Ames To Thrill: Three Full-Length Gripping Mystery Thrillers

by Dan Ames

I listened as best I could while I watched her lips move, watched the tiny laugh lines around her eyes crinkle when she smiled. Her fingers were long and slender, her smile easy. There was an aura about her of energy, of vitality, not so much an element of danger as one of vibrancy, like the steady hum of a powerful electric current.

  I tried to think of how long it had been since I was with a woman, and it had been just that: long. Somewhere around the Cenozoic, I believed.

  Suddenly, I realized she was smiling at me.

  "I'm sorry?" I said.

  "Your turn," she said. "Tell me what's not on the resumé."

  I don't know how long I spoke. I gave her a rough outline, glossed over the bad parts. It was a pretty seamless edit. Practice makes perfect. When I finished, I felt good. Better than I had in a long time, in fact.

  I feared that I'd bored her. That she was going to thank me for my time and be on her way.

  Instead, she said, "Want to go someplace else? A little quieter?"

  "Sure," I said. "I know a place downtown-"

  "I was wondering," she interrupted. "If the Ashland house has a late tour I could catch?" Now I was grinning like an idiot and made no attempt to hide it. It would have been impossible anyway.

  I made a big show of checking my watch. "If we hurry," I said. "We might just catch the last one."

  Outside, I walked with Eve to her car, a dark blue BMW. Once she started it up, I walked back to the Audi, started her up, and left, Eve following behind me.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into my driveway. Inside, I hung her coat up in the front closet next to mine. "Do you want a drink?" I asked. "I think I've actually got a bottle of champagne around in here somewhere," I said, rummaging through the refrigerator.

  "Sure," she said.

  I found the bottle, popped the cork and ran through in my mind anything that was out of place, but I'd cleaned before I left, not wanting to start the New Year with a mess. I gave her a glass, we clinked, and then I gave her the tour.

  "This is nice, Michael. Very masculine." I showed her the living room, the fireplace, the kitchen, and my office upstairs. I was very aware of her presence, of her perfume lingering around us as we walked. I liked seeing her in my house.

  We ended up back in the kitchen. When I turned, she was facing me. She stepped closer and I felt the room spin. She reached up and put her arms around my neck and pressed against my body.

  I responded and soon we were stumbling toward my bedroom, the fizz of the champagne fading in the empty, echoing kitchen.

  23

  Twenty-Three

  The New Year broke fresh and pure. The breeze stirred gently outside, the sun peeked in through the windows. The snow in the boughs of the pine tree out front began to melt, their small droplets glistened.

  I lay on my back, my hands clasped behind my head, and listened to the occasional sounds in my house as they obligingly carried over their rituals from the previous year. A rafter creak here, a wallboard pop there.

  Eve stirred next to me and I turned my head to look at her. Her delicate face was made all the more angelic by her slightly parted mouth, her soft lips. Her left leg was thrown over mine, and I gazed at its muscularity, her firm thigh, her sculpted knee, and the smooth skin as it tapered down to her delicate ankle. I let my hand slide gently over her hip.

  I listened to her breath, felt the heat where our two bodies joined, and luxuriated in her warmth.

  I went back to looking at the ceiling and idly traced a spider crack in my ceiling plaster, one I had patched almost a year ago, but that continued to separate nonetheless. It ran from the center of the ceiling and meandered to the right side of the room, disappearing finally beneath the ceiling molding.

  Eve rolled onto her back and reached out lightly with her right hand, trailing it down my left forearm until she found my hand and then laid hers gently on top.

  "Good morning," she said, her voice still thick with sleep.

  "Good morning," I responded.

  "Happy New Year," she said.

  "Happy New Year to you, too." Her nostrils flared as she exhaled deeply. Burrowed into the pillow. "Do you want some coffee?" I started to get up, but she held my arm down.

  "No, not yet."

  I lay back on my pillow. I could still hear the wind outside. The noises of the house.

  She opened her eyes. Watched me.

  "Any New Year's resolutions?" I asked.

