HARD PRESS’D
LINDA RAE BLAIR
FRANKLINTON, NC
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The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialog in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright 2010 Linda Rae Blair
All rights reserved.
,ISBN: 1453743707
EAN-13: 9781453743706
2nd Edition
Published by Linda Rae Blair
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Acknowledgments
Again, I must thank retired Sergeant Tom Waller of the Cincinnati Police Force who provided some much-appreciated information that made my murder details and my ‘cop’ information more accurate.
Another expert in law enforcement to whom I owe my thanks is Margaret R. Sullivan, Records Manager and Archivist for the Boston Police Department.
Any errors in the use of information provided by either of these are entirely mine!
To Sherry and Lou Ann at my favorite Starbucks, thank you for your unfailing support and many ideas—rational or otherwise! Kidding, ladies—but you knew that, right?
Enjoy!
To those wise enough to recognize their mistakes and learn from them.
1
Virginia Beach
April 12, 2010
11:30 PM
“I don’t know what to do,” she cried. “Everything’s such a mess!”
Tears streamed down her beautiful face—the face that had made more than one man pursue her. How could anyone avoid the attraction of that face? Now that pert little nose of hers had taken her where it didn’t belong and created a problem that needed fixing. Well, there was no way around it. She’d have to die.
“It’s going to take me awhile to break free. Meet me at Jewish Mother’s in the parking lot. I can be there in about an hour. Don’t give up on me if I’m a little late,” the voice told her.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I just didn’t know where else to turn.” She was sobbing now—the pert nose now red and swollen, her expertly applied make-up deposited on the lacy handkerchief she’d received during the holidays.
Don’t worry, sweetheart! We’ll get it figured out,” the well-controlled voice promised. If the girl had known the emotion beneath it, she would have run screaming.
“Stay calm. We’ll figure it out. I have a few things to finish up here before I can leave. Go to Jewish Mother’s and wait in the parking lot. Stay out of sight and wait for me. I’m on my way as soon as possible. I love you!”
“I love you, too,” she said, as she hung up her cell phone and headed for her car. So much for what she’d thought would be a romantic evening with the man she loved. She certainly wasn’t feeling romantic right now.
By the time she got to the restaurant, the side streets were nearly deserted. She parked in a dark corner of the lot, poorly lit at the best of times but seeming eerily dark tonight. She rubbed her arms as the damp ocean air seeped into the car while she waited. Spring had come to Virginia Beach, but the night air was still cool, blowing strongly off the ocean just blocks away.
Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. She climbed out of the luxurious car and hurried toward the person she’d been anxiously awaiting. The two greeted with a hug and a kiss. There were few people left that she would protect above all else—this was surely one of them. Everything in her life seemed to be off-kilter tonight but not this.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she cried.
“Calm down, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be alright.”
She pulled back slightly, looked into those familiar eyes and felt somewhat calmer. “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m overreacting! How could anyone I know be involved in such a thing?” She caught her breath. “I must be wrong, don’t you think?”
“Let’s go talk it through and then we’ll decide what to do next. Have you told anyone else?”
“No. I was going to go to the police, but…I just couldn’t.”
The strong arm reached around her shoulder and held her tightly. The kiss placed gently on her temple sent a small shudder down her arm. As they walked away from the lot to the sidewalk, she asked, “Where are we going? I thought…”
“You don’t want to talk about this in such public place, do you?”
“Oh, of course not! I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be thinking very clearly tonight.” She shuddered slightly and the arm wrapped around her shoulder tightened slightly in a warming embrace.
“Not a problem, love. Now, tell me what you found out. Tell me everything.”
A few minutes later, they stopped under the awning of one of the beach’s tourist traps. Across the street was a restaurant whose lights barely lit its own sidewalk. They certainly didn’t intrude onto the secretive pair’s side of the street. This was the perfect spot.
The arm holding her suddenly gripped much harder, practically lifting her off the ground. As the first shot ripped through her spine, the next tore through her brain. Gripped tightly by strong hands that gently laid her down, she didn’t even have time for the surprise of the attack to register on her beautiful face. Just moments before she had been saying that the police had to know right away.
Calmly and deliberately, the killer turned back around the nearest corner. Just a block away the quiet hybrid car was parked and waiting where no one near the girl’s body would see or hear the killer leave. Behind the dark tinted glass, there was plastic sheeting spread out over the front seats and floor. Latex gloves and a damp towel waited so the killer could remove any visible blood spatter from face and hands and would not contaminate the car.
The car started silently and moved away without lights until it reached the next corner and a safe escape.
2
Virginia Beach
Day 1
1:55 AM
When he awoke to the brain-drilling ring of his cell phone, he knew he’d had all the sleep he was going to get for the night. Every homicide cop knows the sign of a new body waiting for his attention. I’ll never understand why people wait until the middle of the night to get dead was his first conscious thought.
