KNOCK KNOCK
By
Debra Purdy Kong
Gypsy Moon Press
Port Moody, British Columbia
Table of Contents
Title Page
KNOCK KNOCK
PRAISE FOR CASEY HOLLAND MYSTERIES
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
BOOKS BY DEBRA PURDY KONG
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KNOCK KNOCK
(Casey Holland Mysteries #5)
Copyright © 2017 by Debra Purdy Kong
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or printed editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Gypsy Moon Press
www.debrapurdykong.com
ISBN: 978-0-9699211-8-9
(2nd Edition)
Editor: Joyce Gram
www.gramediting.com
www.gramediting.com
Jacket Design: Deranged Doctor Design
www.derangeddoctordesign.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events or specific locations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.
PRAISE FOR 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
“The modest but resourceful Casey is a perfect heroine for our times, a combination of thought and action.” – Lou Allin, Crime Writers of Canada
AUTHOR’S NOTES
A huge thank you to all the readers and colleagues who’ve supported me since The Opposite of Dark first appeared in 2011. Where would I be without the invaluable comments from members of the Kyle Centre’s Creative Writing workshop? They’ve stuck with me for years and still give me many ah-ha moments with their insights. A huge thank you to editor Joyce Gram who’s been a pleasure to work with. Also, heartfelt thanks to my family, whose support means the world to me.
ONE
A shadow glided past Elsie Englehart’s living room window. Elsie froze. Through the sheer curtains filtering the street lights, the trespasser loomed large. Dismay clenched her stomach. Dear lord. Why hadn’t she listened to her son and moved in with him?
That security lady, Casey, was right. It wasn’t safe to be alone these days. Casey had warned her about home invasions in this area. But if that shadow was one of those horrible people, why had he chosen this house? She’d followed Casey’s tips—placed a Beware of Dog sign and a couple of toys in the yard to divert criminals.
Elsie didn’t know what had awakened her and compelled her to venture downstairs. This damn head cold had caused fuzzy thinking. Elsie listened for sounds but heard nothing. Perhaps the shadowy figure had moved on. Still, she would call the police. Best not to use the downstairs phone, though, in case the prowler heard her.
Elsie’s arthritic hand fumbled for the staircase railing. Her bare feet sank into the thick carpet as she lifted her ankle-length nightgown just enough to keep from tripping. The knock on the front door stopped her. Adrenalin rushed through Elsie’s veins. Was the deadbolt on? Had she remembered to lock the doors?
A second knock. Louder. Elsie shuddered. Panic swirled through her. Her chest felt as if it was being squeezed. She had to get help! On shaky legs, Elsie continued upstairs, yet persistent knee pain caught her at every step.
A loud bang rattled the door. Oh no! Please go away. This wasn’t how civilized people behaved. Intruders had no right to come here and interrupt her peace, to scare her.
The banging became angry and rapid. Elsie recoiled, smacking her shoulder against the doorframe of her bedroom. Hobbling inside, she turned the lock. Short, rapid breaths made her lightheaded. She stumbled backward toward the dim light on her night table, where her cordless phone was located. Within moments, the doorknob was rattling back and forth. Elsie reached for the phone but flinched at a kick to the door. Another kick! No! Her trembling finger pressed the first digit—the door flew open. A man barged in.
Danger sucked the air from the room. No longer shadow, now terrifyingly real. Through the dark ski mask, light eyes glared at her. He charged across the room. Before Elsie could press the next number, he yanked the phone from her hand. A blow to Elsie’s face sent her reeling onto the bed. Elsie squeezed her eyes shut. Her cheek burned.
“N-no,” she stammered. “Please.”
“Gimme your cash and jewelry now!”
“They’re in a safe-deposit box. At the b-bank.” Casey had suggested she put it there.
“You’re wearing a ring.” He smirked. “Hand it over.”
Elsie’s hand shook so badly that the gold band appeared to be vibrating. “My wedding ring?”
The man grabbed her hand.
“Don’t!”
He yanked her ring finger.
Elsie yelped, then groaned. “It won’t come off.” Her eyes widened in horror as the man removed a tool from his pocket.
“Do you know what an eight-inch bolt cutter can do to fingers?” He smiled. “Chop, chop, chop.”
Elsie choked back a sob. “There’s money in my purse.”
Light eyes widened within the mask. “Where is it?”
Gripping the edge of the bed, Elsie glanced around the room. “D-downstairs, I think.”
“Where downstairs?”
She whimpered. Couldn’t think. “By the door.” That’s where she usually kept it.
He stepped into the hallway and shouted, “Look for a purse near the door!”
“Got it!” a male voice replied.
