Homicide for the Holidays

by Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime

  “Yeah? Think about this.” Carmichael grabbed his pants by the crotch and yanked it twice.

  “I’m going for expanded consciousness, Carmichael, not preponderance of the small and insignificant.”

  There were a few low-key snickers from the squad room.

  “You think you’re funny? You’re ‘bout as funny as a pimple on a comedian’s butt. You want this transmission code on your stiff or not?”

  “You got a code on my stiffy?”

  More snickers. One loud guffaw.

  “Smart guy.” He threw the code down on Denver’s desk with a frown and waddled away.

  Denver hid a grin, dropped his feet to the floor and squared off with his desk. He pulled up a transmission screen and accessed the report. He brushed a finger across the text and found the first page and began to read. Nothing significant. Address. DOB. Current position. Credit score and history. Interesting, since he didn’t show up “on paper” until seven years ago. That sent a small worm into his brain. Why would a guy not show credits until seven years ago? In fact, remembering one small detail from the body, Denver knew this was impossible.

  A secondary file was attached to the report in video format. He opened it and scanned through the video and the still-shots of the crime scene. Settling on the picture he wanted, Denver studied the small tattoo. As he fell farther down the rabbit hole, he signed into his computer to cross-reference the report to the dead man’s digital footprint. Three hours later, and at least as many telephone calls, he had a fairly good working theory on the deceased, Jason Rice.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Aurora Elliott, back in uniform, trim black skirt, matching jacket flung over the back of her chair, looked up from her computer screen.

  “Tell me a story,” she invited.

  “We received a report this morning on our cadaver. Turns out our guy had very little history. It didn’t look right, so I did a little digging. There was a military tat behind his ear. That alone says he should have shown up somewhere else. Since I was striking out on the name and associated information, I decided to run him through FaceMatch. Long story short, things are not what they seem.”

  “Care to enlighten me, or you want me to guess?”

  “I’m getting there. But, right about now,” he looked at his watch, “we probably need to trot on down to the fourth floor.”

  “What’s on the fourth floor that I would be interested in?” she asked as she stood, slinging on her jacket.

  As they made their way to the elevator and took it down, he told her.

  “Turns out our guy is ex-military. Instead of going to work for the trash department, he’s actually undercover for Department of Defense. I have a friend of a friend of a friend…”

  “Yeah, yeah…you got friends, and?”

  “Turns out they have this nifty little digital camera that can be implanted into the eye. And, Jason Rice, AKA Stephen King, like the old horror writer, also had classified access to certain topside facilities due to retinal recognition. Needless to say, that makes his eye rather valuable.”

  “So, this wasn’t a Qraven situation gone bad? Topside harvesting the organ?”

  “Doubtful. Kati said something to me last night that got me thinking, and I just couldn’t let it go. Why would a harvester kill him? He wouldn’t.”

  “There’s nothing on this floor but the trash department.”

  As they exited the elevator, a man in a dark gray suit stepped forward. He had a badge case out, and a handheld transmitter beeped in his hand.

  “McNulty?” he asked.

  “You with DOD? This is Lieutenant Elliott,” Denver said.

  “Agent Kelley,” he said. “As I said on the phone, we were able to pinpoint an approximate location to this building, and on my way here, the team was able to triangulate to this floor.”

  Denver nodded to the agent and held out his hand to indicate they would follow. He continued his story. Kelley was still monitoring the small tracking device.

  “I guess this technology is pretty expensive. Turns out they have a signal embedded in the camera, just in case anything happens to one of their operatives. Rice/King was involved in some kind of organized crime investigation being run by the DOD.”

  “What’s the defense department’s interest in the mob?” Aurora asked.

  Agent Kelley scratched behind his ear. “It’s a…”

  “Don’t give me some kind of need-to-know crap. What was this guy working on?” she demanded.

  “Believe it or not, nobody pays any attention to the trash trucks. You could haul gold across the country…nuclear weapons, dead bodies…and nobody pays any attention. They have routes across the states and can move a lot of black market goods from one sky city to another. That’s where the big money is, in the sky.”

