after that and when he does, it’s in Romanian. I put the headphones into the armrest jack and listen to music to ignore him. It’s going to be a long flight.

We arrive at LaGuardia, where my Aunt Helen and their young seven year old daughter Susan are waiting for us. Auntie as I call her is far happier to see me as she kisses me hello and hugs me tightly. Susan eyes me warily as if I have antennas on my head as she hides behind her mother trying not to make eye contact with me. Auntie does most of the talking on the way to their home in upstate New York. They live in a gated community surrounded by wooded lands. I’m secretly planning my escape till I see my uncle reading my mind. He mentions something about my visa and something called the I.N.S. I see it’s not going to be as easy as I thought. My little cousin is in the back seat with me playing with some of her dolls she calls Barbie. Her sweet blue eyes look at me suddenly as she asks “Are you going to be my new brother?”  My uncle practically runs the car off the road.

I smile sweetly at her and take hold of her hand. “We are cousins.” I tell her. “Would you like me to be your big brother?” She nods yes and fingers the ring on my right hand.

“I know this ring. Daddy has one just like it, but he doesn’t wear it.” Her little fingers are running over the small ruby eyes of the dragon head in the ring.

“Yes, I know, I got this from my father, your Uncle Josef. Do you know what the dragon means?” I am talking really low to her, but not low enough it seems.

“That will be enough!” Uncle Mike barks out.

“She will find out eventually.” I snap back. My Auntie gives me a pleading look as my Uncle glares at me from the rear view mirror. 

“She may find out later, but not by you and not today! Do you understand?”

Susan has a confused look across her face. I tell her it’s just a dragon and that’s all.  My uncle is satisfied with my answer and my Auntie breathes a sigh of relief. I pat little Susan on the cheek and she continues playing with her dolls.

We reach the gated community and pull into the drive. The two story house overpowers my sight as I try to take in its enormity. We enter into the great hall and my Auntie ushers me into a room she has set up for me. I am surprised to see how little furniture there is in such a big room; just a dresser and a single bed. She shows me the closet that could almost sleep a few more people and she puts my shoulder bag in it. She sits at the edge of the bed and pats her hand on the mattress beckoning me to sit next to her.

“Lucian, please while you are here, try not to anger your uncle.” She pleads. “He is not a patient man, you know this.”

“He hates me.” I say dryly. “And I really don’t know why.”

My auntie takes my hand. “Lucian, you know your father and he didn’t get along and with all that mess in Romania, he just never expected to have to take care of you. He blames your father for not looking out for his family and leaving when he had the opportunity, choosing instead to ignore his duties as a father and husband. He pushed his limits for what he felt was his own righteous indignation with no thought to you or your mother. He sees in you the defiance your father had. You just haven’t learned to channel it into something productive.” Her eyes look weary and tired. “Please Lucian I can’t fight for you if you will not meet me half way.”

“He is sending me away again isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is, I tried to stop it. I begged him to just be a father to you. He says it will end with you two killing each other. I’m not so sure he is wrong.” She is now patting the back of my head. “You need a haircut.” She laughs as she tugs at my locks. “Dinner will be soon, you may want to freshen up. Lucian?”

“Yes Auntie?”

“Please remove that ring while you are here.” She touches my dragon ring.

“Why, is he ashamed of our family history?” I voice out angrily.

“Lucian, please for me.” I can’t say no to her kind eyes. I take it off and put it in my jeans pocket.

“Thank you.” She kisses me on the forehead before leaving my room.

After dinner Uncle Mike and I are in the living room by ourselves. On the coffee table he has placed three brochures of military schools. “Pick one.” He says. “I don’t care which one, just pick one.”

“What if I don’t choose?” I am pushing my luck and I know it. “What then?”

“I will pick for you, no matter what your aunt tells you, you are going to one of them. If you straighten out then maybe we will reevaluate your situation, but you are sixteen Lucian.  You need to learn discipline and to be a man.”

“I am a man!” I scream out.

