He slapped her hard, sending pain shooting into her jaw. And then she saw it … the gun. In her peripheral vision she could see a few people hiding down behind tables. That’s why they weren’t helping her. He was armed and clearly dangerous and they, wisely, were keeping their distance. She could only hope that the bartender had dialed 9-1-1. If she could keep him talking until the police arrived, maybe she would live.
“Marc, please,” she said. “I’m the only one who knows what really happened. They didn’t find anything in your apartment. Your conviction is still vacated. Without new evidence, they won’t have a reason to bring you back. But if you hurt me … if you … kill me, you’ll have another murder on your hands. You would get the death sentence for sure.”
He wavered, but just for an instant. Suddenly, the gun was in her face. He pressed the barrel under her chin.
“But if I kill you now, I can disappear without anyone ever knowing what happened to me. I’ll be long gone before your body gets cold.”
Her head ached. Her vision was still blurry and she was sure she probably had a concussion. But she had to buy more time. Over his shoulder, she could see the bartender crouched under a table. He put a finger to his lips and then waved it above his head in a circle. Cops, he mouthed, on the way.
“Why did you do it, Marc?” She asked. “Why did you kill Torres?”
For the first time, his evil visage softened. “He took my girl. All I ever wanted was to be with her. She didn’t go with me at first. She kept saying I was a bad boy.”
He sounded as if he was reliving his past. He was a young man wooing his girl.
“I worked so hard to buy her stuff, to show her I really loved her. And eventually, she loved me back. But then Eric came in and that bitch went with him. And she did it in front of all my friends. That ain’t right. I couldn’t lose face like that. I had to show her what happens when you disrespect me like that.”
He jammed the gun into the soft flesh under her chin. A yelp escaped her mouth.
“He paid the price for it. I shot him like a stray dog in the street,” he said, his finger ever tighter on the trigger. “Just like you’re going to die in this hole of a bar. Ain’t nobody going to find me after that.”
It was over. She knew he had gone over the edge and he was going to shoot her in the face. The silver lining, the saving grace was that she probably wouldn’t feel any pain … and she would be with her Daddy again in heaven.
In the fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger, the sudden silence was broken by a loud clap, and then a second, and then a third, and then a full-on round of applause from a single person.
“Astounding performance, my boy,” Minter Tweed said, his drawl in full effect. “You missed your calling. You should have been a thespian, rather than a two-bit thug.”
Amber tilted her head back to see him silhouetted in the front door of the bar. Sunlight glowed around him, his hair, gleaming white. His face was dark, but she could still see the broad smile he was wearing.
Morales raised his gun to point it at him, but Minter wagged a finger. He nodded to the left and the right and for the first time, six officers came into view—three on each side, dressed in black S.W.A.T. gear, mean looking rifles leveled at him.
“I know what you might be thinking, son,” Minter said, “And I assure you that these men and their fully automatic M4 rifles will turn your head into a watermelon of mush long before you ever pull the trigger.”
The only sound in the bar was the creaking of leather from the gloves of the officers and the slight crunch of their boots as they stepped closer. Amber was surprised at the tone Minter’s voice took on as he spoke one more time.
“Mr. Morales, you might not know this, but that girl’s father isn’t with us any longer to defend her honor as he tried to do so long ago. But I am here now. And if you harm one more hair on that girl’s head,” he said, his words unusually clear and precise, “I will allow these men to turn you into a pile of Jell-O.”
27
Tomorrow
Amber Cross sat in a rocking chair on the balcony of Minter Tweed’s office overlooking the city square. Warm amber streetlights glowed through the ashy gray Spanish moss that hung from the ancient Southern Live Oak trees. Beautiful fountains splashed and tinkled. Children played as parents packed up picnic baskets and playthings to head home. The cicadas and stars were coming out for the nighttime symphony that Amber had grown to love. She had enjoyed the time with her father in Florida and the idea of moving back there had blossomed in her mind … until he passed. But sitting here, watching the antebellum city settle in for the night, she knew her heart was here. This was home now.
“My dear,” Minter Tweed said in a voice that could easily have been Mark Twain’s, “you seem a million miles away tonight. Are you well?”
She held up a half empty glass of Franzia Pinot Noir and smiled. “I’m more than well. I’m happy.”
“That is fine,” he said, smoke rings that smelled of cherry and chocolate wafting up around his head. “Mighty fine.”
