by Kelly Oliver
WOLF
A Jessica James Mystery
Kelly Oliver
Copyright © 2016, second edition, 2018, Kelly Oliver
All rights reserved.
Published by KAOS PRESS at kaospress.com
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
Print ISBN number 978-0-692-68535-8
Ebook ISBN number 978-0-692-68536-5
Part One
Chapter One
Lying atop a desk in an otherwise empty attic, Jessica James gnawed on her jagged fingernail and wondered how her first year in graduate school had become such a tinderbox. She closed her eyes and imagined a fitting demise for the thesis advisor whose Birkenstocks had stomped on her dream of getting an advanced degree: a quick defenestration, a slow acting poison, or a hard bludgeon to his fat ugly head with the blunt side of an axe. Professor Baldrick Wolfgang Schmutzig, “Preeminent Philosopher” and World-Class Dickhead. The Wolf had insulted her for the last time.
Something hit the attic window. Jessica sat at attention, straining to listen in the darkness. She slipped off the desk and tiptoed over to the window and peered out. All she saw was her own round face, messy hair, and startled eyes reflected in the thick antique windows. Even during the day, those panes of milky glass tainted the outside world with a greenish tint, as if everything were tinged with rot. She yanked at the casement. Sealed shut from a century’s worth of paint, the frame wouldn’t budge.
Once inhabited by Chicago’s smartest and most fashionable set, now the Victorian mansion that served as the philosophy department housed a well-educated group of misfits and oddballs. She hated to think what kind of spirits might haunt this place: anxious graduate students overdosed on No-Doze, suicidal professors denied tenure, shamed secretaries asphyxiated by acetone, clumsy co-eds tripping down the stairs on killer spiked heels.
For the past two nights, Brentano Hall’s creaky noises, cold drafts, and musty odors had been giving her the creeps. It wasn’t the Waldorf, but it was better than Alpine Vista trailer park and its familiar inhabitants, moose-eating rednecks, tree-hugging hippies, and neo-Nazi skinheads. Twelve more sleepless nights on this hard desk before she had to slog back to Montana--high, wide and boring.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pebbles continued showering the window. Jessica jammed her bare feet into her Ropers, threw her fringe jacket over the dirty t-shirt and faded jeans she’d been sleeping in, crept out of the abandoned office and headed for the narrow staircase. All she needed to top off this week from hell was the campus police busting her for living in the Philosophy Department attic. Donnette the secretary and Dmitry the janitor were the only ones who knew she was sleeping there.
Galloping down the stairs into god-knows-what in the middle of the night, she thought of her mom’s parting words when she’d left Whitefish almost a year ago, “Be good… and if you can’t be good, be careful.”
Jessica had tried to heed that lesson for most of her twenty-one years, but eventually her curiosity would get the best of her. Then she couldn’t resist poking at a leaky gas-cap, throwing a can of Coke into the campfire, turning her cousin’s Ping-Pong balls into gun cotton, or checking to see if horse manure was really flammable.
As hard as she tried to be good, Jessica was constitutionally incapable of being careful, and maybe that’s why at this very minute she was running headlong into the unknown flying objects hurled at Brentano Hall.
She past the musty library and inhaled the smell of ancient wisdom. Lingering just beneath the added scent of moldy file folders was the faint scent of pipe tobacco from the old days when professors used to smoke in their offices. Now, the few remaining smokers huddled outside under the front awning puffing on Carlton Lights.
Whoever was pelting poor old Brentano Hall was going to blow her cover. When the tapping became banging, Jessica quickened her pace, trying not to slip down the remaining stairs. If she didn’t stop the ruckus, the campus police would. Bang. Bang. Bang. The projectiles were picking up pace.
Growing up in a scrappy trailer park, Jessica had learned to keep a safe distance from flying objects, especially whizzing vodka-tonics and airborne ashtrays, the fallout from her mother’s drunken mood swings. But, muscles taut, ready to dodge whatever was thrown her way, her childhood reflexes had outstripped her coordination, and she’d found herself jolting and jerking into adulthood, her pensive watchfulness mistaken for keen intelligence. Along the way, she’d learned, if she kept her mouth shut, eyes open, and ducked, she could slip under the radar, especially if she tucked her long blonde hair up into a cowboy hat and wore her jeans one size too big.
