While transit security officer Casey Holland is dealing with two unruly sisters on the M7 bus, the unthinkable happens. Street racers hit and kill a jogger crossing an intersection on Granville Street, a major Vancouver thoroughfare. Days later, there is a second hit and run on the same street and witnesses insist both victims were deliberately run down.
Danielle Carpenter, a young journalist, is determined to find out who's killing people for sport and asks for Casey's help. Helping Danielle isn't easy. She's not only reckless but also on a vendetta. When a racer is murdered and Danielle goes missing, Casey is compelled to step up the search for answers.
Beneath the Bleak New Moon is a story about a problem facing nearly every city in North America today—the deadly ramifications of street racing.
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PRAISE FOR THE CASEY HOLLAND MYSTERIES
“A traditional mystery complicated by the characters’ desires to keep secrets and the self-serving manipulations of others . . . A good read with urban grit and a spicy climax.” —The Hamilton Spectator
“A mystery that fits the bill.” —National Post
“The novel’s short, punchy chapters whisk the story along to a thrilling climax, while the characters’ relationships and rivalries provide a strong emotional anchor.” —Quill & Quire
“This is truly a fast-moving, action-packed thriller . . . Great story with strong plot!” —Nightreader’s Read and Blog
“The modest but resourceful Casey is a perfect heroine for our times, a combination of thought and action.” —Lou Allin, Crime Writers of Canada
DEBRA PURDY KONG
For my incredibly smart and creative daughter, Elida, who has already accomplished so much.
ONE
CASEY LOOKED THROUGH THE BUS window at the clear night sky, grateful for the new moon rather than a full one. New moons meant fresh starts. Full moons meant extra work for security personnel. Tonight, her shift had been peaceful—until the stink of cigarette smoke signaled trouble.
With Halloween only four days away, problems had already erupted on Mainland Public Transport buses. Firecrackers, drunken passengers, and fights had prompted Stan to assign more security staff. Tonight’s misbehaving riders—the reason Casey had been assigned the M7 bus—were the teenaged twin girls at the back. The driver’s report indicated that they began riding the M7 two months ago. Shortly afterward, passengers started filing complaints about one of the girls smoking on the bus.
Casey stood and soon spotted the culprit. The smoker’s bright pink hair complemented her sister’s purple, gelled spikes. Aside from their different hair colors, Purple’s chubbier face made it easy to distinguish her from her twin. Purple scarfed down french fries, while her sister took a long drag on a cigarette.
The driver, Adrianna, said the girls boarded the northbound bus at Granville Street and Seventieth Avenue at 3:30 PM, three days a week, and exited at Granville and Sixteenth. Four and a half hours later, they always made a return trip, carrying three bags of food and a lot of attitude. Adrianna believed they worked at a nearby restaurant because she had heard the girls gripe about the kitchen staff. She also verified that the pink-haired sister usually lit up after wolfing down food. Adrianna’s repeated requests to put out the cigarette had inevitably resulted in a tirade of verbal abuse. Taking a calming breath, Casey started down the aisle of Mainland Public Transport’s newest, and much needed, acquisition. Although secondhand, the recorded announcements for upcoming stops, computerized ticket machines, and wide platforms instead of narrow, riveted steps were a big improvement over the older buses. Tonight, most of the passengers were adults, although there were a few younger teens and a couple of seniors.
“Hello, ladies. I’m with MPT security.” Casey displayed her ID. “Would you put out the—”
The purple-haired girl started to gag. As she clutched her throat, her knee nudged Casey. Oh lord, the girl was choking. Prepared to use the Heimlich maneuver, Casey reached for the girl, until partially chewed fries shot out of her mouth, hit Casey’s leather jacket, and landed on her running shoe. Totally grossed out, Casey shook off the moist glob. As Pink erupted with laughter, smoke shot out of her nose and mouth. Purple also bellowed with laughter but then began to wheeze. She removed an inhaler from her pocket and drew in deeply.