A silence fell between them. Not an awkward one, but a comfortable one. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled … because it is already full.
“You know,” she said, as a light mist began to fall, “I don’t think I’m going back to the police department.”
“Well now, that is a sudden revelation. What has brought forth this life-altering decision?”
“After I got back, after all that I’d been through with the Morales case, they wanted to put me back in the basement scanning files,” she said, emptying her wine. “I can’t do that. I’m not a secretary.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “Why, the investigative work you did for them was extraordinary. You brought a fervor and an intelligence to that case that no one had before you.”
She shrugged. “I got a guilty man released from prison.”
Minter took his pipe from his mouth and stopped rocking. He leaned over and touched the arm of her rocking chair. “And then you found the truth, doggedly, determinedly, tenaciously at that. You did what was necessary to bring him to justice yet again. Even to the detriment of your own safety.”
She gently touched the healing knot on her forehead. The bruising and swelling were going away, but it would be awhile before she would look like herself again.
“A mistake I hope you will not repeat again,” he added, standing up from his chair. “Come now, let’s go inside before this rain soaks us through.”
As she rocked slowly in the growing mist, she cocked her head to the side. “So, something’s been bugging me for a while,” she said. “Torres was killed in New York, Morales fled to Florida … but the case file was here in Georgia—Savannah, Georgia to boot.”
He nodded. “Mmhmm.”
“Why? Why was it here? It’s been bothering me ever since I watched Governor Cruz in the press conference when they released Morales from .”
His eyes narrowed. “Now that … is a very good question. I cannot think of any good reason for it to be here. Maybe the chief has an answer to that.”
She considered it for a few minutes, thought she might call Chief Decker in the morning … or maybe not. What did it matter now, really?
She looked up at him, “Minter, when I went to Florida to get Morales … how did you know where I was going? How did you know where to find me?”
He smiled and the sparkle in his eye returned. “While you are an incredibly gifted young investigator with a tremendously bright future before you, I will always be one step ahead of you.”
She knew he was being playful, but in some ways, she knew it was true. He had led her to most of the important discoveries she had made in the Morales case.
“I guess I still have a lot to learn,” she said, standing with a groan.
“Well, now,” he rubbed at his snowy beard, “that is an interesting proposition.”
He thought for a moment more, tapping his fingers in the air as if on an in
visible calculator. Then he smiled broadly.
“I accept.”
“Wait.” She raised an eyebrow. “You accept what?”
“Why, the honor of being your mentor,” he said, holding his arms open wide. “I believe I can put you on a small, but acceptable stipend—likely more than the SPD was paying you—and we can get started right away.”
She blinked. “Are you saying you’re hiring me?”
“Of course I’m hiring you,” he said. “But only as long as you want to stay. You have so much to learn and I have much to teach you. I can’t do this forever. I’m getting a bit ‘long in the tooth’ as we say here in the South.”
“But … I mean … what will I do here?”
He waved a hand through the double doors of his office. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She walked in and sat down. Minter refilled their wine glasses, emptying the box. He leaned over and picked up a cardboard box and heaved it up on the table in front of her.
“I have found our next case,” he smiled. “And if you thought the Morales file was complex, wait until you have a look at this one.”
A warmth that she hadn’t felt since her father died filled her heart. Her eyes began to well with tears.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I do believe that we have the start of a beautiful friendship here, my dear.” He raised his glass. “But why don’t we leave the getting started until tomorrow?”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she picked up her glass and clinked his. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Epilogue – Family Ties
Amber Cross woke the next morning to a rain-soaked, but sunny Savannah. She had spent the last evening scoping out new apartments, closer to downtown. One especially sweet looking loft at The Bowery was suddenly within her budget—thanks to Minter Tweed and her new position. She left the meeting with her realtor feeling giddy at putting in an offer. She hadn’t heard back yet, but the realtor had asked her to stay close by, just in case.
She walked along the street, feeling something close to being reborn, expecting a bluebird to land on her shoulder as she hummed “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.” Her stomach growled and she decided to take a chance on Clary’s Café. It turned out to be a cute little place with an Eggs Benedict to die for—and a fantastic white chocolate mocha latte.
She was studying the menu when a man sat down across from her in the booth. She was slightly shocked, but then realized she knew the man.
“Rick,” she said, hoping he wasn’t here to razz her about quitting the force. “What brings you here? I would’ve guessed this was too healthy for you.”