By the time she’d reached the bottom of the staircase, the tapping and banging stopped and the yelling started.
“Jesse, are you up there? Let us in.” She recognized the voice. Her stoner buddy, Jack Grove. What did he want at this time of night?
She opened the heavy wooden front door and stepped out onto the wraparound porch. Jack was pawing at his girlfriend-of-the-month, Amber Bush, a buxom hippy with coils of red hair snaking off her head in all directions. Her paisley nightgown hung down to the top of her beat-up Uggs, as if she’d run out of the house in the middle of the night to escape a fire. Amber’s mouth opened to say something but soundlessly froze into a perfect O. Jessica knew better than to ask about the sticky brown stuff on her forehead.
“Are you trying to get me busted? Or did you wake me up in the middle of the night so I could watch you make-out?” Jessica shook her head. “You guys might as well saddle up and git.”
“Not so fast, cowgirl. We brought a present.” Jack hopped from foot to foot, holding up a fancy bottle of whiskey.
She examined the bottle. Laphroaig. What kind of name was that for whiskey? “Where’d you get it?”
“At a RatDog concert in Milwaukee.” Jack ambled up onto the porch leading Amber by the hand. “They did a mind-blowing ‘Scarlet Begonias’.” He grabbed the front door handle and yanked the door open.
“It was really cool,” Amber whispered, tilting her head to one side, twisting one of her hair-snakes around her finger, and flicking the end of it into her mouth.
“Sorry I asked.” Jessica buttoned her fringe jacket and hugged herself to block the brisk June breeze. “Get inside before the cops see you.” She pushed her friends inside the building and closed the door behind them. Before Jack could start a dissertation on washed-up psychedelic rock bands, she headed back upstairs.
With each step, the ancient staircase creaked and groaned, a familiar lament from the neglected old house. In spite of its nine-foot ceilings, the mahogany wainscoting and warped floorboards made the antiquated house feel claustrophobic, a sailing ship lost at sea, forever rolling this way and that.
A wave of nausea hit as she found herself staring at a gold engraved nameplate: Professor Baldrick Wolfgang Schmutzig. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes tight as she marched past the office. She didn’t open them soon enough to avoid tripping on the stairs.
“Hey, let’s drink the La Frog in Wolf’s office!” Jack said. Professor B. W. Schmutzig had given Jack his only B in college.
“Is breaking and entering part of your homework, Jackass?” Jessica picked herself up and continued up the stairs. “Is that why you’re studying criminal psychiatry?”
“Watch this.” Jack whipped out a credit card and slid it between the doorframe and the lock, popping the office door open.
“Holy Crap! I tho
ught you were joking.” Jessica stumbled back down the stairs and grabbed at Jack’s shirt, but he’d already slipped through the door and Amber had slid in after him. Jessica had no choice but to follow and shut the door behind her.
“If campus security finds us, I’ll get kicked out.” Jackass was always pulling crazy stunts like this, and against her better judgment, she always tagged along.
“That which does not kill you, makes you stronger.” Jack strolled across the office and shoved some papers off the desk and sat down. He pulled a pouch out of his jean-jacket pocket and deftly rolled a perfect joint, lit it, took a long drag, and then passed it to Jessica.
“Should be, what doesn’t kill you sends you to therapy for life.” When Jessica exhaled, all the tension of the last week evaporated along with the cloud of sweet smoke.
Amber dropped her mammoth purse in a corner on top of a pile of books and sat on the desk next to Jack, petting his wavy hair and cooing into his ear.
“You’re doing pretty good for a screwed-up cowgirl from Montana. Fresh off the farm,” he said through a cloud of smoke.
“It’s a ranch, not a farm, dumbass.” Jessica surveyed Wolf Schmutzig’s pigsty of an office.
