by Rick Murcer
Emerald Moon
RICK MURCER
PUBLISHED BY:
Murcer Press, LLC
Edited by
Carrie Murgittroyd
Interior book design by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Emerald Moon © 2011 Rick Murcer
All rights reserved.
www.rickmurcer.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
ISBN:
Dedication
For my wife Carrie, who still, still believes in me, and puts up with me.
For JC, who loves me and keeps me on the path, eternally.
To Jess Jones-Swift, Sarah Murgittroyd, and Marie and David Gold for being the best editing team ever.
To Josh, Buzz, Molly, Charlie, and Josie . . . these are always for you.
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Emerald Moon
A Novel
By
RICK MURCER
Chapter-1
She fastened the last button of her silk blouse and reached over to pinch his nipple. “Time to get up, sleepyhead. We have to get this done in the next hour, per instructions.”
“Yeah. I’m up. Well, I was.”
She giggled. “And you will be again soon. I promise. But I mean the ‘get dressed and come with me’ up.”
Who said that working with the love of your life could ruin the relationship? Granted, not many husbands and wives did what they did for a living. But they truly cared for each other, and spending the kind of time they did with one another was a rare bonus. Besides, it was impossible to ignore sex that brought her body to the brink of explosion . . . every time.
“Has the money been transferred?” he asked, pulling on his slacks.
She ran the brush through her long black hair. “Yep. Just like the last time and with the bonus he promised.”
He nodded. “You know how we agreed to never look for anyone who hires us?”
“Yes. Bad for business.”
“This one has me curious, though. Not just that he wouldn’t tell us who turned him on to us, but the jobs. I mean . . . cruise ship employees?”
“You’re right, on both counts, but we make beaucoup bucks by not asking questions, and I’d like to keep it that way.” She reached up to straighten his tie, catching the look in his big, brown eyes. She smiled. “I love you too.”
He pulled her close, cupping her cheeks with both hands. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and you’re my wife. Win-win for me.”
Their kiss was the tender, long, drawn-out kind. She loved how his touch made her spine do that little shiver-slip. Not to mention, the way her insides twisted like a hot pretzel when their lips met . . . even with his clothes on.
“Win-win for both of us,” she said. “You can whisper more sweet nothings to me later. It’s almost midnight. Let’s go to work.”
They left the posh Miami Hotel and walked, hand-in-hand, to the new Lexus LS parked on the side street next to the river.
She waited for the traffic to clear before checking the back.
The streetlight revealed the owner of the LS stuffed diagonally in the trunk. The scarlet bullet hole between his eyes added an eerie dimension to his permanent expression of surprise.
“Just checking to make sure you’re still with us.” She grinned and slammed the trunk.
“So, how’s he doing?” her husband asked.
“Oh, he doesn’t smell so good, but he looks comfy.”
“It was thoughtful of him to let us drive his new baby.”
“It was.”
Fifteen minutes later, they stepped from the car on Snapper Creek Drive in South Miami. They removed their gloves and cleaned the interior with bleach wipes.
He moved a few steps away, wound up like an All-Star pitcher, and hurled the keys into the canal. “Dos keys sleep wit’ da fishes tonight,” he said in his best New York mob voice.
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re so talented.”
Holding hands once again, the couple walked north for five minutes, located the house of their next target, and waited. It never hurt to be too cautious. Satisfied they were undetected; she led him to the small, stucco ranch facing west.
After moving up the first two steps of the stoop, she saw the dim light glowing through the tiny, front-door window. She waved at her husband, standing just out of the light’s arc, and then knocked on the door. The custom .40 caliber Glock 22 in her hand was hidden behind her tanned leg.
She licked her lips and felt her heart begin to pound. It happened each time. There was no rush like this one, not even making love to her man. Not even that.
Chapter-2
Security Chief Craig Richardson pored over the two case files for the hundredth time. Photos and reports covered his oak kitchen table like a new tablecloth. A couple of the pages had inherited coffee stains from a cup gone wild, but he barely noticed.
Each folder contained details of the recent murders of two of his security staff from the Ocean Duchess. Puzzling shit. Both victims were found at home, shot between the eyes at close range, their throats slit from ear to ear, postmortem. It seemed the neck butchering served no other purpose than to shock whoever discovered the bodies. No apparent witnesses were found. Each victim was killed around 1 a.m.
Just as confusing was the fact that the forensic evidence was almost nonexistent, other than a few stray fibers and the ballistics report confirming a .40 caliber bullet in both cases. The rifling on the slugs was close enough to think it could’ve been the same weapon. The barrel may have been retooled between shootings, but the CSU couldn’t be sure. Retooling was rare, but not unheard of. Either way, there was no match in NIBIN, the Feds’ ballistics database. It looked like a professional job on every level.