Casey gripped the back of the seat and waited for the class acts to finish. Which moron had said that girls were sugar and spice and everything nice? Casey had met more than her share of girls driven by spit and vinegar. She held her ID close to their faces.
“As I was saying, I need you to put out the cigarette.” She kept her voice calm but firm. “The sign clearly states that smoking isn’t allowed.” Casey pointed to the NO SMOKING OR LITTERING sign above the windshield.
Pink regarded her with contempt. “A pretend cop with a little plastic card. How pathetic is that?”
Chatting passengers grew silent. Some looked up from their electronic devices and newspapers. Casey removed her notebook from an inside pocket and jotted down the date and time. She was going to enjoy throwing these two out. “I need to see your passes, please.”
“What for?” the chubby sister asked. “We’ve showed them a million times.”
Which was how Adrianna knew that these two were seventeen-year-old grade twelve students. “Because I need your names.”
Amusement betrayed Pink’s defiant tone. “You first.”
“Casey, and you?”
Pink turned away.
“I’m Paige,” the chubby girl mumbled.
Casey turned to the sister. “What about you?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Lara.”
“Last name?”
“Forget it.”
“Well, Lara, my card gives me the right to stop this bus and ask you to leave if you keep breaking rules.”
Truthfully, Mainland Public Transport couldn’t afford to lose paying customers; not when Gwyn had invested so much time and money to acquire south Vancouver routes and purchase this big shiny bus. MPT might lose the twins’ business, but there were far more complainants who’d go back to using TransLink’s huge fleet if something wasn’t done fast.
Smoke billowed out of Lara’s nostrils. “If you kick us off, I’ll have your ass fired, bitch.”
“You can try.” Casey noticed grease seeping onto the seat through the bottom of their bags. “I’m not the one breaking the rules, and you should know there’s a twenty-dollar fine if you’re caught littering three times. Rules and regulations are posted on the partition behind the driver’s seat.”
“We can’t afford any damn fine,” Paige said. Her sweater cuffs were frayed and there was a hole at the shoulder. Lara’s torn jean jacket looked three sizes too big. Still, these two had money for cigarettes, hair products, and makeup. Why did some people think the rules didn’t apply to them?
“Last chance, Lara. Put that cigarette out, or I’ll have the bus stopped.”
Lara started to reply when the sound of powerful car engines distracted her. Casey couldn’t see anything on Granville. In her eleven years with Mainland, she’d seen plenty of speed freaks, but street racing had become more common over recent months. Cars were louder, faster; drivers more reckless. People used to race in the wee hours of the morning, but lately they’d started much earlier. Some of these idiots even recorded their races and posted them on the Net.
The vehicles sped closer. Casey crossed the aisle and peered out the window. Two northbound black sports cars were zigzagging in and out of traffic. Granville was a busy six-lane thoroughfare. Were those guys completely nuts?
“Shit, look at him go!” Lara poked her head out the window and hollered at them to go faster.
Casey
pulled out her cell phone and marched toward the front of the bus. She was about to call 911 when she heard Adrianna on her phone, describing the racing vehicles. One of the racers’ brakes screeched as he tried to keep from rear-ending a van. His opponent passed him in the fast lane and cut in front of the van. The van blasted its horn and slowed. The racer behind the van darted into the curb lane.
Casey’s hands curled into fists. What the hell were these morons doing? As bus passengers stood for a better view, Casey reached for the microphone near Adrianna.
“Everyone sit down, please.”
Only half of the passengers complied. Adrianna slowed for the yellow light at the Forty-First Avenue intersection. The racers had almost reached the intersection but weren’t slowing down. Casey opened a window. Anxiety made her stomach clench. The light turned red.
Forty-First’s green light came on, and a woman in a pink track suit jogged west into the intersection. The racers had slowed but weren’t stopping. Casey’s breathing quickened. The jogger kept her head lowered, as if oblivious to traffic. Surely she could hear the engines, unless she was wearing headphones and had the music cranked up. Despite the street lights and vehicle headlights, it was too dark to tell for certain.
