by C. M. Sutter
To Die For
by
C. M. Sutter
Copyright © 2019
All Rights Reserved
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction by C.M. Sutter. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used solely for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.M. Sutter is a crime fiction writer who resides in Florida, although she is originally from California.
She is a member of over fifty writing groups and book clubs. In addition to writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and dog, and you’ll often find her writing in airports and on planes as she flies from state to state on family visits.
She is an art enthusiast and loves to create gourd birdhouses, pebble art, and handmade soaps. Gardening, bicycling, fishing, and traveling are a few of her favorite pastimes.
C.M. Sutter
http://cmsutter.com/
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To Die For: A Detective Jesse McCord Police Thriller, Book 4
A rash of pharmaceutical burglaries throughout Chicago isn’t on Detective Jesse McCord’s radar until murder is thrown into the mix. Now he and his homicide team must put a stop to the carnage.
With an ace up their sleeves, the burglars threaten the lives of pharmacists’ family members if access codes to the pharmacy doors aren’t provided. If the pharmacists resist or contact the police, their loved ones will die.
Tracking down the thieves proves difficult for McCord since pharmacists are remaining silent out of fear for their families’ lives.
But when Jesse’s girlfriend is kidnapped and video surveillance shows her emptying shelves of drugs worth a fortune on the street, the stakes escalate. The burglars want a trade—her for something only Jesse has. Could it be his life? The countdown starts, and the chess game begins.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 1
They waited as Paul Harper backed out of his garage, turned into the alley, and left for work. His wife had walked out earlier with their three children in tow—a son and twin girls. Eileen Harper would stand at the bus stop with her kids and the other school-aged children until they were all safely seated on the bus. Watching the family’s movements over the last two days, the men had wanted to make sure everything the Harpers did was consistent—and it was.
Rory parked on the street a half block from the Harper house, and he and Wesley cautiously exited the car. Making sure the alley was quiet, they looked both ways before continuing on. Wesley led as they walked single file down the alley to the house’s rear entrance. That day, they would commit a new crime. Mrs. Harper was about to die.
After reaching the back door and with the pry bar in hand, Rory easily wedged it between the door and the frame and popped the bolting mechanism from the knob. As the door swung open, Wes peeked around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. The house stood empty. They entered, and Rory pushed the door closed and stuck the wedge beneath it so it would stay that way. He chose the largest knife from the block in the kitchen, then they took their positions. Wes attached the suppressor to the gun and wrapped it and his hand in a plastic bag, then Rory taped the bag tightly around Wesley’s wrist. No gunpowder residue, no prints, and no spent casings would be left behind. Although the men had never murdered before, they’d done their homework and were well-prepared. The situation was under control, and they planned to blindside the missus as soon as she stepped foot in the kitchen. She would have no chance in hell against one of them, let alone two.
The wait was short, as they knew it would be. She was back within fifteen minutes of leaving. The utility closet in the laundry room was the perfect place to lie in wait. With its louvered doors, they could see her movements when she entered the kitchen. Then they would choose the perfect second to strike.
The sound of the front door opening and closing told them it was just a matter of time. Most stay-at-home moms spent hours in the kitchen. At least, their research led them to believe that. Eileen would pour a cup of coffee, sit at the table, and stare mindlessly at her phone, like so many other people did on a regular basis.
Rory would be in charge of the initial attack. After using the knife to cripple her into submission from blood loss, they would shoot a video for Paul Harper’s viewing pleasure then put her down like an animal with a final bullet to the brain. Witnessing her death via cell phone video, Paul would know it was all his fault. Saying no to Rory and Wes wasn’t an option, and he’d learn that the hard way—while watching his wife die on a three-by-five-inch screen.
Her footsteps sounded closer as she entered the kitchen. They watched through the slats in the door and would see her in a second or two.
Rory elbowed Wes and mouthed the words, Get ready.
His buddy nodded and whispered, “Just don’t get carried away with that knife. I want to do my part too.”
Her shoes appeared on the other side of the louvers. She was near the coffee maker and only feet away. With a push of the door, Rory sprang out wielding the knife and jabbed her between the ribs. She screamed, swung the cup that she’d just filled with scalding coffee, and caught Rory in the face.
He yelled out in pain. “You stupid bitch! You’ll pay for that.”
Eileen ran to the opposite side of the island, leaving a blood trail in her wake. Her eyes darte
d toward the back door, then the second man appeared.
