Mississippi Blues

by D'Ann Lindun

  “Trey, don’t. I love you. Not the Chief, you.” She kissed him, trying to erase the image of the Chief’s death out of his head. “You’re not like him.”

  “No, but I can’t help but feel responsible,” he said. “If I hadn’t been so stubborn and listened to you, a lot of this could’ve been prevented.” Wrapping his good arm around her, he pulled her half on top of him.

  Careful not to hurt him further, she said, “Trey, it’s taken me all these years to admit that you did what you had to do. You’re an honorable person and you had to tell the Chief you saw Jace with the knife. You did what was right. There was no way you could know what would happen. Besides, Mama’s actually doing a lot better. She stepped outside, to the garden today. Facing her demons was the best thing that could’ve happened.”

  “Thank you for understanding.” Trey brushed her hair back. “I hope MiLann makes a full recovery.”

  “It looks like we’re going to be related by our siblings,” Summer said. “Jace and Lindy got married.”

  “Lindy called me, too,” Trey said. “She put Jace on the phone. I told him I’m happy for them.”

  “Yes, me too.” Summer’s eyes filled. She couldn’t blink them back fast enough and a few slipped down her face. “Everything’s good.”

  “Not everything.” Trey wiped her cheeks with his thumb. “It must be quite a shock to find out all that about Glory. Did you have an inkling she was Soloman’s daughter?”

  “Never.” She blinked back tears. It would take a long time before she felt better. “I’ll miss her. I’m so sorry she was so damaged by her father.”

  “Jody did some checking. Turns out Soloman was a grifter. He stole from wealthy women all over the south. He knew who my mother was from the minute he set foot in the bar.” Trey hugged her close. “Soloman dragged Glory around with him her whole life. She wasn’t with him that night because she had stayed in New Orleans to work her own job. The police caught her and she spent the next two years in prison. The minute she was released, she made her way here to avenge her father.”

  Summer gave her head a little shake. “Your mother killed Soloman because of what he did to Mama. Glory killed her and the others for what she thought they did to him. Buford is going to be paralyzed from the waist down. We all paid. Jace, you, me. Even Glory. All because of our parents’ decisions. So much death and destruction.”

  “We have a chance to pick up the pieces,” he said against her hair.

  “Lilah and I are going to try and keep the shop going, but it won’t be easy. She told me Jody took over the Chief’s job. The city council will have to approve him, but I don’t know why they wouldn’t go for it. Jody is a great guy.” Summer lifted her chin and watched him to gauge his reaction.

  “No matter what happens, we have each other,” Trey whispered in her ear. “I love you, Summer. I will love you forever.”

  She sat up a little and said, “I love you, Trey.”

  “Prove it,” he said. “Marry me?”

  “Only if we can do it today,” she replied. “Because I don’t want us to lose another minute.”

  He kissed her.

  “Can you do this?” She slipped her hand under his T-shirt.

  His eyes drifted shut. “Uh-huh.”

  She moved her hand lower and slid it inside his pajama pants. Her hand circled his penis. “What about this?”

  “Barely.” A smile played around his lips.

  After a few slow strokes, she asked, “Am I hurting you?”

  “Terribly.”

  Her hand quit moving. “I can stop.”

  His eyes flew open. “Only if you do want me to die.”

  She stood and slipped out of her clothes. Then, carefully, she slid his pants past his hips. “Are you strong enough for this?” She dropped her own clothes on the floor.

  “I’ll force myself,” he ground out.

  Summer straddled him and guided his penis into her. Carefully, as so not to injure him, she leaned forward and touched his lips with hers. He circled her neck with his good arm and held her close. She rocked her hips.

  He thrust up and she thought she was the one going to die.

  Their bodies caught and held a rhythm.

  She cried out as she came in a shuddering finale.

  Moments later, he too came.

  She slumped forward, breathing heavily, his good arm around her waist. In a minute she rolled off him. He held her snuggled next to him. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I won’t. Never again,” she promised.

  About the Author

  Falling in love with romance novels the summer before sixth grade, D’Ann Lindun never thought about writing one until many years later when she took a how-to class at her local college. She was hooked! She began writing and never looked back. Romance appeals to her because there’s just something so satisfying about writing a book guaranteed to have a happy ending. D’Ann’s particular favorites usually feature cowboys and the women who love them. This is probably because she draws inspiration from the area where she lives, Western Colorado; her husband of twenty-nine years; and their daughter. Composites of their small farm, herd of horses, five Australian shepherds, a Queensland heeler, nine ducks, and cats of every shape and color often show up in her stories!

  http://dlindunauthor.blogspot.com/

  http://www.facebook.com/DLindunAuthor

  I love to hear from readers, please contact me at dldauthor@frontier.net

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From The Right Combination by Nancy Loyan)

  Safes are as mysterious and alluring as a woman.