“Ranch? Farm? What’s the difference? You can take the girl out of the country...” Jack’s laugh had a smooth smoky quality, and his charismatic smile made him popular with women, at least the ones who liked sexy nerds. Jessica had a penchant for sexy nerds, but so far she’d managed to deflect Jack’s charms. More like bronco riding than flirting, they took turns tossing each other to the ground.
Besides, until last week, she’d had a boyfriend. After Michael cheated on her, she swore off romance… at least until she finished her degree. But, it wouldn’t take a Ph.D. in philosophy to teach Jessica that virtue was just the flip side of vice. She’d learned that from her experience with men.
Every man’s most admirable quality had an evil twin waiting in the shadows to bite her in the butt when she’d least expected it. The nice ones were too nice…to someone else. The smart ones figured out devious way to mess with your head. Even the sweet ones worked their charms to manipulate. But the cheaters, they were the worst. Whether in poker or love, Jessica hated cheaters.
Jack hopped off the desk. “Speaking of farm animals, look at this barnyard Wolf calls home.” He pushed a pile of fast food wrappers to the floor. “Typical philosopher, arrogant asshole living in a fantasy world revolving entirely around his own supposed genius. Wolf is a classic paranoid narcissist, delusions of grandeur and all.” He twisted the top off the fancy bottle and took a swig, and then passed it to Jessica.
“Dirty office, dirty mind.” The Wolf’s office was an academic version of those hoarder shows on television. Even the spicy smoke couldn’t cover up the reek of death.
“I think it’s admirable the professor lives in his office,” Amber said. She took her turn on the whiskey. “Maybe he’s saving money to send to orphans in Tibet, or support a family of refugees… or putting his kids through college.” She was gnawing on a Hersey’s kiss she’d found amidst the rubble on the desk.
“Wolf doesn’t have any kids.” Jessica took another swig off the bottle and started to laugh. She was used to Canadian Rye whiskey, but this fancy Scottish stuff tasted like tree moss doused in skunk juice.
“What’s so funny?” Amber asked her mouth covered in melted chocolate.
Jessica couldn’t stop laughing. “I’m imagining a baby Wolf with little lamb-chop sideburns, two baby Brillo pads stuck to either side of its tiny face, teeny bulging eyes, petite bulbous nose, diminutive bubble ears, all those miniature balloons bobbing off its baby Einstein head!” As smoke filled her sinuses, a wasabi buzz scalded her scalp. She jerked her hand to the top of her head and pressed down hard to stop the tingling.
“Don’t forget the mini wool socks and tiny Birkenstocks,” Amber giggled.
“I have to take a leak.” Jack headed for Schmutzig’s bathroom.
“No, you don’t.” Jessica intercepted him and seized the doorknob so he couldn’t get in.
Bang. A door slammed. Crap! Campus Security. She lurched forward and the top of her head collided with Jack’s skull.
“You’re hard headed. The brain is a soft organ. I think you gave me a concussion,” Jack said.
“Shut up or I’ll aim for another soft organ,” Jessica hissed.
Amber’s face stiffened into a hippie Medusa, mouth frozen into that uncanny O, snaky hair slithering to escape her head.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
“Quick, turn off the lights.” Jessica glanced around the office. “Amber strip! Give me your nightgown.”
“Whaa?” Amber’s oval mouth didn’t move.
“Just do it. Hand it over.” Jessica thrust her hand out and waited for Amber to take off her nightgown. Now wearing only her Uggs, Amber crouched in the corner. On hands and knees, Jessica crawled over and stuffed the nightgown under the door to keep the smoke from escaping. The office doorknob rattled. She froze. Crap! She’d get a prison sentence instead of a doctoral degree.
The sound of keys jangled in the lock. She skidded across the floor towards the bathroom. When Jack yanked open the bathroom door, her nostrils were assaulted by a sickening odor. She covered her mouth and nose with both hands. Jack darted inside the bathroom, pulling Amber in after him.