Two of them? Oh no. Elsie’s foot twitched. Her toes bumped against something hard. The phone.
“Only ten bucks!” a woman shouted.
Three intruders!
The intruder grabbed Elsie by her hair. “That’s it?”
She gagged on his rancid breath and sweat. An agonizing tug on her arm sent her tumbling to the floor. Elsie cried out. Instinctively, she reached for the phone, but he kicked it away.
“There’s no help for you, Elsie.”
Ho
w did he know her name? The intruder hurried to the bureau, opened a drawer, and hurled her undergarments to the floor with his filthy hands. As he stepped on Elsie’s clothes, she gawked with revulsion at the mess.
The intruder swore. “You didn’t put all of your jewelry in the deposit box, did you, Elsie.” Not a question but a statement. “Where’s that big diamond ring you always wear?”
He knew about her ring? Who was this man?
“I said where is it?”
She had to cooperate. It was the only way to survive. “N-nightstand.”
He opened the drawer. “Sweet.”
Elsie’s two-carat ring, a twenty-fifth anniversary present from her late husband, glistened in the room’s dim light. The one good piece she couldn’t bear to leave in a distant metal box.
“What else have you stashed away?” The man yanked the small drawer out, dumping paper, tissue packets, paperbacks, reading glasses, and a bottle of pills onto the carpet.
“Nothing.” The word warbled in her throat.
“You’re lying, Elsie. Old folks keep their treasures close by.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “They’re at the bank, I swear.”
“Not buying it. And gimme that goddamn wedding band!”
Elsie tried to twist it off but her joints were too swollen. Downstairs, glass shattered. Oh! Were they destroying her best crystal? What would they do to her beautiful, sparkling home? She worked so hard to keep everything clean and orderly. Elsie sobbed, praying that help would come. Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t.
The intruder grabbed her left hand. The bolt cutters opened. Gasping, Elsie spotted the business card that had been dumped on the floor. Casey Holland, Senior Security Officer, Mainland Public Transport. Elsie whimpered, and then she screamed.
TWO
The moment Casey stepped off the M20 bus, her strength dissolved. She’d had bad news before—plenty of it—but to let down a vulnerable senior like Elsie Englehart, someone she was supposed to have watched out for, was a punch in the gut.
Casey learned about the attack from her cop friend Denver Davies. Denver had been patrolling Vancouver’s Kerrisdale area when a neighbor reported a disturbance at Elsie’s house. He’d found Casey’s business card on the floor next to Elsie. Told her about Elsie’s mutilated ring finger, and that Elsie was in the hospital, her condition critical.
Four hours after that call, Casey was still in a tailspin. She’d had no appetite for breakfast. The early July heat didn’t help her flagging stamina or her mood. A yellow-gray haze covered the sky like a dirty filter. In certain areas of the city, the stagnate air smelled like back-alley decay. Tempers exploded easily. Was this part of the reason for the increasing violence in the four home invasions over the past few weeks?
The first had occurred in March, at an older bungalow in Vancouver’s Oakridge area. The sole occupant, an elderly man, was punched a few times. In April, a second home invasion in neighboring Kerrisdale had left the victim with a concussion and lacerations. The third victim, also from Kerrisdale, suffered hip and shoulder fractures after she was thrown down her basement stairs. And now Elsie.
Even if Casey hadn’t been summoned to Elsie’s home by an officer from the Vancouver Police Department’s major crimes section, she would have come anyway. She needed to see, to try and understand why someone would harm a frail old woman. Elsie had taken precautions to protect herself, except that she hadn’t had an alarm system installed. She’d assured Casey that it was at the top of her to-do list, but having gotten to know a number of seniors over recent weeks, Casey had learned that they were good procrastinators. Worse, many were barely getting by on fixed incomes. Extras of any type, even safe-deposit box rentals, were out of reach. The home-invasion gang knew this.
Casey turned the corner and headed down Elsie’s quiet, residential street. Across the road, a park occupied a city block. Kids scrambled on and around the playground equipment. Some folks walked their dogs. An old man glided a metal detector near the sandbox in the playground. Everything looked so normal this summer morning.
Halfway down the block, newer houses had been built in front of the park. The backyards of homes without fences merged with the park’s green space. To Casey’s right, older, smaller homes displayed some of the old stucco and wooden exterior charm that characterized parts of Kerrisdale. There were also newer, larger homes in the area, along with low-and mid-rise condos. This morning, many windows were open and would be until well into the evening. Denver said Elsie’s windows had been shut and locked, her front door kicked open.
She spotted a patrol car parked in front of Elsie’s house, and police tape. Cops and technicians were probably inside, still searching for evidence. On the sidewalk, a man in a suit was speaking with a woman. The man exuded authority. A cop named Novak had called her about an hour ago and asked a few questions, then requested that she meet him here. This had to be him.
