The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “At any rate, my theory is that this American is quite aware there’s a risk of his victims being able to recall him and what he’s done to them. But it doesn’t matter because he has something else up his sleeve. We just have to figure out what that is. What is the third angle?”

  “So where does that leave us on this case?”

  “We simply do the best we can with what we have. Follow procedure. And hope to hell we get a break before he does this again. Because I am dead sure he will strike again.”

  Chapter 21

  Sam arose before dawn, downed a cup of the hotel’s coffee and took a long, hot shower. He had slept better than he’d expected to, taking into account his excitement and anticipation of the day that lay ahead of him.

  Is this really happening?

  Here he was in London, England, and in a few hours he would be escorted by a bookstore staffer—his very own author escort, no less—to the venue where he would face a throng of paying patrons that had plunked down their hard earned pounds to meet in the flesh the renowned author of The Foxburg Murders… “And now, ladies and gents, please give it up for one of America’s unestablished but nevertheless exciting writers—the one and only, awesome and amazing Sam Middleton!”

  Sam literally laughed out loud at the thought, spurting his coffee all over the bathroom sink. Seriously?

  Humbled wasn’t the right word to describe how he felt at the moment—not even close. He felt like a weird cross between Cinderella and Stephen King, and the clock was ticking. The big question was, what would the stroke of midnight bring? Total disaster or unbridled joy? Or something in between? He was clueless. All he knew for sure was that today would be forever remembered as a situation he never in his wildest dreams could ever have conceived.

  And he was scared shitless.

  His cell phone rang. Expecting it to be Mitch, he checked the ID and was surprised to see that it was Roger Hagstrom.

  “Hey, man—greetings from London!”

  “You don’t have to rub it in. Most lowly Americans like myself have to work for a living instead of flitting across the big pond to make mega bucks reading a few lines from a fricking book. So what’s next for you, a knighthood?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong but I believe I detect the slightest bit of jealousy. So tell me, to what do I attribute this unexpected call from my envious friend?”

  “I just wanted to fill you in on what I just learned regarding your good buddy, Stanley Jenkins. Are you standing or sitting down?”

  “Standing,” Sam replied, feeling his heart rate accelerate. “What is it?”

  “They have matched Stanley’s DNA to the rape and murder of some woman in Las Vegas.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “Nope, for real. Apparently this woman, a Vanessa Setters, age twenty-nine, was found strangled to death in her apartment last month. And when they entered the DNA profile of the evidence found on her body into CODIS, it was a perfect match to Stanley. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Jesus, I don’t believe it. To think that the son of a bitch has murdered yet another woman makes me absolutely sick. And pissed. Have they had any luck nabbing him?”

  “Negative. I don’t have a whole lot of facts on the case yet. What little I do know I got from speaking briefly to a Vegas detective on the case who called requesting any assistance we might be able to provide with their investigation. I do know that there were traces of rohypnol detected in her toxicology, suggesting that Stanley had date-raped the woman. Apparently Stanley didn’t learn after his rape of Marsha Bradley that leaving a trail of jism can be a monumental faux pas.”

  “Really. Well, one positive thing that can come from this is an all-out search for the bastard that hopefully will result in his capture. And this time I’m sure he’ll get the needle, as he should have in the first place I might add.”

  “Those are my thoughts, too. Although he’s no doubt long gone from Vegas by now they ought to be able to get a handle on what he’s been up to and where he may have headed. Figures he’d be in Vegas of all places, eh? If you recall, that’s where he got rich in the first place, playing blackjack using a system.”

  “I just wonder how long he’s been there. I mean, how in the hell could he have avoided being ID’d if he’d been in town for any length of time? It’s pretty hard to fathom him playing cards in the casinos without ever once being identified as a goddamn escaped convict!”

  “I hear ya. The only thing I can figure is that he’s radically changed his appearance again. That would explain it.”

  “I’ll bet that’s it. Somehow he’s managed to get another major facelift and live the life of Riley as a free man. But how in the hell could he have pulled that off? Plastic surgery costs a lot of money. Did Stanley have access to that kind of money following his escape?”

  “No idea—something definitely worth checking into, though. At any rate, I didn’t call to rain on your parade—I just knew that if I didn’t tell you about this now you’d be raising hell with me later.”

  “You’re right—I would have been majorly pissed. And I would appreciate an update when you have one, okay?”

  “Will do. So how’s it going there in ‘jolly old’ so far? Done any sightseeing yet?”

  “Just a little yesterday. My event is this afternoon so I’ve been busy gearing up for that.”

  “Well, give my regards to the Queen and break a leg, old friend.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the info.”

  Sam was dumbstruck. As the sheer impact of what Roger just told him set in, he almost wished the detective hadn’t called. Or at least waited until after he’d returned to the States. So much for his vow to forget Stanley Jenkins for a week. Now it would be impossible to get the bastard and this latest development out of his head.

