Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set

by James Kipling

Steve kept talking. “What did Yvonne say when you told her.”

  More staring at the mirror.

  “Oh, good God – you didn’t tell her.”

  “I didn’t want to scare her – and she’s been acting weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  Nichols took a long pull on his drink. “Well, I did something I’ve never done before,” he said. “I went through her purse.”

  “Your mom would kill you,” Steve said.

  “So would Yvonne,” Nicholas said. “But, she’s been disconnected recently. I mean, when we’re in bed, it’s like she’s going through the motions.”

  “Maybe you’re not the stud you think,” Steve said. He started to laugh, but then he saw Nicholas’s pained expression.

  “That’s not it, man,” Nicholas said. “It’s like she’s putting on a show – you know, trying to impress me or something.”

  “So, you went through her purse. What’d you find – coke, pills, what?”

  “Business cards.”

  Steve scrunched his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Business cards – all from guys – guys I don’t know. I tried a few of the numbers but didn’t get anyone to answer. They all went to voicemail.”

  Nicholas looked at his phone. Yvonne was calling – again. He let it go to voicemail.

  Nicholas left three tens on the bar and they walked out. He said goodnight to Steve and walked towards Old Daisy. He looked at his phone. Yvonne had called twelve times.

  “Hi, baby,” he said when she answered.

  Her voice was ice cold. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Stopped for a drink with Steve,” he said.

  “I should have known. Well, dinner’s ruined. If you want to eat, get something on your way home.”

  She hung up.

  He shut the driver’s side door and looked around, especially in the back seat. He’d been scanning the car closely since the doll appeared. Old Daisy coughed to life on the third try and lurched into the street.

  Nicholas drove about three blocks when he heard something. He slowed and listened intently. It was not the grind of the gears or the characteristic knocking of the engine. It wasn’t the rattle of the loose side mirror or the squeal of worn brake pads.

  This was something different.

  This was something from the back.

  There was something – or someone – in his trunk.

  4

  The noises from the trunk got progressively louder. Nicholas looked for a side street. He turned left, drove fifty yards, and parked under a burned-out street light.

  He exited and slid his key into the trunk latch. He peered left, right, behind – no one there. And no one to help him if he needed it. He positioned the key between his index and middle finger. He’d turn it, yank it out, and be ready to stab anyone who jumped out – right in the eye.

  One…two…three…he turned, pulled back, and prepared for the attack.

  Nothing.

  And no one.

  Even from five feet away, Nicholas could tell the trunk was empty, but the bumping noises continued. He approached slowly and peered into the trunk.

  A mini-recorder sat in the well of the trunk. Sounds emanated from the tiny speaker.

  That’s one sick-ass joke, he thought.

  He picked up the recorder, turned it off, drew back his arm to hurl it into the darkness, then reconsidered.

  “Maybe there are prints,” he said.

  A voice behind him said, “Maybe you should have thought about that before you picked it up, dumbass.”

  Nicholas turned – tried to turn – thought about trying to turn – thought about trying to try to turn – but there was a searing pain at the base of his neck and nothing worked…nothing moved…he couldn’t feel his face. He couldn’t…

  ***

  Nicholas could hear the faint strains of Mahler’s Symphony #5 as he swam back toward the surface of consciousness. He could not see anything, but he felt motion. He stretched his legs but found he did not have any room.

  Exhaust – he could smell exhaust.

  He was in a trunk – Old Daisy’s truck. He’d know that stench anywhere.

  What the fuck?

  His head felt like it was on fire from the inside. Every bump brought on paroxysms of pain. He choked down bile.

  The car stopped. He heard a Daisy’s door creak and footsteps – it’s gravel. When the lid swung open, he shielded his eyes from the blinding beam of a high-powered flashlight. Someone stuffed a rag in his mouth – not a clean one – a slipped a bag – burlap from its smell and feel – over his head. Strong hand lifted him from the trunk. Someone grabbed the back of his neck.

  “Move!”

  One word – but it sounded familiar.

  He stumbled along and thought about Yvonne…about their last lovemaking session…the last conversation. Had he told her he loved her? No, she was mad about dinner.

  They stopped. A hand pushed down on his shoulder.

  “Kneel.”

  He knew the voice – he could not place it.

  His head bent back as someone pulled the rag from his mouth.

  “Who are you?” he said. He tried to sound enraged. He knew he sounded pathetic and scared.

  “Yvonne belongs to me.”

  I should have gone to the police. His guy is nuts.

  “You’re nuts,” he said.

  “Yvonne belongs to me.”

  No one spoke. Five minutes went by – maybe ten. Finally, Nicholas spoke.

  “Are you there?”

  He wished he hadn’t.

  “How do you want to die?” the voice said.

  Nicholas could feel the tears running down his face.

  “I don’t…I don’t want to die.”

  “You sound like a little baby.”

  Something about the word set Nicholas off. “A baby,” he said. “Yvonne and I are talking about a baby. We just want to be left alone…to have our baby.”

  He stammered into the dark void of the putrid-smelling bag. “I didn’t do anything to you. What do you want? How much do you want? I don’t want to die.”