“Very funny, Ber,” he said. “They do have country fried steak. But that’s not why I’m here.”
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a badge. He slid it across the table. At first, she thought maybe it was her old badge and this was some kind of ploy to get her to come back. Not what she would’ve expected from Fat Rick Thompson, but things had been pretty strange lately.
She picked it up, with a well-practiced speech coming to mind about how she just wasn’t cut out for police work, but then she realized it wasn’t her badge. She studied it more closely and realized it was not a Savannah P.D. shield, it was a NYPD badge.
Across the top, in gold on blue, it said CITY OF NEW YORK POLICE, and under that, DETECTIVE. At the bottom, large numbers proclaimed it was from precinct 1947.
“What’s this?” she asked, laying it back on the table.
“You don’t know this, but I used to work in New York. Gave it all I had until I just couldn’t take it no more.”
Amber was speechless.
“And then, when that man killed my son … my stepson, that was the last straw.” Rick spoke with such emotion that it surprised her.
Seemingly, from nowhere, a woman sat down next to Rick in the booth. Amber looked at her, confusion probably plastered across her face.
“Ber, meet my wife, Miriam,” he said, as the woman smiled and held out a hand. “Miriam Torres Thompson.”
Dumbfounded, Amber tried desperately to find words. “But you … you’re … Eric Torres was your son?”
“My stepson,” Rick corrected her. “We left New York when I got the job here in Savannah. Naturally, I wasn’t allowed to work on the case, but they did a good enough job. And as you’ve proved, they got the right man.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Amber asked, her throat filling with emotion.
“I didn’t know.” His wife touched his arm. “We didn’t know you were working on it. At least not until the very end anyway. Hell, that file box really shouldn’t have been down in the basement anyway. They put the whole thing on microfiche in New York and when they put that box out for shredding … I took it.”
“It was all we had left of our son,” Miriam said.
Amber finally saw it, the subtle similarities, same jaw line, same thick, black hair. There was a long pause as the two women looked into each other’s eyes.
The waitress brought a steaming plate of Eggs Benedict and sat it in front of Amber.
Rick cleared his throat. “Well, we should really be going.”
He stood to go with Miriam, but the woman turned back to Amber. “Thank you. You have a gift. Don’t ever forget what good you have done.”
Amber swallowed. She didn’t speak, afraid she might begin to cry. Instead, she held up a hand and smiled.
When Rick and his wife had gone, she was about to take a bite of her brunch when her cellphone rang. It was her realtor on the line telling her the sellers had accepted her offer. Amber squealed drawing concerned looks from the other patrons. She was finishing up the details of when she could close and move in when a call beeped in from the other line.
“My dear,” Minter’s voice drawled, “you do realize it is well past eleven?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” she said. “I was just picking up some breakfast before coming in.”
“Well, put in another order of whatever you’re having and a coffee, two sugars, two creams, and get on in here. We have work to do.”
She hung up and waved the waitress over. The start of a beautiful friendship indeed.
THE END
AMBER CROSS WILL RETURN In HER LAST CHANCE by CRAIG A. HART and DAVID BERENS.
Afterword
Amber Cross came out of nowhere. I was invited to be a part of a box set called Dead Silent - Deadly Secrets, Deadly Lies. But the stories I’m known for writing are not all that deadly, or secret, or dark. In fact, if you’ve read my stuff, you know I’ve made my proverbial hay being pretty satirical and farcical.
I couldn’t imagine throwing the likes of Troy Bodean into this box set, thus Amber Cross was born. I wanted to write something that had the intensity of Silence of the Lambs and the drama of A Time to Kill. Amber can be both strong and vulnerable. Her mentor, Minter (I know, obvious) can be wise and funny, while being fallible at the same time. He’s literally “too old for this sh*t” and serves as the perfect coach for Amber who is just learning to be a great investigator.
I hope you enjoy this story, there are many more to come. As I am writing this, I have enlisted the considerable talents of Craig A. Hart to help me create more Amber Cross stories and I couldn’t be more excited!
Please be sure to visit TropicalThrillers.com/readergroup and join the BeachBum Brigade Reader Group so you’ll be among the first to know about my promotions, events and specials!
Thank you, Kind Reader,
Also by David Berens
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Her Lost Alibi: A gripping suspense thriller. (An Amber Cross Thriller Book 1) Page 10