“Oh my heaven!” a passenger yelled. “They’ll hit her!”
The racer in the curb lane made a sharp right turn onto Forty-First and headed east. The other racer—now at the front of the pack—skidded. The brakes on his sports car squealed.
Casey stuck her head out the window and waved frantically. “Hey, watch out! Hey!”
Passengers also began yelling and waving. The jogger raised her head as the braking vehicle slid through the intersection at an angle.
Passengers gasped. The jogger tried to veer out of the way, but the racer struck her with a horrific thud and she was airborne. The sports car stopped. People on the street and in the bus screamed. Some swore. Casey clamped her hands over her mouth and forgot to breathe. The woman hit the asphalt face down and rolled three times before stopping on her back. Moans and shouts of outrage erupted throughout the bus and on the street. The vehicle took off, continuing north, and soon merged with the parade of red tail lights.
“Someone get the make and license plate!” Casey shouted. She turned to Adrianna whose mouth was open, her eyes wide with shock. Adrianna still held the cell phone against her ear, but she wasn’t saying anything. “Adrianna, are you talking to 911?”
She didn’t respond. A woman behind Casey was sobbing.
“Adrianna!” Casey gripped her colleague’s shoulders. “I need your help!”
Color rushed to Adrianna’s face. “Yeah. They’re still on the line.”
“Tell them we need an ambulance.” With her heart slamming against her chest, Casey grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard behind Adrianna’s seat.
“Casey, if you’re treating her, dispatch will need the woman’s vitals.” Adrianna handed her the phone.
“Thanks.” Casey charged out of the bus.
The dry late-October air cooled her flushed cheeks. She was about to enter the intersection when the southbound light changed to green, yet none of the vehicles at the front of the line moved. Drivers had stepped out to either assist the jogger or call for help. One young woman cried as she paced back and forth in front of a silver Echo.
Keeping her hand raised and her kit in plain view, Casey ran toward the people gathering around the jogger. Traffic in all three northbound lanes had also come to a standstill. Farther down the line, vehicles had begun to honk and some were making U-turns.
A woman shouted, “I saw him hit her!”
Casey threaded her way among the spectators until she reached the jogger. A white-haired man was checking the jogger’s pulse. Blood poured from the poor woman’s forehead and nose and streamed down her face. Between the streams, her cheekbones were scraped raw.
“Are you a doctor?” Casey asked.
“Afraid not.” His worried eyes blinked at her. “I sure hope you are.”
“No, but I have first aid.”
“That will help. Her pulse is weak and she’s unconscious, I think.”
“Is she breathing?” Casey asked.
“Yes.”
She relayed the information to the dispatcher. “This area needs to be secured, so we won’t be hit.” Casey spotted three large men with beards and black, wavy hair. “Hey, could you guys direct traffic around us? This lady can’t be moved till the ambulance arrives.” The men looked at one another, then nodded and moved toward the vehicles.
Casey put the phone down, unzipped the kit, and tore open a packet containing latex gloves. As she put the gloves on, she swept strands of blood-soaked hair from the jogger’s face. She scanned the woman’s body, noting that her left leg was bent at an awkward angle, pushing her hip off the ground.
Casey leaned toward the victim. “Hello! Can you hear me?”
No response.
“That maniac ran the red light,” the man said.
“I know.” Casey pulled her own shoulder-length curls back and leaned close to the victim’s face. A wisp of warm air grazed her cheek. Glancing at the man, she said, “Will you keep her head and neck still while I check her out? I’ll get you some gloves.”
“Of course.” The man loosened his tie and popped the top button on his shirt. The lower half of his light gray suit jacket was splotched with blood.
“I’m Casey, by the way.”
“Rod.”
After he put on the gloves, Casey showed him how to keep the woman’s head steady should she wake up and try to move. She fetched a flashlight from the kit and offered it to an older teen standing nearby. “Will you hold this for me?”
