I Was Murdered Last Night (Olivia Brown Mysteries Book 1)

by A. J. Gallant

  She caressed his face as both souls appeared to merge for a brief time. He held her face in both hands and kissed her again. They discovered a secluded spot near a cave and things progressed, and she took his right hand and placed it on her left breast, his pupils expanded. The invitation was clear.

  Chapter Fifteen

  DETECTIVE BROWN WAS AT HER SONY BIG SCREEN at three in the morning, flicking channels as she ate a bowl of cashews. A myriad of channels and yet she could find nothing she wanted to see. She yawned, stretched, and rubbed her eyes. Olivia stopped at an old episode of Gilligan's Island from 1965, watched for a few minutes, and then pressed the off button. Silence overtook the living room, and she sighed. The detective had managed a nap earlier, and perhaps she had slept too long. Odd how silence could be either peaceful or uncomfortable, and Olivia looked at the hair on her arm that was now standing.

  The quietness gave way to the sound of her bowl hitting the coffee table as she almost choked on a cashew. If she weren't careful she would join the spirit. Was the woman just a little less see-through this time? The ghost was mouthing something, but what? Unable to make out a single word, the mouth was blurry.

  “Are you Anita?” Olivia felt stupid for talking to a hallucination, but she said it nonetheless. A dream perhaps? The detective was sufficiently tired, and it might be a dream. People who were genuinely insane didn't realize it, did they?

  Anita nodded.

  It's stress, only stress. That's all it is. I need ten hours of uninterrupted sleep to get back to my old self. Olivia commenced picking up the nuts, and when she looked again, the apparition remained. “Can you tell me who killed you?”

  She mouthed I don't know. And then Anita shrugged. She glanced to her left at the man in the top hat, but Olivia couldn't see him.

  “Okay, you can bring in the straightjackets now.” She must not know her killer because the knife was in her chest. Or does she just not remember? I don't know what I'm thinking. “Do you remember what happened?”

  The spirit shook her head no before fading to a barely visible state and then she was gone.

  Your honor, I'd like to call a ghost to the stand. She smiled and shook her head at the absurdity of it.

  Her cell buzzed. Who would be calling her at this hour? Likely another dead body. “Detective Brown.”

  “The law firm of Porter, Gordon, and Hicks believe they are above the law.”

  “Who is this?”

  Click.

  Olivia wasn't sure what to make of it. The first thing that came to mind was that one of the lawyers was a puppet for the mob? A story about a lawyer out west attached to the mob is what brought it to mind, she imagined. She checked on the number and discovered it was from a payphone in the Bronx. It was interesting, but the detective had more important things to occupy her time. Wait, could there be a connection? That vacation time was looking better and better.

  The detective laughed out loud. “If Anita doesn't know who killed her it must be a stranger. I should have asked her if there were more than one assailant. Olivia, you're talking to yourself. I can see it now; I'm going to be just like Aunt Stella.”

  That afternoon the detective figured out Porter had represented several shady characters, and that was putting it lightly. One could have found them guilty from a mile away. Drug lords did a lot of damage and brought in a boatload of money as well. All were open and shut cases, but of course the witnesses disappeared, fitted with cement shoes no doubt. Even the one who had been in protective custody. Might it be dangerous for Olivia to question Porter? The law wasn't untouchable, as bullets found them as well. And what exactly could she ask Porter? She would need some time to think about it. This case had been a dead end from the start, nothing tangible that she was able to grab on to and shake.

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, and John was taking a nap on his leather sofa when his cell vibrated. He was pulled out of a dream where he was getting ready to shoot his father, had him right in the crosshairs through the kitchen window where the old man had been making a ham and cheese sandwich. John was groggy as he sighed and scratched. Sitting up, he oriented on the phone on the coffee table and wiped his mouth, as he had been drooling.