He is screaming back. “You think you are a man, running away to Paris with some girl and being on a drunk for a few days?”

I am totally stunned. How could he have possibly known? I ask myself. “What if I run away?” I try to ask more calmly.

“You only have a  student visa. I will have it revoked and I will see to it you are deported. So the choice is up to you.” His threat works. “You can take the brochures to your room and give me your answer in the morning. Go now!” He waves me off with his hand and I decide I am too tired to fight with him.

I am trying to let this new reality sink in as I walk past my little cousin’s room on the way to mine. The difference is stark. Hers is all pink and purples, with stuffed animals everywhere. She is seated at a small child’s table pouring imaginary tea into small cups talking to an empty chair next to her. She catches my eye and invites me in.

“Lucian!” She joyfully leads me by the hand to the table. “Come meet Mr. Vandermarliere, he lets me call him Mr. Van for short.”

I am staring at air. “Susan there is no one here. Is he your imaginary friend?” A tea cup flies off the table and lands against the wall, luckily it was plastic.

“You’ve made him mad Lucian.” She gets up and stamps her foot at me. “He is getting angry.”

I feel a chilling breeze pass by me. “I’m sorry, Susan, tell Mr. Van I meant no disrespect.”

She is talking to her friend and then looks back at me. “He says he wants to know why you can’t see him; he knows you have a gift. What gift? I didn’t see you bring in a present!” Susan is very confused now.

“It’s not that kind of gift.” I explain to her. “It’s like the same gift you have to be able to see him and I don’t. Do your mom and dad know he is here?”

“No.”  She says sheepishly as she looks at her feet. “You’re not going to tell are you? Daddy would be mad and send me away like you!”

I reassure her that no, I will not tell and they are not going to send her away. Another tea cup smashes against the wall. “Please tell Mr. Van to stop throwing things or your parents will come up here and find out what’s going on.”

“He says he wants to talk to you and you know how to do it.”  She playfully dances around my chair.

“He is right Susan, and if he promises to stop throwing things I will try. Can you describe him to me?”

“He is older than daddy and he wears a black suit with a black hat, he calls it a fedora. That’s a funny name!”  She sounds out the word. “feh door a.” She giggles as she continues “He has blood down the side of his face.”  I am taken aback by this. I have been taught that children can sometimes see spirits where adults can’t. I wonder if my little cousin will end up with the same gift I have.

“Tell Mr. Van I need something of his, did he live here at one time?”

“He did.” She tells me and runs to a knee wall in her room, she slides open the little door and brings me what I presume is Mr. Vandermarliere’s fedora.
“Thank you Susan. Tell Mr. Van that I will try in my room. You must stay here, do you understand?” She nods yes and I leave her.

Back in my stark room, I close the door as I make sure no one else is in earshot of me. I lie on the bed and hold Mr. Van’s fedora on my chest. I’ve done this a few times now and I never know what is going to happen, but I know enough to be alone.

 Lights shimmer around me as I start to get pictures, snapshots of Mr. Van. The images are in black and white at first. I am confused by this, but slowly they turn to color. They are spinning faster like on a movie reel until I am in his presence and he is motioning to me follow him. I follow in earnest as I see we are in a dark alley, the smell of garbage and old liquor bottles mixed in with urine assault my nostrils. He points to a body and I kneel on one knee next to it. 

“Is it you?” I ask and he mutters what sounds like a yes. He points to the fedora and motions me to remove it. I do. One gunshot to the head and half his skull is gone. I start to feel a little sick and walk over to the dumpster and puke. The maggots have already invaded his head. He is standing next to me and is pointing to the name on the dumpster. Salvatore Rubbish Removal. He is insistent I pay attention to this name. He is now pointing to a balled up piece of newspaper and I go to pick it up. The date shows January 7^th 1962. This murder is over 30 yrs old. I feel overwhelmed as I have had only three other experiences and they were nothing like this or even this old. “I’ll see what I can do. I don’t have a lot of time you know that, you know I am being sent away soon.” I explain to my dead companion. He nods yes and puts his hand on my shoulder. I look back at the body and see a card sticking out of the jacket pocket. Van’s Barbershop it reads and the address is visible. I walk to the end of the alley and onto the sidewalk. We are directly across from the barbershop. I look up and my companion is now dressed in all white suit complete with an all white fedora, there is an otherworldly glow about him and he is smiling as he disappears. The scene spins in front of me and I wake up with a start. My head pounding and there is a little blood trail running from my nose.