  I heard her sigh.

  "I'd tell you but I think it might scare you a little bit."

  She ran her hand across my stomach. Circled a finger along my skin.

  "I don't scare easily."

  Another sigh. "Okay," she said. "I resolve to not wait until next New Year's to do this again."

  I rolled onto my side and looked at her. Her eyes were wide, honest and vulnerable.

  "Why would that scare me?" I asked.

  Instead of answering, she said, "And you? What are your New Year's resolutions?"

  My eyes ran over her body. Her skin was warm, much darker than mine, with soft curves and the occasional sharp angle.

  "Ditto," I said.

  We lay again in silence.

  "That," I said, the slightest hint of hesitation and then I pressed on. "And to find out what happened to my best friend."

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  I told her as much as I knew about Tim's murder.

  She sat up. "Oh my God," she said. "I'm so sorry, Michael." She crossed her legs Indian style. "Can I help?" she asked.

  I looked into her eyes. She was serious.

  "No." I shook my head but inside, I was touched by her offer to help. It seemed that as I got older, every day gave me the opportunity to feel a little more alone.

  She brought her hand up and nestled it in the crook between my neck and shoulder. Slowly she pulled me toward her. My face met hers. We kissed, a slow, sensual union that built with urgency.

  But then she broke it off by saying, "I know how it feels."

  "How what feels?"

  "Losing someone close to you."

  I could hear the seriousness in her voice and waited for her to continue.

  "My mother was an orphan. Then her poor excuse for a husband ran off on her. She raised us by herself. A strong woman, a smart woman. So proud. We were piss poor, barely enough food to survive even with her working two jobs and the rest of us chipping in. But you'd have thought we were damn royalty. She carried her head high and insisted that we all did, too. She died waiting for a bus to take her home from her job at the nursing home. All those years and she couldn't even afford a car. Some mugger got overenthusiastic with his knife. Snatched her purse and when she fought back, he stabbed her, a wild swing. Lucky shot, or unlucky, depending on your point of view. Cut her jugular and she died before the ambulance could arrive. I was a senior in high school. I'd been accepted to college, but I backed out, took a job and raised my brother until he was old enough. Then I went back and got a degree."

  A tear escaped Eve's eye and I could hear a faint shudder in her voice.

  "She never saw me graduate, never saw me own my own business. She died too soon. Too goddamned soon."

  I told her I was sorry and for a long time we just held each other. I thought she had fallen asleep until she said, "Enough about people we've lost. Let's celebrate the people we've found. Let's do it by taking care of that first resolution we talked about...” she said, and her hand slid down my body.

  24

  Twenty-Four

  It was early afternoon when I woke up. The clock next to the bed said it was nearly four o'clock. I pulled the sheets tighter over my body. I heard the shower running and felt the empty space next to me in bed. The sheets were still warm.

  I looked out through the window, saw a dark cloud roll by. A few stray flurries hit the glass and melted upon contact.

  My stomach rumbled. I sat up and swung my feet out of bed, walked down the hallway to the bathroom. Inside, I could hear Eve singing i
n a soft voice in the shower. I listened. Not a bad if a bit tentative. A helluva lot better than mine.

  I walked back down the hallway toward the kitchen. I saw through the living room windows that the snow was picking up quite a bit. I would probably have to throw down some salt-

  A flash of color.

  Flesh.

  The fist rammed into my mouth. Snapped my head back. I saw black and then stars. I staggered back, stumbling for balance. A futile gesture.

  He barreled into me, his head down like a battering ram. The breath went out of me with a whoosh.

  My head cleared enough to register blonde hair and big arms.

  He picked me right off the floor and drove me to the ground. I felt pain shoot up my spine.

  With incredible quickness he leapfrogged onto my chest. Pinned my arms beneath his knees.

  A huge ham of a fist crashed into my face. I saw more stars. Tasted blood.