  Strong yet gentle to the touch.

  Equally as tempting.

  Yellow crime barrier tape billowed in the humid breeze as it surrounded Samuals Safe and Lock Company like an animal pen. Only demented animals, Rafe thought, would commit such a sordid murder. He had experienced many, far too many, in his ten-year career.

  “Special Agent Costillo, FBI,” Rafe announced, flashing the leather bi-fold containing his credentials.

  “Yeah, we’ve been expecting you,” answered the uniformed Miami policeman standing guard at the crime scene, swiping his sweaty brow.

  When a federal crime involved safes, Rafe was often a part of the investigation. He was the FBI’s top expert on safes and vaults. Connections at the FBI’s Miami field office knew he was in town visiting his family and informed him of the crime scene.

  He had been involved in mob-hit cases where the victim had been locked in a safe and tossed in a lake, a new take on cement shoes. Incidents where people were murdered for the contents of a safe or vault were not uncommon. Having three legendary safe technicians murdered and stuffed in safes in the span of three months was unusual. Having one occur in the city of his birth while he was visiting made him uneasy.

  Homicide detectives met him as he crossed over the tape and entered their territory.

  The front office of the safe and lock company was typical for the business. A service counter was equipped with key duplicating equipment and key blanks.

  Fingerprinted glass display cases featured the newest in security gadgetry and brass door locks. Modern metal safes and safe cabinets of various heights lined the walls, cardboard placards displaying features and price tags. Everything was a bit dusty, the air a bit stale, and the plank floors scuffed and worn. The shop was not unlike his father’s. The thought alone made the hair tingle on Rafe’s neck. Knowing that the victim could have been his own father made his blood chill. These murders were in familiar territory, in a world where he grew up, in a business he knew all too well, with victims with whom he could personally identify. He swallowed hard to get the bitter taste of anger out of his mouth.

  “Back here,” a detective in a rumpled tan suit motioned. He led Rafe through a
doorway toward the back warehouse.

  Heavy metal safes in shrink-wrap sat on wood pallets awaiting shipment. A rusted yellow forklift was at the ready. Used safes, some ornately painted, and some cast iron stood forlorn in a dark corner. Others were stacked in boxes. Johnson bars were propped against the cinder block walls.

  Rafe followed the detective toward the back wall of the warehouse where a six-foot tall, double-door Mosler stood. The safe’s chipped army green paint revealed its 1940s vintage; the drop handles its make. Its thick doors were open. Nickel alloy compression bars glimmered as the detective flashed his Mag Lite in the safe.

  Though empty, and devoid of shelves, the compartment above an open money chest revealed puddles of blood. Streaks of burnished red smeared against the sides, back, and inner doors of the large safe.

  “The body’s at the coroner’s,” the detective said without emotion. “Forensics have been out and have taken samples.”

  “What were the signs of trauma?” Rafe asked, noting the blood and powdered residue from fingerprinting.

  The detective shook his balding head. “No visible signs of gunshot or punctures. Only one weird thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  The detective looked at him, steely gray eyes turning to glass. “Three of the fingers on his right hand are missing.”

  “What three fingers?” Rafe asked, though he knew the answer from reports on the New York and LA murders.

  “Thumb, forefinger, and middle finger,” the detective answered. “Severed clean and nowhere to be found.”

  “The fingers a safeman uses to manipulate safes open,” Rafe muttered. “I gather Mr. Samuals was right-handed?”

  “We questioned his employees. Yes.”

  Rafe sighed.

  “Since you guys have been called in, this isn’t an isolated incident, is it?” the detective asked, staring at him.

  Rafe met his gaze. “I’ll have to review the coroner’s report and forensics before making a judgment.” From experience, he knew the answer.

  • • •

  After returning to his assigned FBI field office in Los Angeles and reviewing reports on the three “safeman murders,” there was no doubt that a serial killer was on the loose. A definite pattern, a signature, had emerged. The crime scenes were organized with little evidence to work with, revealing a killer who went at great lengths to avoid detection. The murders appeared preplanned, deliberate, and calculated. Rafe also knew that he was dealing with a “trophy taker.” The killer removed body parts creating a crime signature, a pattern connecting the crimes. The motive, though, was as mysterious as the individual committing the murders. The question of who, when, where the killer was going to strike next infiltrated his head like a bad headache. Rafe reviewed the facts in his mind.

  There were more similarities than differences between the three murders. All of the victims had been safemen of great renown within the business.

  Irving Samuals was a safe tech with a big ego. Some said it was as big as his Budweiser belly. Boastful of his skills, he was featured frequently on television, in newspapers, and in magazines. Touted as the best in Dade County, Irv’s colleagues, including Rafe’s father, had questioned his true ability. If not for the New York and LA murders, his death would have easily been considered a direct result of his flamboyant personality and lifestyle. The way he flaunted his skills, gold jewelry, and money would have left little speculation as to his murder.