When she heard the office doorknob click, Jessica dove into the dark bathroom after her friends. She slid along the tile floor and her hand touched something sticky. She inched towards where the bathtub should be. The toe of her boot rammed into an obstacle on the floor. Walled in by the stench of death, she carefully stood up, listening in the darkness.
The hinges on the office door squeaked and a deep voice asked, “Anybody here?” As light from the hallway poured in under the bathroom door, she instinctively stepped backward. Something snapped under her cowboy boot. As her eyes adjusted to the ambient light, she lifted her foot and saw Professor Schmutzig’s wire-rimmed eyeglasses winking up at her, one lens smashed under her boot. Yikes. She turned her head back towards the tub to see what had tripped her. A shoe, a pair of shoes. What the…
Opening her eyes wider, she tried to focus. Her palms were sweating. An ominous prickling anxiety seized her chest and squeezed her lungs in a vice grip. Warm tears streamed down her cheeks even though she wasn’t crying. She had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.
After what seemed like an eternity in purgatory, the light in the office blinked off, the door banged, and the sounds of the security guard’s walkie-talkie receded down the hallway. She strained to hear him leave the building but didn’t move a muscle until the heavy front door of Brentano Hall slammed shut.
Jessica took a big breath of putrid air to steel her nerves. She pulled back the shower curtain. With all the lights off again, it was too dark to see anything. She took out her cell phone and pointed it towards the tub. Holy Crap! She gasped as the outline of a body came into dim focus. Fully clothed, the head and torso slumped inside the tub under the tap, the stockinged feet extending over the side, legs askew, one dangling and the other at attention.
Huddled in the corner near the toilet, Jack turned his girlfriend away before she could see the ghastly sight of the bloated blue body in the bathtub.
Jessica stifled a scream. Even in the dark, she knew she was staring into the hideous dead eyes of the Wolf.
Chapter Two
Aharsh Lake Michigan breeze stung his cheeks and smarted his eyes as Dmitry Durchenko hurried toward the university parking garage after working his regular night shift at Brentano Hall. When Dmitry reached the garage, he hesitated at the elevator, trying to remember where he’d parked. He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, but instead of his parking stub, he found the napkin Vanya had threatened him with the night before at Pavlov’s Banquet. Hands shaking, he turned it over and read what was written on the back in thick blocky Russian letters: “Little thieves get shot, but great ones e
scape.”
He pushed all of the elevator buttons, figuring he could stick his head out at each floor until he spotted his van. At least he remembered parking it across from the elevator. When the door opened on the fifth floor, he saw a distant glowing ember and the silhouette of a man in the passenger seat of his Toyota minivan. He took a deep breath and headed toward the van.
All his muscles tightened as he opened the driver’s side door and a wall of smoke slammed into his face. Vanya Ivanov may be only Shestyorka, the lowest ranking card in the Russian deck, but sometimes the lowball could really mess up a good hand. The wiry little punk was covered in tattoos popular among Russian criminals, the most distinctive on his left shoulder, the face of a cat with crazy eyes and razor fangs. He also had a red rose carved into the back of his right hand, a symbol of acceptance into Bratva, the Brotherhood. Dmitry’s stomach sunk thinking about the torture and pain inflicted in the name of “fraternity.”
“What do you want, Vanya?” Weak-kneed, Dmitry dropped into the driver’s seat. His cousin ignored him and flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the carpet onto a disgusting pile of bent butts on the floor. Black beads had formed on the synthetic fibers where the carpet was charred.
“Could you please quit burning holes in my floor?” He knew he couldn’t turn a wall into a door just by pounding on it, but he tried anyway. Dmitry opened the ashtray. “Come on. Use the ashtray or get out of my van.”
Vanya dropped his lit cigarette onto the pile, ground it into the carpet with his Italian lace-up, lit another one, then inhaled deeply and blew out a series of concentric smoke rings. “The Pope wants to know why you’re keeping secrets from him,” he said in Russian, his gold grill reflecting the florescent lights in the otherwise dark parking garage.
“Why would I do that?” Dmitry wondered which secret he meant. Of course he kept secrets from Bratva. Some of them could get him killed.