  They stopped outside an office.

  “Is this where we are going?” Denver asked Agent Kelley. The name on the door said Mickey Connors. Denver looked at his boss and shook his head.

  “Leads right to this office,” Kelley said. “I have agents positioned at the stairs, and exits to the building in case the tracer moved off this floor.”

  Denver took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  “How’s it going?” Denver said in way of introduction.

  Moose looked up from a pile of papers on his desk. “Denver, rare pleasure, two days in a row.”

  “Did you kill him in SkyIndy, Moose? Or did you kill him down here? I guess you were just going to set him out with the trash, weren’t you?”

  “I got no clue what you’re going on about. Who, that Rice guy?”

  “Really? So, you didn’t know he was undercover? You took his eye. Was that to steer the investigation in the wrong direction, or because you knew he was recording your meetings?”

  Moose looked surprised.

  “You didn’t even admit to knowing the guy last night. And, he worked for you…with SkyIndy clearance. Not many employees get topside access. It should have clued me in. I’ve known you for years, Moose. How can you kill somebody, then stand there and watch us process the crime scene?”

  Moose chuckled, “You got the wrong guy, Denver.”

  “I don’t think so, Moose. I wish I did.”

  Agent Kelley stepped into the office and his tracer increased its pulse, a quickened beep, beep, beep.

  “What is this? Who is this guy?” Moose stood up in protest, and the beep led directly over to him. Kelley patted down Moose’s jacket, then his slacks and removed a small glass bottle from one of the pockets, an eye clearly visible.

  Moose shoved Agent Kelley with a vicious thrust of his meaty arm. Kelley’s head hit the wall, and Rice’s eyeball popped loose and flew into the air. Moose jumped over Kelley’s falling body and darted toward the door. His dinner plate hand palmed the side of Denver’s face and thrust him backwards. Denver lost his balance and toppled to the floor, flinging out a foot to try tripping Moose who sidestepped and maneuvered around him.

  Aurora, looking bored, rolled her eyes. She slid a ruler-sized stick from her belt and gave the wand one strong whip. The wand extended 38 inches, then Aurora gentle poked Moose as he tried to pass through the door. Moose went down with a convulsive thud, the floor bouncing from impact.

  They handcuffed Mickey Connors. The recovered eye went with DOD. Denver was left with the paperwork. And, a small bruise to his pride.

  Aurora said, “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “There’s no trash, like holiday trash.” After a short pause he said, “You know anything about these bioluminaire things?”

  “Bioluminescence? Like the decorations running down the halls here?” Aurora asked pointing to the flicking strands of garland hung from the ceiling panels and molded into varying shapes of Christmas ornamentation.

  “No kidding? Kati has this thing she wants to do using them in her hair. How much do you know about that?” Denver snapped his fingers. “Hey you know, Kati makes a mean White Christma
s Martini. How’d you like to stop by Christmas Eve?”

  “Bioluminescence. It’s all the rage,” she smiled, “if you’re seventeen.”

  “So, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

  “Merry Christmas, Denver.”

  White Christmas Martini

  2 ounces vanilla vodka

  2 ounces white chocolate liqueur

  1 ounce white crème de cacao

  1 ounce half-and-half

  Coarse sanding sugar

  Dash of cinnamon

  Pour sanding sugar in shallow dish. Dip your finger in the crème de cacao, and coat the rim of your martini glass. Set the rim in the sugar dish to coat evenly. Set the glass aside.

  In a cocktail shaker filled with ice, add the vodka, white chocolate liqueur, crème de cacao, and half-and-half. Shake vigorously. Strain into the prepared martini glass. Add a dash of cinnamon.

  Murder Most Merry

  By Shari Held

  Richard Phillips grimaced upon seeing the Salvation Army bell ringer surrounded by Christmas carolers in front of his office building. As quickly as that emotion flitted across his face, he replaced it with a smile.