He’d seen a few execution-style slayings in the Big Apple, but usually the mob or gang connection was clear. The reason for these murders was as clear as the Mississippi River during spring rains. Nothing made any sense.
He’d ordered the full routine regarding background searches, and both of his people had come out clean. There were no shady connections that would expose either of them to such a gruesome fate. They’d been good people with bright futures.
His employer, Carousel Cruise Lines, wanted answers neither he nor Miami Homicide had. They didn’t care for excuses; they wanted these murders solved. Now.
He was dealing with the typical “shit-rolling-down-hill” mentality from the suits upstairs: they wanted something even though he had nothing. Talk about getting old.
To top it off, he was scheduled to depart for his three-month stint on the Ocean Duchess in two days. Unless the killer walked into his house and confessed—a snowball’s chance in Miami of that—there would be no solving these cases before he headed for the Caribbean.
There was talk, more like orders, to bring in the FBI. He hated the idea but thought maybe they should. The Feds weren’t total screw-ups, at least not always. He’d even toyed with the idea of calling Detective Manny Williams from t
hat hick town in Michigan. The guy was pretty good and might have an idea or two.
I wonder how late a workaholic like that stays awake?
The subtle knock on the front door brought him out of his trance. A quick glance at his watch showed twenty minutes after midnight.
Who in hell could that be?
There had been reports in the neighborhood of renegade teens harassing people with wild door-knocking, rocks through windows, and bright graffiti on cars, but there was nothing wild about that knock. In fact, it was a little too controlled to suit his taste. One rap and that was it, like the visitor knew what was required to get him to answer. And how did anyone know he’d be up?
He lifted his six-foot-three frame from the chair, pulled the Kimber .45 from his holster, and moved to the door. His years as a New York cop, and subsequently as security chief on the Ocean Duchess, had made him paranoid. That wasn’t about to change tonight.
Peeking through the small window, he saw her standing close to the door, her face in plain view. He did a double take. He recognized the woman.
He unfastened the security chain and unlocked both dead bolts, swinging the inside door open.
“What are you doing here so late?”
“Don’t look so damn mean. I have updates on the murders of your people. Can I come in?”
He stared at her, then caught himself. “Sorry. Of course. It’s been a long four days.”
She brushed by him.
Her touch and the faint allure of her perfume woke up more than his sense of smell.
Taking a few steps, she stopped, hands on her hips.
His eyes never left her. She was a fine-looking woman, and it had been awhile since he’d really paid attention.
“Why, Chief, were you staring at my ass?”
He looked at her sheepishly and shrugged, “Guilty as charged. I’ve not had anyone in my house that looks like you in a long time. Want me to apologize?”
Richardson heard the screen door creak behind him, but had no time to turn his large frame. The blow to the back of his head sent him reeling to the floor, groggy, but not out. His hand snaked for his weapon, but the furious kick to the face from his female guest ushered him to the realm of darkness.
****************
Her husband closed the door and returned the dead bolts to the locked position, the smile never leaving his mouth.
“Ready?” he asked.
“In a minute.” She bent close to Richardson’s face and ran her tongue along his bleeding cheek. “No, Chief, I don’t want an apology. I want you to die.”
Chapter-3
“Dad, you’re going to miss the flight. You’d better get your ass moving.”
Manny Williams stopped shoving clothes into his tattered, red suitcase and stepped into the hall. “Where did you learn to talk like that, especially to your old man? From Sophie?” He was working hard to hide his virtually unstoppable smile.
Sophie Lee, his long-time partner with the Lansing Police Department, stuck her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Hey, you can’t blame me for that one. Have you heard yourself? I mean, where’s that damn bar of soap?”
Jen Williams hauled her overstuffed bag from her room and folded her arms across her chest. Manny felt a twinge of nostalgia. In that position, she reminded him of Louise, her mother. It had been eleven months since Louise had been shot and killed in this very house, but on most days, it seemed like just moments ago. His life had become more like that than it should be: living in the past while the future rolled away.
Oddly, at least for him, it wasn’t the house, or the objects in the house, that caused him to miss his wife. It was Jen, growing into a young woman who reflected her mother in so many ways, even Louise’s indelible spirit, which caused him to hurt even more for his lost love.
He supposed that’s why he hadn’t sold the place and moved on, and it was pretty tough to sell your sixteen-year-old daughter just because she reminded you of your dead wife . . . so they stayed.
“Sorry, Dad, but I don’t want to be late. I’ve never been on an FBI plane before, and the cruise ship thing is, like, so cool.”
“Apology accepted. Now get your bag out to the car; Alex is waiting.”
“Yes, Daddy Dear.”
He swatted her playfully on the shoulder as she rushed to the door.