  John's living room was big enough to land a 747 in, at least, that's what Henry said. Beautiful hardwood floors, walls painted beige, a large Fanimation 84-inch ceiling fan. His white Chihuahua, Mexico, came running and barking as the phone danced. The dog had killed his last phone. He woofed at the phone as if it were an intruder and, in a way, he was right.

  “All right, Mexico, you can shut the fuck up now.” John gazed at the yapping dog, grabbed Mexico and threw him against the wall, where he bounced. The animal ran back and continued to yap. He had a big gym mat standing against the wall for just that purpose. “Mexico, I bought that mat to discipline you. You're not supposed to like it, you little asshole.”

  Mexico lay dejected, releasing one more bark in protest.

  John grabbed the phone. “Hello? Henry, what's up?” He looked at the dog, who was now on the coffee table, smelling where the phone had been. “Fucking dog is trying to track down my cell phone, stupid little bastard. Funny as hell, though. Sometimes he follows his tracks through the house as if he's following another dog.”

  Mexico ran into the kitchen and returned with his empty silver bowl and shook it vigorously to tell his master that he wanted food. The dog released the bowl. It flew, hitting the mat, and bounced.

  “The Dell is never off but here let me check.” Under the desk, the black cord had been chewed and hadn't charged. “Mexico! You little shithead!” The wire, only halfway into the socket, was given a push, and the laptop commenced to charge and then came to life, announcing that he had several emails and one wasn't spam. An encrypted note with an exclamation point. Another job request with a $ 100,000 price tag attached. That would be the fifth in four months, should he accept. Henry left the business part to John. The only kill that he wouldn't agree to was that of a female. John had had a painful experience once, and now thought it a bad omen to dispatch a woman.

  “Yeah, we got one but how did you know?”

  Mark called me, and he's desperate for this one. Said it was personal. Where is it?

  Personal meant that the target needed to suffer before he died and John wasn't into that, but he would get word to them that he suffered. How the hell would they know?

  “Colorado. Brighton. I've never been there.” He watched Mexico chasing his tail.

  “Me neither. Call you back as soon as I get the plane tickets. Stop that, or I'm gonna cut that tail off and give it to you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  ANITA POPPED IN TO SEE HER FAMILY, and they were like zombies; it was horrible to see them in such a state. Bloodshot eyes and the thousand-yard stare, almost as if they were shell-shocked. Anita didn't think she would visit them anymore, just too painful. She noticed it was a beautiful summer day outside, but to them, it wouldn't have made much difference if it were a hurricane. Home didn't feel like home anymore.

  Anita discovered Tim fishing in a beautiful stream with mountains in the far distance. A moose made its way across the water in front of her and what a big fellow, with an enormous set of antlers. There were the sounds of the gurgling brook and the occasional bird singing. It wasn't heaven, but it sure felt like a piece of it. The location was similar to a place where his father had fished with him in Montana when he was ten, though he couldn't remember all the details.

  “Hello, Anita, what have you been up to?” The fish weren't biting cause he didn't want them to bite; it was about solitude and the beauty of nature.

  “Well, I went to see my family and I don't think I'll go back, at least not for a long time.” She sat and rested her back against a tree. “Their hearts have been crushed. I understand it, but it's too painful to watch.”

  “Yes, some people never get over the death of a loved one, and it's sad really. You might be able to help them by pray
ing for them.” Tim took a bite out of his dry sausage snack: salty, a little spicy, with the flavor of beef.

  “Would you like to try fishing? You can catch something if you want or not if you don't. Can't physically hurt anything here.” Tim was looking at her appreciatively, admiring her good looks and remembering her naked body, though not in an immoral way. They were indeed old souls who had danced before, but those memories were inaccessible, at least for now.

  “Sure, why not.” He handed her the fishing rod with a worm dangling from the hook. She held it over her head and when Anita tossed it the rod went into the stream.

  Tim laughed. “Here, let me get it for you.”

