An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken

by Thomas Amo

  An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken

  Thomas Amo

  The City of San Francisco is locked in a grip of fear. A series of occult murders has lead, Inspector Thomas James to a crime scene similar to a murder committed 90 years ago in the once grand Aleris Hotel. A place where power barons of the early 20th Century engaged in witchcraft. And silent film stars indulged in the most wicked of sins. A place where no one questions the black smoke that rises from the hotel's incinerators in the middle of the night.

  Thomas Amo

  An Apple For Zoë

  Acknowledgments

  No one ever truly writes a book alone. Along the way there are several people who in some way or another are instrumental in the delivery of the final product. If it were not for these heroes who sit silently on the sidelines giving you encouragement or fellow artists who help to inspire you to reach your final destination, none of this would be possible. For you, I am truly grateful. Firstly is my wife Ashton, who tirelessly read, read, and re-read the same chapters over and over again. Without your undying devotion this book would still be just notes in a journal. To my wonderfully talented cover artist Julija Lichman, you have given my book its first breath of life with your amazing talent thank you so much for taking on this project, because of you Julija, Zoë is now immortal. Paige Comrie, meeting you was a breath of fresh air. Your willingness to jump in and collaborate gave me an insight that went way beyond my expectations. Your generosity took character creation to a whole new level for me. To my editor Annie Rapaport Hunt, your skill and objectiveness always helped to keep me on track and deliver a beautifully polished rich tapestry of written word. Thank you also to graphic artist Jeannifer Marciella Soeganda, your artwork of "Amanda" takes the reader away from the very beginning. Katelyn Hernandez, the initiative you showed from the beginning convinced me you were exactly the right artist for this project. A special thank you to Frank and Stacey Hernandez for your amazing support of the project and allowing Ashlyn to also be a part of it. You have made Ashley and I feel like family. To Carmen & Dan for being so generous and allowing me to use Casa De Carmen for the photo shoot! Love you Ma!

  Finally I would be remiss if I did not thank Joanna Landingham. Jo, you were always the first to cheer and rally others to this book. In a way you have taken the torch from your father to carry on where he left off with me. He always kept encouraging me to finish. He would say, "It's already written, it just has to pass through your fingertips." He loved knowing he was reading it before anyone else was. He was my first audience, and my driving force behind finishing it. He was and always will be in my heart. I love him and miss him dearly and because of him I am a better artist today. Thank you~ All of you!

  Thomas Amo ~January 5, 2011

  Dedication

  For D.W. Landingham

  ~ This One's For You Duke ~

  Chapter One

  Amanda

  She looked perfect now. Her hair was combed just right. Lipstick applied with the expertise of a Hollywood make-up artist. Her hands neatly placed one on top of the other to show off her manicured nails. The fresh scent of perfume emanated from her blouse filling the room with a sweet euphoria. Her portrait loomed by her side, it showed an innocent smile that was underlined by a hint of sultriness that reflected in her eyes. Eyes that could catch the attention of any man she desired.

  Flashbulbs popped and lit the room with the brief, yet intense, glow of a lightning storm. Finally her audience had arrived. She was at long last the center of attention. Everyone wanted to see her. Several policemen stood keeping reporters and spectators at a respectable distance. The media sat waiting, eager to learn every detail about Amanda Carlyle.

  Thomas James looked at Amanda, noticing just how perfect she truly was. She was indeed the sort of woman that all men desire. He wondered how many men had she rejected. Denied the pleasure of her company or affections. Yet it now seemed that someone did get Amanda's attention and he had made her perfect in every detail. Her screams were now silent, all the blood gone, and Inspector Thomas James puzzled over the most bizarre crime scene of his career. His bespectacled hazel eyes looked down at Amanda Carlyle, who was bathed in a pink glow of dimmed lights and lit candles. The coffin lid open, exposing her only from the waist up. A Catholic set up was in place for potential mourners to come kneel and pray the rosary. She was completely prepared for her funeral, the problem was; Amanda Carlyle was alive just six hours earlier. James examined the note that had been carefully placed in her hands. To his astonishment the note was handwritten and not typed. In a world of word processors and text messaging, it was amazing that someone would actually leave behind a handwritten clue. He parted the folds of the note, his hands sweating inside the latex evidence gloves that were a size too small. James once again read the words written in the scrawl of a child. "Amanda you are the prettiest girl i have ever seen. i hope you do not have a boyfriend because i like you, i would be the best boyfriend in the world to you. You and me could be together and we would be so happy. So tell me if you like me too? Mark yes or no. hopefully your new boyfriend, Edmund Frayker."