Sophie walked in from the living room and moved within two feet of Manny’s chest, welding her eyes to his. Happy Chinese-American ancestry dominated her pretty face most of the time, but not now. She was as serious as he’d seen her in months. Too damn serious.
“What?”
“Manny. Are you sure you’re ready for this? I mean, you’ve been out of the game since Louise died.”
He had taken a year off from the LPD to be with Jen. They had started to heal, together. At least they had taken some real steps in that direction. They were doing what Louise would have wanted: taking care of each other.
“I’m good. Getting to bring Jen with me is a bonus.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s like falling off a bike, especially for you.”
“Maybe. The time with Jen has been nothing short of awesome, but God knows I’ve sat around here long enough. Even with the consulting work I’ve done for Josh Corner and his FBI team, it’s been way too long for a workaholic.”
“You? A workaholic?”
“Okay, smartass, make yourself useful and check the back door.”
“Done. So tell me more about this Carousel thing.”
“Crazy stuff. Two members of Carousel’s security staff assigned to our favorite cruise ship, the Ocean Duchess, were shot execution-style right in their homes. Carousel security is clueless.”
“You mean that almost-asshole, Chief Richardson, is clueless.”
“He’s not my favorite cop either, but he did us a good turn, and no, I haven’t heard from him. The head of security for all of Carousel’s ships, Destina Flores, contacted the FBI. Josh called . . . and I said yes.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t hurt that they offered you a cushy master suite to cruise the Eastern Caribbean.”
“Hey, stop whining. You and Alex got suites of your own.”
“True. Life’s about who you know.” She grinned. “And I get to show everyone my new boobs.”
“I’m not sure all of us want to see them.”
“Really? Men don’t want to see 36 DDs on an oriental chick as hot as me? You really have been out of touch too long.”
“Anyway, there wasn’t a stitch of forensic evidence in either murder, except for one tiny detail that they haven’t released to the public.”
Sophie cocked her head. “Just don’t say it’s little written letters on paper shoved up the nose.”
“No, thank God. Do you know what an ouroboros is?”
Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “Is it kinky?”
He shook his head. “It’s a symbol of a snake or a serpent eating themselves.”
“You said it wasn’t kinky.”
“It’s not. It’s . . .”
“Sounds kinky.”
“Stop. Each victim was branded with the Celtic version of the ouroboros, one victim on the left hand and the other victim on the right hand.”
“So what the hell does that mean?”
“It has different meanings in different cultures. I have an idea, but maybe Chloe Franson will have a clue. Since she’s on Josh’s team—and from Galway, Ireland—she may have seen this kind of thing before.”
“Cool. I like her, but the big thing I remember about her was the way she was making eyes at you.”
Manny was struck with a sudden familiar pang of guilt. Sophie was only half right. He’d returned a couple extra looks himself. And they’d been more than looks, hadn’t they? He had been attracted to Chloe—and in more than one way. But they’d talked and made a truce: she wouldn’t jump him if he didn’t touch her again, and he would stay faithful to the woman he’d married.
Four days later, Louise was dead
, his heart was a massive wreck, and Chloe Franson was just a name. At least that’s what he told himself. Yet, every once in a while, when he heard her name or when her green eyes arrested his memory, he became confused, then quickly ashamed. He still loved and missed his wife. However, Chloe caused his emotions to war like Democrats and Republicans.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“You? Manny Williams? Didn’t notice? Wow, what horseshit. But have it your way.”
She looped her arm through his and they headed for the door, Manny dragging his bag. “We haven’t talked about the other thing.”
“You and Randy?”
Sophie’s eyes flickered. “We’re not talking about him. I don’t care how much money he got from his parents in that trust fund deal. I’m not quitting the force.”
“Because you don’t want to rely on him? Or you don’t want anyone telling you what time to go pee?”
She grinned. “You’re so delicate, but you’re right. Never going to happen again. So he’s on the way out, unless he comes back with some serious kiss-ass.”
“Talk about delicate . . .” said Manny.
“Don’t change the subject, Williams. The other thing, remember?”
“You mean Sampson? Louise’s brother has a huge yard. Big Dog will be fine over there for a couple of weeks.”
Just then, Alex Downs, Lansing’s head CSI, came through the door, his jowly face wearing fresh impatience. “Good God. You two are slower than the Second Coming. Let’s get it in motion.”
Sophie frowned at Alex. “Just a minute, Dough Boy.” She turned to Manny “You know that’s not what I mean.”
Manny sighed. “Argyle? He’s always on my mind. He’s like some damned addiction that is a split second away from sending my life flying over a cliff, especially lately.”
Alex shifted his weight. “Why has that murdering bastard been on your mind lately?”
Manny ran his fingers through his hair and curled his lip. “After almost a year, he left me a message three nights ago.”