  The hook went into the water and in no time she pulled out a rubber boot. “There, you can chew on that for a while.” Out of the boot came a rainbow trout that she threw back, creating a splash. Then she caught a can, another fishing rod, a plastic soda bottle, and a pair of beautiful Stuart Weitzman shoes.

  They both laughed. “You're quite the fisherman.”

  “I know, right?”

  They turned to the left as they heard someone taking steps in the brook. The guy in the top hat was strolling in the water as if on a sidewalk, splashing around like a child, just taking his time as he occasionally glanced in their direction.

  “Hello?” Anita called to him.

  He smiled, though otherwise ignored them. He stopped and stroked the moose several times and then slowly faded away.

  Anita shook her head. “That guy is starting to annoy me. I don't know why he won't talk to me.”

  “I don't know, but I'll talk to you.” Tim stared into her eyes, and they drew into one another. A feeling of warmth surrounded them like a warm blanket on a frigid night. They were comfortable together. A tender kiss was initiated by Anita and then another. They were lost in the moment as Shelden appeared behind a pine tree, displeased with what he saw. He made a rifle emerge and aimed it at the couple, but of course couldn't accomplish anything with it, and then returned to the lake before he was noticed.

  “Anita, would you like to join me for dinner? I'm a pretty good cook. I get a lot of comfort out of food.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They were abruptly in a rather large kitchen that had all the amenities they could ask for, with a beautiful island topped in granite in the center. He added some oil to the frying pan on the stove. Anita sat on a black stool with her elbows leaning on the slate.

  “What are you making?”

  “Potato crusted salmon.” Tim took two pieces of fresh salmon, placed them in a bowl, then lightly beat an egg white. He removed the skin from the fish, cutting it into smaller servings. Tim mixed the egg whites and water with a fork. In a separate dish, he mixed baked potatoes and cornstarch, some paprika, and lemon pepper. Tim dipped the pieces of salmon into the mixture and then pressed it into the potatoes. He heated the skillet as Anita watched, making lovey dovey eyes at him. Tim cooked the fish on high with the potato sides down for three minutes. He carefully turned the fish as they both enjoyed the fragrance of it cooking and then lowered the heat. He added the fish to the salad on the plates and then they ate.

  “Oh, it's delicious. Who would have ever thought that you can still eat after you are dead?”

  “Anita, it's part of the human experience, I guess.”

  She took a bite and then another, and then leaned over and they kissed. “Lots of things to boggle the mind here, so I can just imagine what heaven might be like. I guess I can't, though it will be fun to see long-dead family members.”

  Tim poured her a glass of red wine and then one for himself; they clinked glasses and drank. “Would you like to dance?”

  “I guess.”

  They got up and danced, enjoying the moment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  OLIVIA WAS PARKED ACROSS THE STREET from Porter's law office and going over the case in her head. She had talked to more people who had been in the park the day of the murder, but no one had been around at the time of the killing. It reeked of a professional hit, but why would they kill a girl on vacation in the Big Apple? The only reason that she could come up with was that she had overheard something incriminating. Understandably, she was already getting calls from the parents, wanting to know why it happened and if she was getting close to apprehending the killer. The detective didn't know why or who. This career could be both satisfying and frustrating, not to mention dangerous.

  Olivia looked up to see Porter walking briskly toward the building as if he were trying to get away from someone. And then she saw a rough-looking fellow wearing a black motorcycle helmet that reminded her of the German helmets during the Second World War, and so he was attempting to avoid the guy. The ruffian ran and caught up with him. They exchanged words, and the biker guided the lawyer into the alley where Olivia couldn't see them. Olivia thought that she'd like to be a bird for a brief period so she could listen in on that conversation, although what they were discussing might be attorney-client privileges.

  The detective got out of her car and made it across the street. Perhaps she could hear the end of the altercation. And as she walked by the alley she glanced in and saw that Porter had a Smith & Wesson pressed to his head. The detective pulled her Glock faster than anyone should be able to and aimed it at his skull. “Detective Brown. Drop your weapon.”