  I twisted and got an arm free just as another fist crashed into my temple. A wave of blackness surged toward me. Panic and fear exploded in my head. My free arm went beneath his leg and I surged upward and bucked with my pelvis. I raised him six inches off the ground, enough to twist all the way around onto my stomach before he crashed down on top of me again. His huge hands clamped onto my neck, my windpipe sealed shut.

  I arched my back and brought my knees under my stomach. He slid forward, landed on his hip, rolled and sprang to his feet just as I got to mine.

  We came face to face at the same time.

  His left fist flashed out at me and I stepped back, but not fast enough. It knocked me backward. Blood poured from my nose.

  And then he laughed.

  I got a good look at him. Well over six feet. Broad shoulders. Flat nose. Beady eyes.

  Mary Schletterhorn's nurse.

  "Tell me where it is and I won't hurt you anymore," he said, his fists raised in front of him. One of them was dripping with blood. My blood.

  I rushed him.

  He wasn't expecting it, but still managed to sidestep me. I swung a sweeping right, missed. I rushed him again. His strong hands grabbed my shoulders. Stopped me. But before he could do anything, I lunged upward and headbutted him.

  I heard his teeth grate, maybe even crack. He backed up. Tried to kick me in the groin but I sidestepped it, then threw a right with everything I had. I flattened his lips. Blood squirted. A tooth fell to the floor.

  A straight right intended for his midsection landed, but my fist seemed to glance off his abs.

  He smiled, blood on his front teeth, then stepped toward me, a whirling dervish of giant fists swung like wrecking balls. An uppercut nearly lifted me off my feet and a series of short, brutal punches knocked me back into the living room where I sank to my knees.

  He grabbed me by the hair and wrenched my head back. "Tell me where it is," he said, his voice coming through clenched teeth.

  "Who?" I asked. The blood in my mouth tasted like copper. I spit something out onto the carpet. A filling.

  He shook my head back and wrapped a hand around my throat, began to tighten. "I won't ask again," he said.

  My head floated. Stars appeared on the far wall. I thought I could make out the Big Dipper.

  From far away, a different voice spoke.

  A woman's voice.

  The hand left my throat and I turned with him. Saw a flash of silver whipped through the air.

  The blow caught him on the temple with the sound of a sledgehammer braining livestock at the slaughterhouse. He sank to his knees, toppled to the side, and fell to the floor with a dull thud.

  Eve stood over him, a pewter flower vase in her hands.

  She helped me to my feet. I stood there swaying.

  “My God,” Eve said. She looked at my face. At the blood.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be fine…”

  Her eyes suddenly widened and I turned. Watched, unbelieving, as the man's hand slowly reached out and grasped the fireplace poker.

  I grabbed Eve by the arm, pulled her toward the bedroom. She was buck naked. Still dripping wet from her shower.

  I heard the sound of the fireplace poker being dragged across the floor. Heavy steps plodded toward us.

  In the bedroom, I grabbed my gun from beneath the bed. It was a Ruger .357.

  A shadow filled the doorway.

  I turned, held the gun with both hands, kept the front sight centered on his chest.

  "Whatever it is you want, I don't have it."

  He shook his head. Not good enough, apparently.

  "Put it down," I said. "You don't have a chance. Besides, didn't you take a Hippocratic Oath or something?"

  He took a step toward us.

  I aimed at his chest and fired. He stopped. Blood seeped from his chest. He took another step. I fired again. And again. And again.

  25

  Twenty-Five

  "What's the deal with her?" Gabby asked me. I sat at the kitchen table, she was leaning against the counter, scanning the room.

  Eve sat on the couch, a blanket around her, staring with dull eyes at a spot on the floor.

  "I guess she's a little upset," I said. "Not everyone is as used to seeing dead guys like you are."

  It had been a whirlwind of activity after I called 9-1-1. Eve had sobbed into my shirt before putting on some clothes and taking a seat on the couch to wait for the cops. A few minutes later, a gang of squad cars arrived, the uniforms all taking a look at the body. Standing around. Staring at me. Staring at Eve. Murder in the Washington Highlands didn't happen all that often. It was a must-see event, apparently.