“No, no, somebody help me!” She reached above her head to the pot rack and ripped down two heavy kettles. She threw them at both men, but Rory, already outraged, yelled to Wesley to circle the island to the left—he’d take the right. Rory swung again and caught Eileen in the abdomen. She grunted, covered her wound with her hand, and ran for the dining room, where the oversized table separated them.
“You’re done, bitch. In less than a minute, you’re going to find out how it feels to die.”
Eileen screamed for help, but nobody came. Bleeding badly, she realized her only chance at survival was to reach a door, but with two men blocking her exit, her fate was sealed. She darted left and tipped a chair toward Rory. He caught her by the arm as she passed. Another swing and the knife sliced through her back. He buried it to the handle, pulled it out, and swung several more times. Eileen lost strength quickly but still scrambled toward the back door. He grabbed her again and spun her around then drove the knife into her left lung. Eileen fell with a thud next to the island. She pulled her knees to her chest and hoped that would keep the intruder from stabbing her in the heart.
“There. I will admit you put up a good fight. Well done, Eileen.” Rory pulled off his gloves momentarily so he could record her death. “This video is for your husband since he was the one who sealed your fate. Any last words for the hubby?”
She moaned something inaudible, then Wesley took over. He knelt two feet away, just out of the blood pool spreading beneath Eileen, and pulled the trigger. Her head bounced backward, and it was over. The side of the island was speckled with blood and brain matter.
“Come on. Time to go,” Rory said.
“You don’t want to toss the place as long as we’re here? Maybe there’s some cash lying around.”
Rory jerked his head toward the purse lying on the breakfast bar. “Take her cash and then grab me one of Harper’s shirts to put on. I can’t go outside covered in blood like this. I’ll find a trash bag to put our stuff in, and then that’s it.” He glanced at the clock. “We’re leaving in five.”
Chapter 2
Frank snugged the cruiser against the curb on Ridgewood Court, and we climbed out. The house—a two-story redbrick walk-up—was already taped off, and a ten-foot space, at best, separated one home from another.
Greg Tillson was standing on the porch, talking with a patrol officer I didn’t recognize. We headed their way.
“What have we got?” I lifted my sunglasses and did a quick assessment of the neighborhood. Row after row of narrow single-family walk-ups, mixed with multifamily complexes, lined both sides of the street.
“Eileen Harper, the homeowner, is deceased inside. She’s face down on the kitchen floor with what looks like a bullet hole to her head and multiple stab wounds throughout her body.”
I frowned. “Execution style?”
Tillson shrugged. “According to the sister who discovered Eileen a half hour ago, there wouldn’t be anyone with a reason. Eileen was loved by everybody. The sisters have standing lunch plans every Tuesday, and this is the scene she found when she arrived.”
Frank jerked his head at the open back door of the first squad car. “The sister is in there?”
“Yep. She’s a wreck, but she told us what she could between her fits of hysteria. Pretty much what I just told you.”
I nodded. “Sure. Let’s take a look at the scene, and then we’ll talk to the sister afterward.”
Frank and I followed Tillson down the sidewalk and up the six wooden steps to the stoop. The front door stood wide open, and as we crossed the threshold, several officers were placing evidence markers at blood spots on the floor.
“How soon can we expect Forensics and Don?”
Frank responded that he’d just received a text from Commander Lutz, who said they were en route and should arrive within minutes.
Sidestepping the yellow plastic markers, we moved farther into the house.
“The body is this way, Detectives.” Tillson led us into the kitchen, where a gruesome and bloody scene lay in front of us.
Frank whistled. “Jesus. She must have fought with every ounce of energy she had.”
“I didn’t notice forced entry at the front door. Possibly somebody she knew?” I asked.
“Nah.” Tillson tipped his head toward a door in the laundry room that led to the small backyard surrounded by a chain-link fence. “That one was pried open. A pry bar is all it took to break off the knob. Cheap door, cheap lock. The perp must have taken the woman by surprise when she entered the kitchen.”
I studied the scene as I scratched my forehead. “Family?”
“Three school-aged kids, two being twins, and a husband.”
I frowned at the mention of a husband. “Where the hell is he?”
“He’s on his way. Guess the traffic to and from the pharmacy he works at is usually a nightmare.”