  “Yvonne belongs to me.”

  Nicholas bolted to his feet and charged in the direction of the voice. He released a scream, deep, primal, murderous. He would not go without a fight.

  His attack lasted three seconds. Something heavy – probably the flashlight – slammed against the side of his head and sent him sprawling.

  He lay on the ground, whimpering.

  “Yvonne belongs to me.”

  The tears came in a torrent, matching the urine running down his leg. Nicholas knew he was going to die.

  “Take her,” he said. “You can make her happy. I’ll go away. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again – neither will she.”

  A dark, malevolent chuckle came from somewhere very close to his ear.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Violin Boy?”

  “Get what?”

  “You’re not the only one I have to kill.”

  Nicholas’s head throbbed. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to remove everyone she’s fucking.”

  Nicholas clenched his eyes shut. He could not get his bearings. He could not see anything. This doesn’t make any sense. We’re exclusive.”

  “We’re exclusive,” he said.

  The chuckle exploded. “You poor, dumb bastard,” the voice said. “She’s sleeping with everyone she can find. Men and women.”

  Nicholas could choke it back this time. Vomit spewed from his mouth. It clogged his nose. He choked and sputtered.

  “You are pathetic, Violin Boy,” the voice said. “And your time is up.”

  A sudden calm slipped across Nicholas’s body. He raised to his knees…then to his feet.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Good man,” the voice said. “As a reward, I’m going to make this quick – a
nd I’m going to let you see who I am.”

  The bag came off, raking congealed vomit across Nicholas’s face. He still could not see – the light was in his eyes again. But, he could feel the cold steel of what he was sure was a gun barrel pressing against his temple.

  The light slowly moved to the side. Vision returned in pixelated increments – a little at a time.

  Nicholas gasped. “You,” he said.

  Then, the gun roared.

  5

  Detective Ray Jones sat in his corner office and stared at his computer screen. He looked up when he heard the knock.

  “Good morning, Ray.”

  “Morning, Lu,” Ray said. He stood – he always stood when the Lieutenant appeared.

  “How’s it hanging?”

  “Good, boss. What do you need?”

  Lieutenant Simpson grinned. “So much for small talk. I got two murders.”

  “Which one you want me to take?”

  “Both of ‘em. There’s something’s hinky about ‘em. They both happened last night. I want you to get your partner and nose around a little. It they’re not connected, we’ll pull ‘em apart and reassign.”

  “What about my robbery case – you know, the jewel heist.”

  “Give it to Johannsen. She’s…eager.”

  Ray laughed at the image of Wanda Johannsen bounding after a new case like a puppy after a ball. “That’s an understatement.”

  Simpson dropped two thin case files on Ray’s desk and headed out the door. “Do good work,” he said.

  Must be his new catch phrase, Ray thought. Simpson was always looking for a catch phrase: “Be careful out there” – “Who loves ya, baby?” “Book ‘em, Dano.” This week is was “Do good work.”

  Lisa’s voice sounded on the other end of the line, “Andrews.”

  “Get your butt to my office – we got work.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, Ray,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “Someone die and make you captain?”

  “No, but two people died and made us homicide detectives.”

  Lisa Wallace was seated in his office in thirty seconds.

  “Did you even hang up your phone?” Ray asked.

  “Who the hell cares?” she said. “Gimme.”

  They each looked through a file – division of labor.

  “Not much here,” Lisa said.

  Ray looked at Lisa – he liked looking at Lisa. She was 5’9”, leggy, athletic, brunette…and gay. The last part made a personal relationship impossible, but Ray had never met a better cop.

  “Nicholas Clark – 5’6” – 26 – Caucasian – joggers discovered the body on the shore of North Lake.”

  “COD?”

  “One to the head – report says it looks like a .38.”

  Ray looked at the crime scene photos. “Not pretty when they found him. The turtles had a field day. What about yours?”

  “Name is Jennifer Lynn, African-American female. Ballet dancer – 5’7’ – 135 pounds.”

  “COD?”

  “Same as your stiff.”

  “Time?”

  “Coroner says eleven-ish.”

  “Really close to my guy’s TOD. A little odd. A little coincidental.”

  “Me no likey coincidental.”

  “Me either.”

  Lisa ran her finger down the page. “Says here that Jennifer disappeared at the intermission of a performance of Cinderella.”

  “Prokifiev,” Ray said.

  “How the hell do you know that?” Lisa asked.

  Ray shrugged. “More to me that meets the eye,” he said.

  “I’m impressed.” She paused. “And do not say anything about how impressive you are in other areas.”

  “You know me too well,” Ray said.

  “I’ve been partnered with a male horn-dog too long,” she said.

  Ray glanced at the sheet on his lap. “Clark was a performer, too – violinist.”

  “Well,” Lisa said. “There’s a second connection. Thirty-eight slug to the head – both have played the Opera House. What do you think?”

  “Worth a look,” Ray said.

  ***

  The talked in the car. “They found Jennifer in the ventilation shaft. Nude,” Lisa said.

  “Harsh,” Ray said. “Raped?”