“Buna dimineata, Lucian. Te-ai dormit bine?” My auntie Helen asks in Romanian.

“Good morning auntie and yes I did sleep well. Thank you.” I give her a kiss on the cheek as I head over to little Susan who is eating her eggs. I kneel down and whisper to her. “Did you see Mr. Van again this morning?” She nods yes and whispers back to me.

“He says thank you.” She kisses me on my nose and I give her a little laugh. My uncle has entered the kitchen and sits at what I presume is his usual seat at the table. He eyes me suspiciously as I get up from my knee and away from little Susan. My auntie places a plate of eggs and sausage in front of him and motions for me to sit opposite her as she puts a plate in front of me as well. It smells delicious but the image of Mr. Van and the maggots is staying with me and I am a bit put off by it.

“Did you decide?” he asks dryly and my aunt holds her breath. I decide to look him straight in the face.

“Yes.”  I sit silent. My uncle is staring at me for a few seconds before throwing his hands up in the air.

“Would you like to share your decision with me?”  He is getting irritated and my auntie kicks me under the table. For her sake I decide not to continue poking the bear.

“The one in New Mexico.” I say no more to him. I picked that one because according to the map of the United States, it would be the farthest away from him.

“Good, I will call and make the arrangements. In the mean time you will be going to work for me and I will hear no argument about it.” He picks up his news paper and hides behind it. The conversation is over.

I am in the study after breakfast with the phone book. I look up Salvatore Rubbish Removal. It’s unbelievable as I see they are still in business. The yellow pages ad says family owned since 1948. Dean Salvatore proprietor and owner. I must sneak out to use a payphone. It’s a Saturday and uncle is home from his business, but he leaves to run errands. My auntie is busy cleaning. I press little Susan into helping me escape for a little while undetected. 

She shows me the basement and the large windows that I can climb out of in the back of the house and I do. I have no idea where I am but Susan tells me there is a payphone a few blocks away at a little supermarket she remembered seeing when she goes there with her mother. She says she will pretend she is playing hide and seek with me if her dad returns before I get back. I am beginning to feel real love for this child now. I scramble out the window and run like mad reaching the party store out of breath. I only have minutes and I have re-gain my composure. Drawing a deep breath I dial the 911 number and am patched through to a police detective. I give him the information I know on Mr. Vandermarliere and Dean Salvatore. I refuse to give him my name. I hang up and run back to the basement window as my uncle is pulling into the drive. I am sweating like mad. My sweet little cousin is waiting for me in the basement and leads me up the stairs and to a back staircase in this large house, it empties into the second floor rooms. I hear Uncle Mike talking to my aunt as I quickly dip off into my room and lay on the bed wiping sweat away from my forehead with the sheets. Uncle Mike is at my door.

“Get up off that bed boy! What now you are lazy? I have work for you to do.”

A few weeks later and we are at our usual breakfast seating arrangements, my arms are sore but getting stronger as my uncle now has me loading rolls of paper onto trucks for delivery all over the U.S. I am eating my breakfast as my uncle unfolds his daily newspaper to hide behind and I see the secondary headline. Thirty year old murder solved. Dean Salvatore charged in mob style killing. 

Apparently Mr. Salvatore was a mobster before going legit and was demanding protection money from small businesses in the New York neighborhood where Mr. Van's barbershop was. Mr. Vandermarliere, a Dutch immigrant refused to pay and paid the ultimate price for not cooperating. The mob made an example out of him. The article said the murder investigation was given new life when detectives received an anonymous phone call.  I can't help but smile.