  A cold shiver ran down Inspector James' neck as he looked at the bottom of the note with two box shapes under the words yes and no. It reminded him of his grammar school days, when boys and girls would attempt to ask the all-important question of "I like you, do you like me?" The "no" box in the note was clearly marked with an "X" in the same childlike scribble. Even more confounding was the fact the suspect left a name. Was this a trick? Or was he dealing with a monster that possessed the mind of a child?

  James crossed over to the manager's office. There he observed a seasoned looking funeral director who silently watching the rain patter against the window. A man used to spending his time with the dead, he appeared unusually calm considering the events he had witnessed this morning. James noticed that the man, dressed in traditional funeral black suit, white shirt and blue striped tie, shivered from the dampness of the morning rain as he held a lukewarm cup of coffee between his hands.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Blackstone?" James smirked to himself as he consulted the director's name from his notes. Blackstone, how much more cliché could a name be for a funeral director? thought James.

  "Max," the man replied.

  "Max, I'm Inspector Thomas James, Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" he said holding his badge up for Blackstone to see he was a homicide detective with the city of San Francisco. Glancing briefly at the badge, the funeral director nodded that he was willing.

  "What time did you arrive here at the mortuary?"

  Without blinking, or making eye contact, Blackstone continued to watch the rain. "7:00 a.m. like everyday."

  "When did you find Miss Carlyle?"

  "Seven fifteen exactly," he stated.

  "How can you say exactly," asked James?

  "The grandfather clock in the foyer. It chimes every quarter hour. It chimed as I entered the slumber room."

  "Slumber room?"

  Blackstone nodded. "That's what we call the viewing rooms, Inspector James. It's a Victorian term, not often used in the business any longer. However, we still find it quite fitting, adds to the ambiance."

  "Ambiance," muttered James sarcastically.

  Blackstone turned from the window and looked at James. "I wouldn't expect you to understand the measures we take to care for the deceased, inspector."

  James was quickly tiring of Blackstone's snobbery. "I'm sure you guys do a bang up job here Max, but let's get back to the murdered girl you've got laying in your 'slumber room.' You said, you noticed her at seven fifteen." Blackstone nodded in agreement. James scribbled intently his notes. "Why
not before then?" asked James. Blackstone spoke flatly. "Because she wasn't there."

  James stopped writing. "Wait a minute, are you telling me, you arrived at seven a.m. and this room was empty. Then fifteen minutes later she was in here?"

  "That's correct," said the funeral director as he shifted in his chair.

  "How is that possible? How can you be sure she wasn't there, when you arrived? I mean this place is dark even with the lights on," commented James.

  Blackstone looked at James with a slight smirk. "Yes, it is a bit of a haunted house isn't it?"

  James didn't care for the funeral director's joke. It seemed to be a bland attempt at masking what normally was arrogant behavior.

  "Then you understand Mr. Blackstone that means the murderer was still in the building when you arrived this morning."

  "It would appear so, wouldn't it inspector."

  "Doesn't that frighten you?" asked James.

  "Why should I? Obviously his intent was to dazzle us with the girl. If he had wanted me dead, then I believe I wouldn't be sitting here talking with you."