  When the singers burst into “We Wish You A Merry Christmas,” he reached into his coat for his wallet and dropped a ten-dollar bill into the bell ringer’s kettle.

  “Bless you, Sir.”

  Richard nodded and headed through the revolving door of the skyscraper. The lobby was resplendent with a two-story poinsettia-decorated tree, silver bows, and sparkling-white twinkle lights. Faux gift-wrapped presents were piled underneath, and holiday tunes played on a continuous loop to celebrate the season.

  He took the elevator to Phillips & Associates and used his card key to enter his office. It had a view overlooking Monument Circle, the heart of the city. For the past few weeks, Sailors and Soldiers Monument had been transformed into the world’s tallest Christmas tree, and shoppers, laden with holiday shopping bags, dotted the sidewalks.

  Growing up, Scrooge had been Richard’s idol. Still was. He didn’t understand why everyone made themselves crazy buying presents they couldn’t afford for people who probably didn’t even appreciate them—all in the name of an oversized, mythical old man in a ridiculous red suit. A man who kept company with elves and reindeer at the North Pole, no less!

  No, he didn’t like Christmas one bit. But his behavior would never betray that fact. He’d learned from Scrooge’s mistakes. No one would ever accuse him of being like the Dickens character. But he resented the price it took to pay tribute to the dratted holiday. An interior designer lavishly decorated his house and grounds. His personal shopper bought Christmas gifts for his staff, friends, and family. It all added up. Still, he kept his inner Scrooge in check and pulled no punches when it came to appearing like a benevolent uncle to his three nephews. If he’d learned anything it was that perception was everything. And he knew how to play the game with the best of them. He had one up on Scrooge when it came to that!

  It was 5:10 p.m. on a Friday and most people had already escaped from Phillips & Associates. Nan Findley carefully shifted a stack of folders to one arm as she tapped lightly on Richard’s door with her free hand. Please don’t let him be on the phone—the Pope could deliver his Christmas message quicker.

  “Come in,” Richard said.

  Nan opened the door and walked over to Richard’s desk.

  “Here are the reports you requested, Mr. Phillips.” She placed them on his desk more forcefully than she’d anticipated and several pages he’d been working on flew off his desk.

  Nan’s cheeks turned bright red and she scurried to pick them up. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Phillips. Let me get those for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Nan.” Richard said. His conciliatory words didn’t match the scowl on his face. Nan collected the strays and dropped them on his huge mahogany desk, trying to stack them in some semblance of order.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Phillips?” Please say no. Please say no. Her heart practically stopped beating while she awaited his verdict. As a single mother with two young children, Nan rarely had any time to herself. But her children’s paternal grandparents had offered to take them both for these first two weeks of December. And, miracle of miracles, she had a date for the evening.

  It had happened just like a Hallmark romance. With the kids gone, Nan had decided to take in White Christmas on the big screen. She’d slipped and literally collided with Harry, showering him with her popcorn. They’d ended up sitting together and sharing his popcorn. Then one thing led to another. She was looking forward to tonight.

  “No, I don’t think so. Not tonight. But I’ll need a summary of this report first thing Monday morning.” He handed her a large stack of papers. “Have a nice weekend.”

  “You, too, Mr. Phillips.” Nan didn’t waste any time. She shut the door behind her and ran for her desk.

  “Hey, Nan,” Dylan said, glancing at the clock. “The boss is letting you off early tonight, I see. Best get out now before he changes his mind. Have a good one.”

  Nan flashed him a smile. Dylan was one of Mr. Phillips’ three nephews. They worked at the firm during summers and school breaks. She’d gotten to know them well during the last year and was quite fond of them. “Don’t worry,” Nan said, grabbing her coat and purse and stuffing the papers in her oversized tote bag. “I will!”

  Richard leaned back in his office chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and clasped his hands behind his head. He’d have to let Nan go soon. She was becoming far too cozy with the boys. And they, with her. Too bad. She fulfilled both of his requirements for the accounting position. First, candidates had to have responsibilities that discouraged after-hour socializing with coworkers. Single mothers with young children had proven to work out quite nicely.