“Sure.” He took the flashlight from her.
“Does your watch have a second hand?” Casey asked him.
“No.”
“Then shine the light on mine.”
As he did so, she monitored the victim’s breathing rate. When she was done, a familiar voice said, “Has she croaked?”
Casey glanced up at the twins. “No.” But she was breathing too slowly.
“Her face is gross.” Paige’s mouth twisted in revulsion.
“Unless you girls are first aid experts, get the hell out of here.” Casey glared at them, then checked the woman’s pulse points. They were weak. She looked at the kid holding her flashlight. “I have to check for injuries. Follow my hands.”
Starting with the woman’s right arm, she moved quickly and firmly over arms, torso, hips, and legs. The left leg could be broken. The kneecap didn’t feel right either.
“I think I hear sirens,” Rod said. “She’s bleeding pretty badly.”
“Head wounds do that.” Casey lifted a plastic bag from the kit and gave it to the teen. “There’s a blanket inside. Drape it over her.” She removed a thick gauze pad from the package, then pressed it to the woman’s forehead. “That’s quite a cut. She must have landed on something sharp.”
“I saw a flattened can on the road,” Rod said.
Casey cringed at the image of jagged tin slicing through skin. Blood seeped out from under the pad. The sirens grew louder.
“I can’t believe people would race on a street like this,” a woman blurted. “What in heaven’s name were they thinking?”
“It’s not just them,” someone answered. “No one slows down or bothers to check for pedestrians. Someone’s getting hit every week.”
One of the sirens stopped. Moments later, an officer emerged through the parting crowd. Casey looked at the cop with the thick, gray mustache and relief washed over her. Casey used to see a lot of Constable Denver Davies when they were in a couple of criminology courses together. She’d also met him occasionally on the job, whenever he was patrolling the same area she was working.
“Hey, Denver.”
“Casey?” He knelt by the victim. “What brings you here?”
“I’m on the M7 tonight. Saw the victim jogging west on Forty-First. She entered the i
ntersection just after the light turned green, but a sporty black vehicle ran the red light and hit her. She went flying through the air, hit the ground, and rolled.”
A second patrol car arrived. “I’m surprised the fire department hasn’t shown up yet,” Denver said. “They usually beat us.”
“I wish they had.” She would have gladly let them take over. “The ambulance should be here any minute.”
“How bad is she?”
“She’s breathing and has a pulse, but I don’t know.” Casey didn’t have a good feeling about this.
“Want me to take over?” he asked.
“No, it’s okay, but could you get me another pad from the kit?” As he did so, Casey shifted her weight. The rough asphalt made her knees ache. She sat on the road, crossed her legs, and, despite the sweat on her lower back, shivered in the cool night air.
“Any idea who she is?” Denver asked.
“I didn’t find any ID on her.”
“Hey, Double D,” a younger cop said as he approached. Casey didn’t have to see Denver’s face to know that he was probably swallowing back a nasty retort. Denver was a bit on the flabby side, unfortunately in the wrong places. “No sign of a black anything racing down Granville or side streets,” the young cop said.
“Un-friggin’-believable,” Casey muttered.
“Who are you?” the cop asked her.
“She’s Casey Holland,” Denver answered. “An experienced security officer with MPT.” He turned to Casey. “This is Liam MacKenna, with the Hit and Run Team in Traffic.”
Casey nodded to MacKenna, who ignored her as he looked at the victim, then turned to the spectators. “Anyone see what happened?”
“Two cars were racing north on Granville,” Casey replied. “Weaving in and out like maniacs, cutting people off. I couldn’t see the plates.”
“One was a Lexus, which turned right onto Forty-First,” Rod said. “I don’t know the make of the hit-and-run vehicle.”
“Freakin’ chance racers.” MacKenna turned to Denver. “Have you talked to witnesses yet?”
Beneath the Bleak New Moon Page 1