“Andrews,” he growled into the receiver as he, out of habit, tried to keep his voice low. “Address?” His brain was accustomed to having to remember details such as the fact that someone found a body and where it was located, even before he could recognize his own surroundings. “Meet you there in about twenty minutes.”
His drowsy brain reacted automatically. Then it slowly recalled that just weeks before, he would have risen carefully so the woman beside him could continue whatever sweet dream was putting a smile on her face. Awake, she hadn’t smiled often enough, in my opinion. Of course, that was as much my fault as hers—okay, more, he supposed.
The guilt he felt so often where she was concerned flooded his wakening brain. She was one of the kindest women he’d ever known—yet something vital had been missing in their relationship. That, too, was my fault, he sighed to himself.
As he shuffled across the thick carpet toward the master bath, he realized that, despite their problems, he missed her. No, he corrected himself—not her. What I really miss is having a
partner in my life. I’d really wanted the real thing, and she hadn’t been it. Dear Lord, he thought, I sound like the latest issue of Cosmo—even to myself!
He quickly stripped off his pajama bottoms as he headed into the shower stall that could easily hold four people his size. This luxury had been one of two that he had insisted upon when he took over the family summer home as his permanent lodging.
The cool shower painfully forced his brain to full function. His mind seemed unable to settle on anything other than the woman. He had tried to find some way to extricate himself from a bad situation without hurting her. I really hadn’t wanted to hurt her.
She’d lost her apartment when the tropical storm had swept through her complex and leveled three of the four buildings. Before he’d known he was going to open his mouth, he’d found himself asking her to move in. It had been a mistake from the very beginning, and he’d known it almost immediately.
Well, I’ll never make that mistake again. At first, I’d told myself often that it was easier to allow myself to continue with the mistake than to speak my mind and suffer the anticipated feminine histrionics I’d talked myself into expecting.
Hell, that had been a very weak rationalization—she was a lovely woman and I thought…well, whatever the hell I thought. I was wrong—again! Preston Andrews was never one to shift blame to others—at least not for very long. He had made a mistake and he was fully willing to shoulder the results.
She would never be as hard on him as he was on himself. She was far too kind. That’s what made him feel the worst. He simply hadn’t loved her—not that way. He loved her like a dear friend—she wanted, needed, deserved better. Therefore, the arrangement had come to an end two weeks ago.
Lord, my fellow detectives would laugh their asses off if they only knew what a coward I’ve become—let alone over a woman.
Even with his hair in wet disarray and the scowl on his face, Detective Preston Andrews—Press to his friends—was a striking figure. Women were drawn to his dark and brooding good looks, his intelligence and the force of his physical presence. The small scar on the cheek above a chiseled jaw line and just below half of the pair of dimples that showed when he flashed his wide, white-toothed smile, seemed to make him even more attractive to the opposite sex. All that and he cut one hell of a handsome figure in a tux.
Men valued and sought his opinion; he was a respected man and cop. They also, smartly, tended to back away from his fury. While it rarely flared, until recently, it inspired awe when in full bloom.
Those who were on the wrong side of the law simply feared him. Few knew what a softhearted soul laid beneath that tough, handsome exterior.
Now combed into place, his glossy pitch-black hair—obviously cut by an expert—laid in thick, waving, feathery layers that any woman would simply die to run her fingers through.
The dark complexion was a stark contrast to the eyes of icy blue, surrounded by thick black lashes. They could stop a woman’s heart at fifty paces or pierce a suspect’s nerve across an interrogation table.
At six-foot-three-inches and two-hundred-twenty pounds of well-toned muscle, with broad shoulders and a six-pack that any man would envy, few would think of challenging him physically. His regular exercise regimen would make most men cringe.
The only flaw in that admirable physique of his was the scar on his torso. The occasional ache that went with it was, so the doctor told him, more in his mind than in the healed bullet wound. It had been a close call that even the doctors had bet against. A year later, the small scar and the reoccurring nightmares were the only reminders of his infamous near-death experience.
Virginia “Society”—with a capital “S”—counted him as one of their own. This was despite the fact that he had disappointed many—including his parents—by becoming a cop instead of a politician like his dear-old-dad.
Senator William Alexander Andrews had been firmly ensconced in the DC power structure for over twenty years. Before that, he had been a leader in Virginia politics and his national party for many years. Instead of running for governor, he’d been the man-behind-the-man. Then, when he deemed the time to be right, William Andrews took charge of his own ambitions.
3
Crime Scene
Day 1
2:20 AM
His memories of his father’s disappointment in his son’s choice of vocation faded as Press drove up just outside the crime scene tape. Behind it, his colleagues stopped cold—drawn to a halt due to the noise of his arrival. When they were caught staring, they almost simultaneously turned their heads away and tried to act as if they hadn’t noticed him.