  Second, candidates had to be efficient enough to manage the demands of the job—but not so sharp that they started asking questions. It wouldn’t do for anyone to find out his dirty little secret. That’s why this position was a revolving-door job. He avoided lawsuits and scenes by labeling it as a “temporary” job and paying top dollar. And if the candidate happened to be attractive like Nan, well, a little eye candy was an added bonus. Not that he’d ever indulge with an employee.

  Richard didn’t feel any undue remorse about what this would mean to Nan and her family, rationalizing that she knew what she was getting in to when she signed the employment agreement. In the unlikely event he did feel something akin to that emotion, he’d absolve his sins by contributing to one of his charities. No clergyman required. The large number of framed accolades hanging on his wall were a testament to his ruthless nature rather than his generosity.

  Richard sat back up and glanced at his Rolex. He had to leave early to meet with the triplets and the caterers regarding the holiday party they planned to throw next Friday. He hadn’t been able to persuade them to rent a public venue like The Children’s Museum or one of those barns that seem to be so popular. No. They were adamant about having it at the house. While he wasn’t wild about the idea, he pounced on the opportunity to piggyback off their event and invite some business acquaintances and people from work. If he didn’t want them served pizza and hot dogs, he’d need to be present to ensure there were adult food choices.

  One way or another the triplets would be gone next year. He couldn’t wait. He glanced at the latest photo of Ryan, Bryan, and Dylan displayed on his desk. For the past ten years he’d served as their guardian—ever since their mother and father, his brother Jonathon, had died in a car crash. At least that was the story he’d told the boys. Actually, their parents had died when their car exploded as they were leaving a downtown restaurant.

  Jonathan, you should have stayed with the family business. If you hadn’t joined the CIA, you and Kathy would still be alive and I wouldn’t have guardianship of the boys.

  It wasn’t totally bad, of course. The boys were the reason he’d dialed down his animosity for the holiday season. As it turned o
ut, that was a smart career move. And the triplets were an ace up his sleeve when it came to attracting the opposite sex. Evidently no one could refuse the charm of the cherubic trio. No one but him, that is. To him they weren’t so adorable. They were a liability.

  Nan entered St. Elmo Steakhouse on South Illinois at the stroke of eight. She hoped that didn’t make her look too eager, but punctuality was her watchword. She wasn’t the type that routinely allowed herself to get wined and dined by handsome strangers from Colorado. But Harry Zane, a medical device salesman, was handsome, funny, and charming—the kind of man she’d like her ex to see her with. He was just the tonic she needed after a grueling workweek. She checked her coat and gave Harry’s name to the hostess who promptly escorted her to their table.

  “Nan, thank you for recommending this restaurant,” Harry said as he rose from his chair. “All the sizzling steaks have my taste buds standing at attention!”

  “Well, they’ll have to wait for the steak. You must try the world-famous shrimp cocktail. Just be careful with the sauce or your taste buds will be fried!”

  The waiter stood patiently by the table. “We’ll take two,” Harry told him.

  “If you would care for some wine with your shrimp cocktail, I recommend the 2011 Loosen Bros. Riesling by the glass.”

  “Great,” Harry said. “And according to my date, you’d better bring a pitcher of water, too!”

  Nan glowed. It had been a long time since someone had called her his date. “So how did your meeting go?” Nan asked after the waiter left.

  “Promising. Thanks for asking. It helps that I have a knack for getting people to open up. So, how was your day?”

  Nan hesitated before responding. “It was okay. Not as demanding as usual. It’s just that...” Nan frowned and the lines between her eyes deepened. “It’s nothing.” She traced the rim of her glass with the index finger of her right hand.

  “That doesn’t sound like nothing.” Harry placed her hand between both of his and looked her in the eye. His expression was sincere, his brown eyes filled with compassion. “Pretend I’m a Christmas angel and tell me what’s bothering you. You’ll feel better. Promise.”