The woman’s bleached hair was back-combed into a puffy beehive that rose well above her visor. Lemon capris and a matching tank top showed off a deep tan. The cheerful outfit didn’t match her tense demeanor. As Casey strolled closer, she heard the woman say that she knew the interior of Elsie’s house almost as well as her own.
“Would you be willing to come inside and see if anything’s missing?” the man asked.
The woman hugged her thin frame. “I don’t know if I can do that. Elsie takes great pride in her spotless house. To see it trashed . . .” The woman shook her head. “This is so dreadful. Poor Elsie. She hadn’t been feeling well lately. Still recovering from a bad cold.”
Drawing nearer, Casey noticed that the woman’s face was covered in a network of lines. She was either a smoker or had spent decades in the sun. Perhaps both.
“Excuse me,” Casey said, showing the cop her ID. “I’m Casey Holland with Mainland Public Transport. A Detective Novak asked me to meet him here.”
“Right. I’m Ivan Novak,” he answered, shaking her hand. “Thanks for coming by. I understand that you were with Mrs. Englehart yesterday?”
The woman snapped her fingers. “You’re that nice security officer Elsie mentioned.” The woman’s white teeth practically glowed as she extended a hand sporting a cluster of diamonds. Her wrists and neck were draped in gold. “I’m Monica Silver, Elsie’s neighbor and good friend.”
Casey nodded. “I think I spotted you yesterday.”
“And I saw you helping Elsie carry a bag of groceries.”
“We’re doing more to try and assist seniors these days.”
Casey didn’t mind the way Monica looked her up and down. The shorts and purple T-shirt were hardly the usual security guard attire. Most people didn’t realize that undercover officers, including females, had been working on the buses for years.
Novak started to say something when Monica cut him off. “I’ve known Elsie for fifteen years. Helped her through the dark days after cancer took her husband a few months back. Elsie still hasn’t adjusted, but then fifty years with the same man would be a hard habit to break.” Monica peered at Casey. “Elsie said that you keep an eye on her and other seniors on the buses.”
“I’ve been briefed about MPT’s help on the home invasions,” Novak said. “But I didn’t know you’d implemented a safe-walk program.”
“Only recently. Until the home invaders are caught, my supervisor’s given us permission to escort seniors home if requested, and especially if they seem frail. It’s good PR and gives us a chance to spot anyone who’s paying too much attention to elderly people.” She paused. “There’s a theory that gang members are staking out the busiest bus route used by seniors, which is the M20. That’s the one I’m on most days.”
Based on the way Novak squinted at her and pinched his lips, he didn’t approve. Too damn bad. It was the cops who’d asked MPT drivers and security personnel to watch out for suspicious behavior around the buses, not the other way around. All those meetings between the police, MPT executives, her supervisor, and th
e security team sure hadn’t helped Elsie, though.
“Did you notice anyone observing Mrs. Englehart or following you off the bus?” Novak asked. “Anything that might have seemed a little strange?”
“I’ve been replaying every moment with Elsie multiple times, and can’t think of anything. No one seemed remotely interested in her.” Casey looked at the toys in Elsie’s yard and the Beware of Dog sign. “I don’t understand why she was targeted.”
“It’s too bad you aren’t around after midnight,” Monica remarked. “That’s when they always strike.”
Casey was well aware of that. Although MPT buses served the area until 1:00 AM, seniors never rode that late. The police believed that the victims had been followed during the day.
“Which house is yours?” Casey asked Monica.
“Across the road and three doors down from Elsie’s.” Monica gestured to one of the large modern homes in front of the park.
“Mrs. Silver,” Novak said, “if you could wait a couple of minutes while I talk to Miss Holland, I’d appreciate it.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “Of course.” She stepped back a few feet, but not quite out of earshot.
“We’re working on a timeline.” Novak flipped open his notebook. “On the phone, you said that you and Mrs. Englehart exited the bus at 4:00 PM yesterday, and you entered Mrs. Englehart’s house through the front door at 4:15 PM, then walked to the back where her kitchen is located?”
“Correct.”
“Is that when you left your business card?”
“No, I gave it to her a few days earlier.”
“And you left at 4:20 PM?”
“Yes.” Why was he repeating what she had already told him on the phone?
“If you’re looking for suspects,” Monica said, “you should talk to that guy.”
She pointed to the husky young man ambling toward them in a ragged, light-gray T-shirt with a large hockey puck on the front. His head was down and he seemed focused on his phone. The ball cap did little to conceal his long, disheveled hair. He looked up, stared at them, and crossed the road.
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