“So he most likely has an alibi.” Before Tillson had a chance to respond, I turned at the sound of people entering the house. Don, his assistant, Mark Nells, the lead forensic specialist, Mike Nordgren, and Danny Bradshaw, the second in charge of that department, stood at the entrance to the kitchen. I noted their expressions—a mix of shock and disbelief.
Mike stared at the walls, the floor, and the countertops then shook his head. “Guess you never get used to it.” He pointed at the carnage. “Blood spray, blood smears, and blood droplets. That in itself tells quite a story.” He turned to Don. “We’ll photograph the immediate scene and then hand it over to you.”
We excused ourselves when Mike and Danny entered the kitchen.
“We’ll get out of your way.” I tipped my chin toward the front of the house. “Let’s have a chat with the sister while they’re getting that done.”
Frank and I returned to the street, where the police car’s rear door was now closed. The engine idled, and the sister and an officer sat inside, likely warming up. The late-fall day sent a breeze swirling around my neck, and the chill caused me to pull up my coat collar and bury my hands in my pockets as we walked.
“Go ahead and warm up the car so we can interview the sister in our own cruiser.”
“Yep, you bet.”
With a cigarette already pinched between his lips, Frank veered off to the right as I rapped on the squad car’s passenger-side window.
The officer lowered it, and I poked my head inside. I gave him a nod and noticed the name above his jacket’s chest pocket—D. Manning. “Officer Manning, I’m Detective McCord. My partner and I would like to interview the witness in our cruiser.”
“Right away, sir.” He popped the locks, and I opened the rear door from the outside.
“Ma’am, would you please join my partner and me in our cruiser? We’ll be leading this investigation and have some questions of our own.”
She wiped her eyes with her coat sleeve, climbed out, and walked alongside me.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Dorrie Wyatt.” Her voice cracked as she talked. “It’s really Doreen, but everyone calls me Dorrie.”
I gave her my best reassuring smile. “Then Dorrie it is. Right over here, please.” I opened the back door of our cruiser and allowed her in then settled in next to her. Frank flicked his cigarette, climbed in behind the wheel, then turned and faced us from the driver’s seat.
Dorrie shivered and took a deep breath as if trying to calm herself.
“Whenever you’re ready, Dorrie. Just tell us everything from the moment you got up this morning.”
She coughed into her fist and began. “It was like every other Tuesday. Eileen and I have a standing lunch date at Lou’s Chicken Shack on East Fifty-Seventh and Kenwood. I always pick her up because I live on South Kimbark, and she’s on the way.” She glanced at me. “Do you know where Lou’s is, Detective McCord?”
“I sure do, and they have great food.”
She gave me a weak smile. “Before anything else, I want you
to know that Eileen and I are—I mean were—twins.” Her eyes welled up again. “We had a joint business creating art that we sold online, and every Tuesday, we’d discuss our new ideas over lunch. Today would have been just like any other day. I park in the driveway, honk twice, and she comes right out. I always text her when I leave my house, and she usually replies simply by saying she’ll watch out the window.”
“Did you talk with each other this morning?” Frank asked.
“No.” She stared at her folded hands. “But we usually don’t on Tuesdays. If we did, we wouldn’t have much to say during lunch, and that’s when our creative juices really got flowing.”
I wrote as she talked. “Were you identical twins?”
She let out the burst of sobs she’d been holding in. Covering her face with her hands, Dorrie broke down.
Frank handed her the travel pack of tissues that we kept in the glove box. She nodded a thanks. “Yes, we were identical. Twins run in our family.”
We waited until she had composed herself before continuing with our questions.
“So what happened after you honked and she didn’t come out?”
“I hate to admit I was irritated, but I was. I got out and banged on the door. Then I rang the bell a half dozen times. That’s when I became concerned.”
“And?”
“And I have her spare house key on my ring, and she has mine on hers. I unlocked the door and walked in.”
“So you’re sure the door was locked?”
“I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty. I just put the key in the knob and turned. I didn’t wiggle it first.”
“Understood.”
Frank took over. “Did anything look out of place when you walked in?”
She shook her head. “I just continued on as I called out to her. I headed directly to the kitchen, even though she would have heard me call her from there, but it’s the room she’s always in. I assumed she was finishing a cup of coffee or something like that.” Dorrie’s body shook as if she was reliving that moment. “I can’t believe what I saw when I reached the dining room and then the kitchen.” As she talked, her voice trailed off until it was barely above a whisper. “There was so much blood… I didn’t even recognize her.”