  Instead of dropping it he cocked his Model 986 9mm revolver, but the instant he did she fired and blew the top of his head off, spraying Porter with blood and brain fragments. It happened so fast it was difficult for Porter to process. Looking down at the shooter who had part of his head missing, he shook, as the bullet could have easily hit him. Never a good day when she had to shoot someone. Olivia shook her head; this was going to be a lot of paperwork and she hated it. At least now she had a reason to talk to Porter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BRIGHTON, COLORADO, with a population of about thirty-five thousand people, wasn't all that interesting to John or Henry. They had been in many large cities, including Tokyo, Sao Paulo, Mexico City, Moscow, and Mumbai. They had a job to do, and that was it. Somebody wanted Raymond Miller dead, and soon he would be. Someone also wanted him tortured, but that wasn't going to happen. Besides, they weren't offering anything extra for it. Henry didn't like to hear anyone scream, neither did John.

  They were staying at the Hampton Inn, a nice enough place. The mark was also in the northeastern Denver suburb. There had been a blond woman in the lobby when they checked in who was so sexy it was difficult not to stare. Figuratively, both of their tongues were dragging on the floor. She was in her early thirties and so hot.

  Hopefully, they would get it done tonight and then get out. At seven they ate pizza and drank Pepsi, and at eight they checked their guns. It was a ritual that both appreciated, gave them a sense of importance and strength, as a wealthy man polished his Ferrari, admiring the fine details. It was peculiar how the human mind worked, especially with rituals and superstitions. John had called off a hit once because a black cat had crossed the road in front of his car, and then again in back of it when he had tried to turn around.

  Henry knew he had a lump in his armpit, aware of it for months now, and was yet to discover whether or not it was cancerous. He hated doctors, but Henry supposed that after this was over it might be time to go and get it checked. He could always put a gun to his head if it came to that. Quick and painless, just a squeeze of the trigger.

  When they got to the address it was dark; the target was in the process of loading a suitcase into his Infinity. He had nicely trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match. The guy obviously had money, though the house was just average. It looked like someone had tipped him off about what was coming because he wasn't squandering any time, in a hurry to get going. A concerned wife was watching him as he left. One less that they had to kill. If he headed to the airport, it was going to complicate things because they couldn't let him just get on a plane and fly off, and airports had way too many cameras inside and out
. A problem they would need to overcome–and fast. Might not go as smoothly as they thought.

  They followed him onto Interstate 70, staying a couple of cars behind. Wouldn't be good if they were spotted, and he was likely to be searching for a tail. If he called the police, it could get messy fast. They had never killed a police officer, but if necessary they would take that step, which could end up being one of the last ones they ever took. They had rented two cars–one stashed in a mall parking lot so they could change cars. Both aware that they might not live to be old men, but the slow passage to the land of the weak and frail appealed to neither. John hoped to be killing into his senior years, sometimes fantasized about it, but didn't believe that it would become a reality. If he did live that long, John might end up in a nursing home with someone wiping his ass. Therefore, it was best to enjoy today and let tomorrow take care of itself.

  Raymond pulled into a truck stop off I-70, filled up with gas, and then parked the car away from all the others. The sound of traffic whizzing by was loud as John and Henry also pulled in and watched silently. They knew they had to do him here, but it was such a public place with cameras watching the pumps/ Fortunately for them he had placed himself in a more secluded area, most likely to make it easier to see if anyone was approaching his car. Inside the station, Raymond put a wiener on a bun and looked around nervously, making Henry wonder what he had done to incur a death sentence. They weren't privy to the whys, but that didn't stop them from being curious occasionally.

  Raymond adjusted the gun inside his coat as he wasn't accustomed to carrying a firearm. He forced a smile as he paid for his food. “Thank you.”

  John looked up at the light poles to see if there were any cameras pointed in the direction of the car, and there didn't appear to be any. Another thing he liked about the business, definitely not a nine-to-five job.