  He checked the time and realized he had plenty to kill before his twelve o’clock chariot to Stewarts Bookshop arrived. He dressed and left the hotel in haste, feeling his head being bombarded with a barrage of random thoughts, most of them unsettling. He decided to look for a place with decent coffee somewhere in the area. He needed to sit down and attempt to sort all of this out now or this afternoon gig would probably be a total disaster.

  He eventually spotted a café called “The Ultimate Cup of Coffee” and went inside. The moment the aroma of freshly brewed java hit him he knew he’d come to the right place. He ordered a large cup of Hawaiian Kona along with a scone and sat down at one of the few small tables.

  What he needed was to put Jenkins out of his mind—at least long enough to get through this bookstore gig. He did not just fly across the Atlantic to London to dwell on his abysmal situation back home with regard to Jenkins and everything that went along with the piece of shit. He needed to ditch that baggage before he reached the point of no return. He’d been there too many times before and he was not about to let it happen again if he could help it.

  He took a bite of his scone and chased it down with a sip of Kona with cream. It was delicious. And London was beautiful. And he was about to embark on an adventure that was enviable, scary, unpredictable and certain to be exciting. How fricking much better does it get?

  He had managed to psyche himself out and actually felt a little better. Sometimes you just gotta strip everything down to the very basics and run with it. Life is much too short for bullshit. Live for the moment. Seize the day. Right on.

  He remained in the café for another half hour until he felt sufficiently healed and then proceeded to take his sweet old time returning to the hotel. Back in his room he sat down and pored over the material he planned on using for his reading one final time, reciting the marked passages, making corrections and fine-tuning everything. Before he knew it, eleven forty-five rolled around. He gathered up his notes, his books, threw them in his briefcase, took a quick look at himself in the bathroom mirror, neatened up his hair a bit and left the room.

  He only had to wait a few minutes before a cab pulled up and a young man appearing to be in
his early to mid-twenties hopped out and approached him.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Middleton, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a hand. “Norman Crisp, your escort.”

  “Nice to meet you, Norman,” Sam said, shaking his hand. “How did you know it was me?”

  Norman snickered, casting Sam a sideways glance. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well then, let’s just say I’ve memorized the photo of you on the massive poster in our shop window and recognized you immediately.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Norman opened the door and they got in. The taxi sped off.

  “Wait until you see the lot already gathered to see you, Mr. Middleton.”

  “Please call me Sam. How many do you think will be there?”

  “At least forty or fifty, I’d say. Considering that you’re the first author today, that’s a good crowd for an early Sunday afternoon, trust me.”

  “How big is your store?”

  “Big enough. We host authors often so Nicole has cleared an area out just for occasions like this. It’s really quite cozy but not too cozy, if you know what I mean.”

  Sam nodded. “Sounds great.”

  “Nicole wanted me to let you know that if you need anything at all, not to hesitate letting either myself or her know. She wants to go over the program with you as soon as we arrive so everything will begin on time. One thing you’ll learn right away about Nicole is that she’s a stickler for punctuality. Everything must go like clockwork or we’re all doomed!”

  Sam suddenly envisioned the shop manager dressed in fatigues, her hair in a severe bun, standing outside brandishing a stopwatch the moment the taxi pulled up. For one terrifying moment he felt like a prospective employee applying for a job, unsure if he had adequate qualifications.

  “Love your books, by the way. I’ve read them all, but your first is still my favorite.”

  “I’m impressed—thanks, Norman!”

  “Most welcome. So have you ever been to London before?”

  “No, this is my first time. And I already love it.”

  “This is definitely a crazy place but it’s home. It’s always interesting hearing what you Yanks have to say about our fair city. We actually don’t get that many American authors at these things. Our owner—Nicole’s father—is not, shall I say, a huge fan of American literature. British to the core, that one is. His daughter on the other hand is the polar opposite—a huge fan of American fiction in particular. Fortunately for all of us Mr. Kinsey lets Nicole run her store pretty much however she pleases. The two are very close and Mr. Kinsey would do anything for his daughter. If that weren’t the case, I can safely say we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “Then I feel especially honored to be invited. I have to say, Norman, that I am absolutely floored to be given this opportunity. I am anything but a household name in America. My books don’t really sell that well and I’m struggling to increase my readership. Yet here I am doing this thing—it’s unbelievable!”

  “I think you’re selling yourself short, mate. From what I’ve seen and heard, you have quite a decent following here. The proof is in the numbers we’re seeing today. And besides that, this event is less about how many books an author has sold and more about the quality of what he or she has written. And Harold Kinsey, I must say, is all about that. He prides himself and the company on the commitment to promote relatively new authors he feels are worthy of recognition. And trust me, although he’s not a big fan of American books, he still knows a good writer when he sees one. And he has agreed with Nicole that you fit in that category, sir.”

  “Wow, that’s a huge compliment,” Sam said.

