by Walter Marks
“No, wait,” Burt said, “I bet you were investigating my disappearance. Oh, that’s real ethical — humping a witness in a case.”
“Killing a police officer is serious business,” Jericho said. “They’ll track you down no matter where you go.”
“But I’m already dead, remember. I won’t be very high on the list of suspects.” Burt pointed the gun at Jericho’s skull.
“No bulletproof hat, I see.”
Jericho felt the gun barrel against his scalp. He tried to speak calmly.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “We know about your DNA switch. And we know you’re going to India.”
“You know all that?” Burt said with surprise. “Well, you’re smarter than I thought. But there are two billion people in India, and I intend to get lost in the crowd.”
“The police won’t quit till they — ”
“You know,” Burt interrupted, “I believe in reincarnation. So to me, ending your life is just part of a cycle leading to rebirth. Do you believe in the hereafter?”
Jericho said nothing.
“Well, hereafter, quit fucking other men’s wives.” Burt said deadpan. “But seriously,” he went on, ”to comfort you, I will quote from the Bhagavad Gita as I slowly squeeze the trigger. This prayer expresses my profound belief that all things are eternal, thus there is no such thing as death. Na jayate mriyate va ka kadacin nayam bhuta bhavita — ”
Burt’s prayer was cut short by a searing pain in both his temples. He crumpled to the floor. Blood oozed from the sides of his head. His hands reached up, then dropped limply to his sides.
Susannah had crept up behind him, holding in her two hands the bed’s wooden finials. With a motion like a cymbal crash, she had brought the balls together with all her strength, crushing the sides of Burt’s head.
Susannah saw the Glock on the floor and booted it away.
Jericho sat up. Burt wasn’t moving.
“Jesus,” Jericho said in amazement. “How did you get loose?”
“Something I remembered, thanks to Bloomingdale’s”.
“Huh?”
“When they delivered my bed, one of these finials was cracked, so they mailed me another one and I put it on myself. They just screw on and off.”
“Wow.” Jericho said and pulled himself to his feet. “Let’s take a look at him.”
He went over to Burt and knelt down. He felt Burt’s carotid artery.
“No pulse. No chest movement. ”
Jericho leaned over and placed his right ear on Burt’s gaping mouth.
“Don’t!”, Susannah shouted.
“What?”
“He might still be alive. You could lose an ear.”
Jericho smiled. “All right,” he said. Jericho took out his pocket flashlight, peeled back Burt’s eyelids, and shone the light into each eye.
“Pupils fixed and dilated.”
He put his ear on Burt’s chest and listened carefully. He looked up at Susannah.
“No heart beat, no respiration. The man is dead.”
“I’m telling you, he knows how to fake it.”
“But see that bruising around his eyes?” Jericho said. “That’s the raccoon effect — indicates severe skull fracture. I’ve seen enough head injuries in my time to know this guy’s brain is mush.”
She sighed in relief. Jericho stood up.
“Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”
“Well, you saved mine. Tit for tat.”
“Guess I’m the tat.”
Susannah rolled her eyes, then embraced him. Jericho flinched and pulled back.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m kinda sore from taking those bullets in my body armor.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Can you give me a rain check on the hug?”
“You got it.”
“Listen,” Jericho said, “you might, uh, want to button up. Some of my colleagues will be here shortly.”
She looked down at her open flannel shirt and fastened the buttons. “I should put on a robe,” she said.
“We need to get our stories straight before I call this in.”
He retrieved his gun and picked up Burt’s Glock.
Jericho sat down on the edge of the bed. Susannah put on a bathrobe and took a seat in the rattan chair.
She held up her handcuffed wrists and said, ”Can they bring something to cut these things off?”
“Sure, but your husband probably has a key on him.” Jericho said. “We’ll take a look, but let’s talk first.”
“Okay.”
Jericho leaned forward and looked in her eyes. “You’ll probably be interviewed by Chief Manos. When he asks you about tonight, tell him the truth, in exact detail — how Burt broke in, what he did to you — even if it’s embarrassing. Everything. Got it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “What if he asks me why Burt did it?”
Jericho thought for a moment. “Tell him your husband was showing signs of unstable behavior in the months before he disappeared. Tonight he seemed to have gone off the deep end.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“Now, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened the day your husband supposedly drowned. But I’m not about to tell anyone, and neither will you. Burt Cascadden was a violent madman; he was planning to have you killed, so you did what you had to do to protect yourself. It was self-defense. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Burt didn’t die anyway, so the homicide issue is moot. The police’ll assume he faked his own death-by-drowning,” he went on, “But if Chief Manos asks you why, you have no idea. Right?“
“Right.”
“Okay. That’s all they have to know.”
Susannah nodded. She looked at Jericho intensely for a moment. “I...I want to tell you what happened with Jessie Russell.”
“No need for that right now.”
“No, no. I want you to know. He tried to rape me, and when I fought back, he cracked his head...”
“Madam,” he said, interrupting. “You have the right to remain silent.”
She shook her head. “I want you to know the truth.”
“Okay, but tell me later.” Jericho said. “The State Police are handling the case now and here’s how they’ll see it: Russell’s a known rapist who once attacked a teenage girl on the Shinnecock reservation. They suspect Russell was killed by her family, who were seeking vengeance. But there’s a code of silence within the tribe, so they’ll never be able to make an arrest. Anyway, the way I see it, if you killed a rapist defending yourself, that’s not a crime. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess so,” she said hesitantly. “But still, I’ve killed, I’ve taken a human life. And I’m not at peace with that.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“But it’s different for you. I mean, you’re a cop, so you’re trained to use deadly force if you have to — in the line of duty.”
“I do understand — believe me.” Jericho said. “And I’ve gone through hell dealing with it. Susannah, I can help you get through this. And I promise — I will.”