  “No indication. Janitor found her.” She closed the file. “Was Nicholas married?”

  “Live-in girlfriend – at least that’s what the file says. But, those things change fast, you know.”

  Lisa slapped Ray’s arm. “Stop it,” she said. “I’ve been with Jane for three years.”

  “I don’t see anyone wearing a ring.”

  The partners did this routine constantly – kept them loose on the way to a case.

  Lisa said, “Are you suggesting you could ‘transform’ me?”

  “Until your name is on a marriage license, you are fair game,” he said.

  “Pig,” she said.

  “Oink.”

  They laughed, parked, and entered the Opera House.

  Lisa made a point to hold the door for Ray. “Let’s go catch a killer, Porky.”

  The receptionist looked short, but she was seated behind a plate of glass.

  “Morning,” Ray said. “Detectives Jones and Andrews.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, detectives,” the woman said, standing. She was over six feet tall. Ray noticed she was wearing flats.

  The woman blew a bubble. “Wait here,” she said.

  “Make you feel like a little, bitty boy there, Ray-O?” Lisa was laughing.

  “That’s a lot of woman,” he said.

  “No, I’m a lot of woman. She’s just tall.”

  The receptionist came back through the door; a rail-thin man trailed her by a step. He stuck out a bony hand.

  “I’m Lance Duncan,” he said.

  6

  Good detectives sense things. Ray shook Lance’s hand and sensed nine different types of creepy. The thin man could not hold eye contact. He seemed twitchy – meth-addict twitchy.

  Ray started. “I am Detective Ray Jones, and this is my partner, Detective Lisa Andrews. You found the body?”

  “Ah, no,” Lance said with a furtive shake of his head. “Ed found it – ah – her. Ed’s the custodian.”

  “Your capacity here?”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you do?”

  “Maintenance Supervisor. Not really much of a supervisor – I’m the only maintenance guy on staff. But, there ain’t a light I can’t fix or a heat pump I can’t repair.”

  He rocked back on his heels, very proud of his work.

  “My mom was sick,” he said. “Had to take her up to the hospital. That’s why Ed was on duty last night.”

  He had the long “i’s” of east Texas.

  “Take us to the crime scene, please.”

  “Right this way,” Lance said.

  Lance led them to a large room. Yellow crime scene tape spiderwebbed its way across the room. Ray saw the open shaft – blood traces around the opening.

  “That is where she was found. Not many people come in here. Used mostly for storage,” Lance said.

  “Anyone else here about eleven last night?” Lisa asked.

  “Don’t rightly know,” Lance said. “Uh, can I git back to work – shit’s always breakin’ ‘round here.”

  Both detectives nodded.

  “Something’s off with him,” Ray said.

  “Squirrely,” Lisa said. She fanned her flashlight around the opening, then into the shaft. “Report says…ah…Ed was cleaning and saw blood dripping from the vent.” She pointed to some dried blood on the floor.

  “Question,” Ray said. “If this is used mostly for storage, why was the janitor even in here? You don’t clean storage space.”

  “Probably something we should ask Ole’ Ed. What was in her purse?”

&n
bsp; Ray shook his head. “Don’t know. Why?’

  “You can tell a lot about a woman by the contents of her purse.”

  “Good to know.”

  “She must have had a locker here – she was a dancer in the company.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Ray asked.

  “Because, you aren’t as smart as I am.”

  “Good point.”

  They headed for the door. Lisa held it again. “Go dazzle the Queen of the Amazons at the desk.”

  When they reached the front desk, Ray took the lead. “Could we see Miss Lynn’s locker?”

  “You need a warrant.”

  Lisa’s eyes bulged. “That’s it, Missy. You are rude and arrogant. We do not need a warrant. This is an active crime scene. Now take us to the locker room before I shove that fucking gum where the sun won’t find it.”

  No one spoke until Ray and Lisa were alone in the Locker Room.

  “Way to turn on the charm,” Ray said.

  Lisa laughed.

  “Number 567,” she said, inserting a key in the lock.

  A voice came from behind. “That’s not your locker. Do I need to call security?”

  They turned to see a tall brunette woman.

  “Police, ma’am,” Lisa said holding out her business card. You are?”

  The woman took the card and shoved it into her jeans without looking at it. “Victoria d’Angelo,” she said. “I am – I was – Jennifer’s understudy.”

  “Sorry for your loss, ma’am. Did you know her well?”

  Victoria shifted uneasily. “Ah…well…yes.” She looked around, then mouthed the words, “Not here.”

  Lisa took a breath to ask another question when a muscular young man with sandy hair came around the corner of the lockers. “Anna, there you are. We need to bolt.”

  As he steered Annabelle towards the door, Lisa said, “If you recall anything from last night, please call me,”

  Ray slid up beside Lisa. “You should have gotten her number. She probably won’t call.”

  “We can find her.”

  Locker 567 swung open. Lisa took out a pencil and probed. “Clothes… shoes… undies… hello.”

  She put on a pair of latex gloves and picked up a plastic case. “I bet I know what’s in here,” she said.

  Ray smirked. “A…uh…a device of a personal nature?”