  His excitement mounting, Sam stared out the taxi window at the hustle and bustle of London—the double decker buses, the shops, the lovely architecture. They passed a sign for Buckingham Palace, one of several places he planned to visit on his must-do list of tourist attractions. He caught a glimpse of a regiment of mounted guards crossing a street, the sight a rich blend of tradition, history and royalty accented in bright red. When he spotted the familiar tower of Big Ben in the distance he was tempted to ask his escort if they could swing by but thought better of it. It would just have to wait.

  Moments later the cab pulled over and parked outside Stewarts Bookshop. Norman paid the cabbie and Sam immediately spotted the poster Norman had mentioned in the shop window. It was indeed huge and comprised of a collage of headshots of the five authors taking part in today’s event. The photo they had used of himself was from the back cover of The Foxburg Murders. Seeing the photo made Sam realize how much he’d aged in the last several years. He really did need to get back in shape—both in body and mind.

  “Welcome to Stewarts, Sam!” Norman announced cheerfully, holding the door open. The shop was huge and busy. Sam felt self-conscious as he followed behind Norman toward the rear of the place, imagining some of the patrons recognizing “the American one” from the poster. Norman glanced over and said, “Nicole’s upstairs.”

  They arrived at an escalator leading to the second floor reminiscent of the ones Sam had seen in Barnes and Noble. A red velvet rope barrier on stanchions was stretched across the escalator entrance along with a sign that read, Meet The Author Marathon Today at One-thirty in The Loft. Norman moved the barrier out of the way long enough for them to board the escalator. As they ascended, Sam scanned the store and was surprised at its wide-open, modern layout—he had envisioned a more traditional look like those quaint little brick and mortar bookshops he’d often seen in English films.

  “This is what we call The Loft,” Norman said as they stepped off on to the upper level. “As you can see, nearly half of the floor space is reserved for events while the other half contains inventory.”

  Sam gazed across the floor to an area where several rows of chairs faced a pair of long tables on either side of a podium, complete with a microphone. The area was carpeted, most likely to help the acoustics as the writers did their thing.

  “So this is where the action will be,” Norman explained. “We are keeping the entire second floor off-limits until starting time.”

  “This is really cool,” Sam said. “How many people can it seat?”

  “There are sixty chairs set up now but we can add more as necessary. We always allow our patrons to listen to as many guests as they wish to. They have after all paid good money and want their money’s worth. Most of them are typically here to see just one author in particular, but that isn’t always the case. There are actually some that stay the entire day. Oh, here comes Nicole now.”

  Sam saw a woman come through a door to his left. She walked toward them wearing a warm smile.

  “This must be Mr. Middleton,” she said, extending her hand. “Nicole Heaton. So nice to meet you!”

  “A pleasure to meet you. Please call me Sam.”

  “And please call me Nicole. I trust Norman has taken good care of you?”

  “Oh yes, he’s been great. This is a wonderful shop—thank you so much for inviting me here.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Sam. As you may or may not know, I’m a big fan of your books. I am so delighted to finally meet you and that you accepted our offer to attend.”

  Sam felt himself blushing, try as he did not to. “I am humbled.”

  Nicole glanced at her watch—an Apple watch, Sam noticed. “Well, we’d best get moving before we run out of time. Let’s go over there,” she said, motioning toward the podium.

  Nicole Heaton appeared to be in her mid-thirties, petite with shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes. She wasn’t what Sam would call gorgeous but quite attractive and in excellent physical shape. She was also married, he had deduced having heard her last name and seeing the white gold diamond ring on her left hand.

  “Obviously this is where you’ll read and sign your books. We have a large display of all your books for sale downstairs and have requested that those attending not b
ring any previously purchased books for signing as a courtesy. You may have somebody come up to you with an old dog-eared copy of your books for you to sign and you may certainly opt to sign it if you feel so inclined. As a general rule, most attendees will purchase their books here today, which is of course the most ideal scenario for all of us. Norman, could you please fetch a program for me?”

  “Certainly,” he replied.

  “May I ask you something, Sam?

  “Of course.”

  “I read in your preface that The Foxburg Murders was based to some degree on actual characters and events. How much of the story would you say is fiction versus fact?”

  “Hmm. I’d say about sixty per cent of it really happened if that’s what you mean. The actual murderer whom the story was based on openly admitted that he raped and murdered three women. I just changed the details of the situations regarding the crimes somewhat as well as the names of the characters, of course. Most of the investigative work and incidental subplots were pretty much of my own creation.”

  “So the murderer’s last victim in the book actually was a close friend of your wife’s?”

  “She was. A woman named Marsha Bradley was my wife’s best friend. Her death truly devastated her.”

  Norman returned with a short stack of programs and handed them to Nicole. She in turn handed one to Sam and leaned in close to him.

  “As you can see here, we’ll begin with a brief introduction of each author, presented by myself. Afterwards, you may say a few words about yourself, maybe how delighted you are to be here and so on. Before you begin your reading, please try and remember to preface what book you’ll be reading from and offer a little background leading up to the passage so they’ll have a grasp of the content. You may choose to either answer questions after each passage or wait until after you’ve finished your reading altogether—that’s totally up to you.