  As much as the funeral director's statement annoyed James, he had to agree with him. The girl was his focus. Yet he took a huge risk of being caught by Blackstone. Was that also his intention? To stay long enough to move her into place and slip away completely unnoticed. But given the crime scene, that doesn't seem to fit. He needs to see... James stopped in mid-thought. He quickly left the funeral director's side and returned to the slumber room. He looked the room over. The French doors were open, inviting all to step inside. Two brown leather wing chairs sat at opposite ends of the casket. A small hunter green love seat was placed against one wall. Hidden by the darkness next to the love seat was a small-framed oak door. It's woodcarvings dated back easily over a hundred years. It was ornate and intricate and the brass doorknob reflected the pale flames of the candles in the room.

  Stepping into the room Max Blackstone observed James with an intense curiosity. James felt Blackstone's presence.

  "What's this?" asked James pointing to the small door.

  "It's a storage closet," said Blackstone.

  "For what?" asked James?

  "It's where we keep the Catholic set up. Like you see now. The candle pedestals, the crucifix behind the casket, and the kneeler in front."

  James looked at the religious contents placed as Blackstone had stated. "All of this fits into that tiny closet?" asked James.

  "Absolutely, I'll show you," he said as he passed James, and reached to open the door to show him the contents. James grabbed Blackstone's hand stopping him. Looking at James, the funeral director's face showed his growing agitation.

  James silently pointed at the door and then at the funeral director. Blackstone's eyes suddenly widened, announcing to James that he understood. The director replied in a hollow voice, his fear was evident.

  "He watched me?"

  James nodded in agreement. "He needed to see you Max. You were his audience."

  For the first time that morning James saw fear on Max Blackstone's face.

  "I need some air, inspector," he said as he backed out of the room and made his way to the cold rain soaked stone steps of the mortuary entrance. Watching him leave, Inspector James called to Bobby Stillwell, the CSI, who was setting his kit up in the foyer.

  "Bobby, have you dusted this door yet?"

  The young fresh-faced Stillwell joined James inside the slumber room. The two men greeted each other shaking gloved hands.

  "Hey Tom, good to see you. Which door are you talking about?" James pointed into the darkness leaving Stillwell puzzled.

  "Damn, Tom, you know I never even knew there was a door there. It's so freaking dark in this place; a guy would need a set of floodlights to see anything. Shine your flashlight on the door handle a second for me."

  James retrieved his flashlight from the pocket of his raincoat and clicked it on. The brightness gleamed off the brass finish of the old world handle. Stillwell worked quickly, dipping his brush into the chemical that would reveal any latent fingerprints.

  Both men looked close at the doorknob. As expected the men found satisfaction at the sight of several clear fingerprints.

  "Oh yeah, and fresh too. Do you want me to print the funeral director for elimination prints?"

  "Yeah, just to be on the safe side."

  In a matter of moments Stillwell had secured the prints from the door. "Okay Tom, all clear, shall we see what's hiding behind door number one?"

  James reached over and gently twisted the knob, hearing the latch free itself from the strike plate. Pulling the door open the blackness of the room revealed nothing. James raised his flashlight and clicked it on once more.

  "Oh my God!" shouted the CSI. In unison James and Stillwell stepped away from the closet. James dropped the flashlight and with lightning reaction pulled his Colt 9mm from its holster.

  "Freeze!" shouted James.

  "Guys, get in here!" called Stillwell to the officers standing in the doorway of the funeral home. In seconds three officers were at their sides, guns drawn along with James.

  "Bobby, get the flashlight," ordered James.

  Stillwell leaned down and grabbed the light and aimed it into the closet. Hanging from an electrical cord was the dead body of a man.

  "You've got to be fucking kidding me," said one of the officers.

  "Blackstone! Close the doors," shouted James as he moved closer to the dead man.

  Reporters began converging on the steps and attempting to make their way inside, snapping photos trying to get an image of the latest twist in Thomas James' morning.

  One of the three officers joined with Blackstone at pushing the reporters out and closing the door.

  "So, what do you think, Tom? You think it's a murder-suicide?" asked Stillwell.

  "God, I hope so," said James as he peered closer. He could see something was pinned to the lapel of the dead mans jacket. "Bobby, get a shot of this."