  The temperature in the room had dropped thanks to the constant comings and goings of the cops. The door was open half the time, and the cold air poured in.

  "How about you?" Gabby asked me.

  "How about me what?”

  "Are you used to seeing dead guys?"

  "No, I'm not," I said, my voice even.

  "You know," he said. "You may qualify as the first homicide of the New Year. Prize this year is a wide-slot toaster, I think."

  A man with a large camera came in through the front door. He scanned the room, spotted Gabby. She pointed toward my bedroom. The man nodded and moments later, flashbulbs began to go off.

  "Funny thing, Ashland,” Gabby said. “I've been meaning to ask you about something. I had some follow-up questions for your dead friend's ex-wife," she said. "I went over there. To Elm Grove. She said you had been there and had asked some questions."

  I looked up at her. Forced myself to concentrate. "So?"

  "So I'm wondering how long you've been friends with her."

  "A long time," I said. "We've been friends for a long time.”

  "You know that old cliché about wives cheating on their husbands? How it's always the best friend?"

  I didn't answer her question.

  "It's not a cliché. It's the truth. Accessibility. Familiarity. There's a reason housewives don't go out and fuck strangers. Most women don't want that kind of danger. It's too risky. They like the much safer danger of fucking their husband's best friend. They know all about them. And as a lucky strike extra, the best friend has just as much at stake to keep it a secret."

  I felt anger blossom inside me, but I was in too much pain to do anything about it. Instead, I turned and said, "Here's a news flash for you. Why don't you try to find who actually killed Tim, instead of playing mind games with me?"

  Through my partially open front door, I could see the yellow crime scene tape, the flashing cruisers, the coroner's minivan just pulling up. A few neighbors walked by. They'd been doing that for the last hour.

  "So what was she doing here?" Gabby asked me, looking across the room at Eve.

  "Visiting."

  She laughed out loud. "I love euphemisms, don't you?" she asked. “I'm going to talk to her."

  I moved to follow her but she put a hand out. “’Fraid not, buddy boy. I don't need you coaching her."

  She walked over to Eve, sat n
ext to her on the couch. Eve looked at me. I nodded to her, willing her to hang in there. Gabby caught the look.

  I went to the counter. Picked up a cup of coffee, realized I didn't want any, poured it down the drain. I went to a cupboard and got a glass, filled it with water from the tap.

  The front door opened and through it, I saw a white minivan. The County Coroner. He came in, a tall, thin man wearing a navy blue suit and carrying a large satchel. Again, Gabby gestured toward the bedroom, where the occasional flashbulb still went off.

  I didn't even want to think about the bloodstains in my bedroom. I just wanted it all to go away. The people. The cops. The attention. But most of all the blood. The dead body.

  The glass shook in my hand as I remembered shooting, pulling the trigger, watched as the blood flowed, stained the man's shirt.

  I don't know how long Gabby questioned Eve, but by the time I saw her put her notebook away, the house was starting to clear out. The crime scene photographer was the first to leave, followed a little later by the coroner. They carried the body out in a black plastic bag. More flashbulbs popped outside. I assumed the media had arrived in force.

  Outside, I could hear the reporters talking amongst themselves, laughing.

  The uniformed cops left next and soon it was just myself, Eve and Gabby.

  After several minutes, a man came in through the door. He was a short man with longish blonde hair. He went to Gabby, pulled out a notebook. They huddled together for a few minutes, then both of them looked at me. My stomach tightened involuntarily, a quick burst of fear shot through my chest.

  I caught Eve's eye. They were wide. Alarmed. Scared.

  The short blonde guy left.

  Gabby walked across the room to me.

  She smiled.

  "I have good news, bad news and even worse news."

  “The good news better be that this nurse guy killed Tim.” I had allowed myself to believe it. Had hoped that maybe I’d gotten Tim’s killer after all.

  Gabby shook her head.

  I set the glass down on the counter.