She nodded and embraced him.
“Where’s your phone?” he asked. ”I left mine in the car.”
“Under the quilt.”
“Very clever,” Jericho said. The line was still engaged. He hung up, then dialed the precinct house.
Susannah looked down at the handcuffs. Her wrists had been rubbed raw in her struggles and were starting to hurt.
The key, she thought. Maybe in Burt’s pocket.
She got up and went to Burt’s motionless body. As she knelt down her heart began to race.
He better be dead.
Her hand trembled as it reached into one of Burt’s windbreaker pockets.
No key.
She reached over to check the other pocket.
Suddenly Burt’s fingers shot up and closed vice-like around her throat. His face grinned up at her, raccoon eyes open
and glaring as he squeezed tighter and tighter.
The power of his grip seemed superhuman.
She tried to cry out, but his thumbs were crushing her larynx and trachea. Her vision began to dim, and inside her head she felt pressure building, a pressure only death could release.
She clawed out with her fingernails, trying to rip at his face. But it was futile. Her strength was failing, the blackness sweeping in, washing over her...
Jericho hung up the phone. He saw Susannah kneeling over Burt. Burt’s hands were around her throat and Susannah’s head was lolling to one side. Jericho drew his gun. Burt’s head was blocked by his raised arms. Jericho’s only clear shot was at Burt’s ribcage.
He aimed carefully and fired once.
Susannah felt Burt’s grip relax. His hands dropped and she could breathe again. Her vision cleared. She started to cough.
“Susannah,” Jericho called out. “You okay?” He ran toward her. She was looking down at Burt’s face. His eyelids fluttered as he croaked his dying words.
“Sweetie,” he said, “YOU DID...A...BAD...THING.”
Susannah knew instantly what he meant. Even with his last breath Burt was boasting, needing her to know that those e-mails were part of his final Game — the object of the Game was to make her life Hell.
She began to breathe more easily.
Jericho knelt down beside her. He felt around into Burt’s pocket and found the handcuff keys.
Susannah extended her hands and Jericho gently unlocked the cuffs.
She rubbed her sore wrists, then reached over and touched the back of Jericho’s hand.
He felt her warm palm, pressing gently. As he heard backup finally arriving outside, Jericho slowly turned his hand over, till their palms were touching. Once again they were skin to skin, hotness to hotness.
A SNEAK PEEK: “ THE BATTLE OF JERICHO”
COMING SOON
CHAPTER 1
It was a foot — somebody’s foot, bobbing up and down in the gentle, rolling surf. It was wearing a pink Nike running shoe, the Swoosh starting to peal off from the action of the seawater. There was a sock and part of an ankle. Nothing more.
An incoming wave caught the foot and for a moment it seemed to be surfing. As the wave crashed on the damp sand and receded, the foot was left on its side, a piece of slimy kelp tangled in its shoelaces.
It would’ve been a ghastly sight to any beach walker passing by. But to the golden retriever, it was just something to retrieve and carry back to his owner, where he could display it proudly and drop it at his master’s feet.
Stunned, the dog owner stared down at the foot. He considered picking it up and examining it, but the idea made him queasy. Besides, he might be tampering with evidence. He took out his cell and called 911.
Detective Sergeant Neil Jericho peered at the eyes staring back at him in the bathroom mirror. They were early morning eyes; squinty, bleary, bloodshot. Were these the eyes of a brilliant detective? Eyes that could recognize minute blood spatter without Luminol spray, spot clues hidden in plain sight, pick up the revealing “tells” of a lying suspect?
He remembered reading once how Paul Newman, first thing upon arising, would plunge his whole head in a bucket of ice water. Impulsively Jericho turned on the cold tap, filled the basin, and ducked his head into it. After a few seconds he came up dripping, but definitely wide-awake and refreshed. Okay, he was no Paul Newman. Still...
As he finished shaving his phone rang. It was the Chief. “Jericho, I’m here with what looks like a drowning victim.”
“Where?”
“Montauk. Gin Beach.”
“Are you with the body?”
“There’s no body. Just a foot.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. Get your ass out here.”
“I’m on my way.”
As he took his keys from the hook near the door, Jericho saw Susannah’s house key hanging there. He just couldn’t put it away. For a year they’d tried to make it work, but they were a mismatch. She was a dancer, he was a cop. Susannah had inherited millions, Jericho earned a D3 base salary. She wanted to start a dance company in New York City, but Jericho, a former NYPD detective, knew the city wasn’t for him.
The breakup still hurt.
But it was time to go to work. He ate his emergency breakfast — a mug of instant coffee mixed with hot tap water, and a handful of raisins.
Then he grabbed his camera and drove out to Gin Beach.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walter Marks is a novelist, playwright, and songwriter. Besides his Broadway shows — “Bajour” and “Golden Rainbow”, off-Broadway he wrote the score and book for the award winning “Langston in Harlem” (lyrics by Langston Hughes). His best known song is “I’ve Gotta be Me”, recorded by Sammy Davis, Michael Jackson, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald, among others.
He also wrote the screenplay and songs for “The Wild Party” (Merchant-Ivory Films) directed by James Ivory. He is an Emmy winner for the PBS series “Getting On.”
His current project is a musical incorporating the songs of lyricist/composer Johnny Mercer into a book show called “Accentuate the Positive.” Mr. Marks has written the libretto.
His novels include “Dangerous Behavior”, “Death Hampton” and “The Battle of Jericho.“
He lives and works in both Manhattan and East Hampton.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Marsha Brooks, Esq. and Larry Brooks for their support, Brisa Trinchero and Roberta Pereira for their know-how and guidance, Helen O'Reilly for being a driving force, and Henry Morrison for giving me my start.
Top Tier Lit
www.toptierlit.com
New York, NY
2014