  "What is it?"

  "I think it's a note. Looks like this just might be a murder-suicide after all."

  Collecting himself, Stillwell raised his camera and aimed it and clicked off several shots. His attention then turned to a gleaming reflection from the flash of his camera.

  "Tom, wait, I see something else."

  Moving closer, Stillwell reached for James' flashlight. Responding without hesitation James handed it to him. Illuminating the body, Stillwell could see that the man's arms were behind his back as he brought the light up to reveal yet another shock.

  "Oh man, Tom you're not going to believe this," said Stillwell as he stepped away.

  James furrowed his brow at the CSI and returned his gun to its holster as he took the flashlight to see for himself. Kneeling down in the small space James could now see the dead man's hands were tightly bound together with barbed wire.

  "Jesus." muttered James to himself. Carefully he stood up reached for the man's lapel and removed the note. Holding it in a way, that would later allow Stillwell to dust it for prints.

  "So, is it a suicide note? What's it say?" asked Stillwell.

  James swallowed hard as he looked at the note written in the same scrawl as the Amanda love note. His blood ran cold.

  "It says, 'Pretty Ballerina'."

  Chapter Two

  Pretty Ballerina

  October 11, 1969, seemed just like all the other Octobers that had come before it. The cool breeze billowed the soft white curtains of Julie Jackson's bedroom window. Lying on her bed, Julie's long brown hair fell across her tanned shoulder. Deep, rich eyebrows accentuated her glistening brown eyes, as she stared deeply into Tommy James' smile. At 14 years old, could she really be this happy? No boy had ever turned her head like Tommy did. She had boyfriends before, but not like this. This was no idle puppy love, this was different. Tommy was different. He wasn't like other boys, who only wanted to see her boobs. He talked of romantic things, and unlike other boys he didn't treat her differently when his friends ca
me around and Julie loved him for it.

  Ironically, Julie's favorite band was Tommy James and the Shondells. This only solidified her belief that her love for him was eternal.

  Julie's radio, which played gently in the background, was permanently tuned to AM station, 610 KFRC. The steady drumbeat and piano of Pretty Ballerina by The Left Banke filled the room. Julie's heart swelled as Tommy lay across from her. The fear of being caught by her parents was the farthest thing from her mind as Tommy brushed his hand across her cheek. With so much to be said, Julie could hardly contain herself, as she was about to share her very first kiss with the one boy she would love for the rest of her life. The two—would-be lovers—whispered softly to one another as to keep their Saturday evening rendezvous a secret.

  "You sure your dad won't come in?" asked Tommy.

  Julie smiled and wrapped her barefoot around Tommy's ankle closing the distance between them.

  "Are you kidding, it's Saturday night, he's got his martini and a new color television. Soon he'll be overdosing on Jackie Gleason, Lawrence Welk, and don't forget tonight, Bing Crosby is the host on The Hollywood Palace," she said with a wry smile.

  "Bing Crosby over Petticoat Junction?" he asked playfully.

  "No, I'm serious, all week long, all I've heard is, 'Bing is on The Hollywood Palace, so keep it quiet, and maybe in the morning we can all have some Minute Maid orange juice,' " she said in her best father's impression of Bing Crosby. The two of them covered their mouths to keep their laughter to a minimum. As their laughs subsided their eyes met.

  "Kiss me Tommy," said Julie in a sweet romantic plea.

  Leaning together, Tommy gently placed his lips against Julie's. Hers were soft and moist. Together they found the bliss of innocence. In a daring move, Tommy slowly parted his mouth and Julie took his gesture and the young lovers enjoyed the pleasure of a first French kiss. Pulling Tommy closer, Julie wrapped her petite arms around him. Holding him tightly against her, Tommy could feel the swell of her breasts. When their kiss ended Julie placed her head on Tommy's shoulder. The euphoria of the moment was forever etched in her mind to the tune of Pretty Ballerina, and made even more perfect as Tommy whispered in her ear.