It was rumored that he had been in a royally foul mood the last couple of weeks, although none knew what had caused it—unless it was the assignment of that junk heap he was driving. Several snickers were stifled.
His mood was sour even for 2:00 AM. Despite with that furrow in his brow he was a sight to behold as he stretched his long frame out of the unmarked cop car that had been assigned to him—a three-year-old Taurus that had obviously been driven hard. The pile of junk called an unmarked car was assigned to Press and his new partner, Trace Evans, just days before. He’d refused to let even a junior detective like Evans drive the heap of junk. I’ll get even—for the car, not the new partner—he vowed silently.
He had had that assignment—the raw young partner, not the car—pretty much thrust upon him. The kid is personable enough but really, do they think I’m a baby sitter? Before meeting the kid, green had been the word that came to mind when he thought of Evans. He’d had five years of patrol, sure, but that didn’t make him detective material—despite the fact the kid had aced his detective’s exam.
Good grief, I have to pull this foul mood under control, he thought. Even in his current frame of mind, he knew he was being unfair. The kid was smart as they come and willing to do even the worst job that Press had heaped upon him during what the squad referred to as a new team’s “honeymoon” phase.
The Chief had told Lieutenant Wallace that the kid had a lot of untapped potential, and he wanted him in the Detective Bureau assigned to their best and brightest—that meant Press and everyone involved knew it.
Well, I’ll put the kid through his paces and, if he doesn’t pass muster, I’ll kick his…there he is amongst the many crime scene experts that will—hopefully—make our job easier.
The engine was still knocking and rocking the car—smoke spewed—as he slammed the Taurus’s banged up door, and moved into the taped off area of the street. Yes, sir, I owe someone for that damned car—and I know just who is going to get repaid! I’ll take care of that little matter later today. He caught himself nearly growling. Looking at his watch he silently cursed as he realized it would still be hours before the local Starbucks down on Laskin opened. Damn!
“Evans.” He tamped down the temper in his deep baritone voice to avoid growling at the kid. Still feeling surly, he acknowledged the lanky, young, blonde-headed cop walking toward him. For the moment, standing there in the cool, salty breeze coming off the ocean, he resented Evans as the one responsible for waking him up with that call earlier. A good hot latte would cure that petty issue and a number of other problems in his personal world—but that would have to wait until later.
4
Crime Scene
Day 1
2:20 AM
There was a lot going on in Trace Evan’s mind for someone who’d been routed out of bed at 1:50 in the morning—a mere five minutes or so from the time the victim died. The detectives didn’t often get notification that quickly. He now knew that was just a stroke of luck—if you could believe in anything as iffy as luck.
“Sir,” the young cop said, as he aimed his big hazel eyes at the ground, feeling a little sheepish about having to wake up his new and very-senior-partner in the middle of the night. As Detective Preston Andrew’s junior partner, it was his responsibility. Andrews would never suggest that Evans shouldn’t have done it, but Andrews was wearing resentmen
t this morning as clearly as he was his shoulder holster. The senior detective was not in a good mood and Trace’s day wasn’t starting out well.
As he greeted his senior partner and guided him toward the body, Trace was still nervous about working with Andrews. He really didn’t understand why Lieutenant Wallace had given him this assignment a little over a week ago.
There were grumblings amongst the other detectives about why one of them didn’t get the assignment to Andrews instead. As far as they were all concerned, it was the best assignment in the department.
Evans knew he was resented for getting to partner with Andrews. Oh, he was very thankful for the assignment—it was a plum! But the guy scares me nearly to death. It’s just idol worship—clear and simple, and he knew it. Get over it! He couldn’t have his usually quick mind freeze or his body jump nervously every time the man spoke to him.
No one could ignore Andrews’ reputation as the best detective in the State of Virginia—if not the entire East coast. Despite the involvement of six state police departments and the FBI, he’d been the one to crack the biggest, most gruesome, multi-state, serial murder cases in the eastern U.S. just six months earlier.
The papers were still plastered with Preston Andrews’ name in connection with that one—almost a dozen young couples murdered, and their bodies dumped in lonely areas of the countryside. Twenty innocent kids had gone out for a little romance on warm spring nights, never again seen alive. The details were grizzly, even to seasoned cops. Reporters still tried to corner him and ask about the case, hoping to dig out some new little tidbit that would give them a new sensational headline.
There had been multiple victims, cities, states, and jurisdictions, as well as a befuddled FBI—but Preston Andrews of the Virginia Beach Police Department had solved it. Actually he’d hand-fed the FBI the crucial information needed to crack it, and had nearly died in the show down with the killer.
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