  No money or goods, though, had been taken from his shop or home. He was rendered unconscious and strangled to death and stuffed into one of his safes. Three fingers, those he used to manipulate safes were severed and missing. The calling card of a deranged killer. A mouse luring cats.

  Johnny Pennetto, the Brooklyn victim, was as quiet and unassuming as wallpaper. Unlike Irv Samuals, he had guarded his privacy. With an unlisted telephone number, caller ID, a post office box, and frequent moves, he was a vagabond always looking over his shoulder. If not for his being a bonded independent contractor and a safe tech for reputable locksmiths, one could have easily assumed him to be a crook. Unfortunately, with all of his suspicions and precautions he had been hunted and murdered, stashed in a safe in one of his locksmith client’s warehouses.

  Georgie “Sticky Fingers” Martin was another story. A reformed criminal, he had found God and redemption and had given up his skill at opening safes as well as adding to his rap sheet. A legend in criminal and law enforcement circles, Georgie had retreated from life as an underworld safecracker to preach the Gospel. He made it to heaven earlier than expected, his casket a safe he had stored in his home office.

  Rafe sat perched on the corner of his metal desk sipping strong black coffee. He stared at the reports stacked on his desktop and shook his head. Though he specialized in crimes relating to safes and vaults, including murder, this was his first experience with a serial killer and the first such case assigned to him as the designated agent in charge. His undergraduate degree in psychology, the courses he took with the FBI’s behavioral science unit, and field experience in criminal profiling would come in handy.

  “Serial killers have a disease,” he had been told by one of the experts in the field.

  “This one has an addiction to safes,” Rafe thought aloud.

  An addiction to safes was something he could relate to. After all, he had grown up amidst safes and safemen. His father was one of the best in the business and was determined that his son possess the same skills. From the time he could walk and talk, Raphael Costillo spent hours in his father’s shop and out on service calls. The first word he ever uttered was “safe” and he had memorized the manufacturers and characteristics of safes before he knew the states and their capitals. He could see a safe, rattle off its make, model, and age and know how to logically proceed in opening it. When other parents were fearful of their children getting locked in a safe and suffocating, the Costillo’s beamed with pride because their son could open them. He had kept a yellowed newspaper article and photograph of himself at age five beside a small Alpine he had manipulated open.

  Safes had been good to him. By being a safe and vault technician, he had worked his way through college and law school. The profession even helped to finance a comfortable apartment and a shiny red Corvette, luxuries for most college students. Yet, his schoolmates thought the luxuries came from some secret life of crime. After all, how could a Hispanic boy from Little Havana finance such an upscale lifestyle? There wasn’t enough challenge in working in his father’s small shop and he needed to escape from the old neighborhood. He needed more. More stimulation. More demands. More knowledge that he was doing something to benefit society as well as his family and himself. He needed to prove that he was an equal and not a minority. To his father’s shock, he joined the FBI.

  Thinking about his father at Costillo Safe and Lock in Little Havana made him shudder. The “safeman murders” were hitting too close to home. The victims were people he understood. Some he had even met at safe and lock conferences and conventions. His father was the victims’ contemporary. Luis Costillo was as legendary in the safe business as the victims. Rafe couldn’t imagine his father murdered and stuffed into a safe. The thought made him flush with anger. He had to do everything within his ability to uncover the killer because his father could have been and could become a victim.

  “Yo, amigo. Don’t you have anything better to do than sit around and drink coffee?”

  One didn’t have to see Anthony DeGrasso to know he was around. The tangy pungent Aqua Velva after-shave and cologne he favored preceded him. Rafe rubbed his nose to suppress a sneeze. Though in the LA office the past two years, Tony retained that brash Brooklyn accent and attitude. A fellow FBI Special Agent, Tony grated on him but Rafe and he had formed an amicable, almost friendly working relationship.

  “At least I drink real coffee, not that rotgut espresso you t
hrive on,” Rafe answered with a chuckle.

  “Heard you’ve been assigned to the ‘safeman murders’ case,” Tony said.

  “Yep.” Rafe took another sip of his coffee.

  “Hot Fingers Costillo to the rescue.”

  “You got it.” Rafe winked though he hated the nickname given to him as a teen and perpetuated through the years.

  “Seriously, how’s it going?”

  “It’s going. My fear is that we have a serial killer on our hands. The faster we nab the guy the better.”

  “Who would wanna kill safe techs?” Tony asked, shoving his hands in his pants’ pockets. “Not for Rice Krispies, eh? You know, cereal, serial?”

  “Who would want to kill anyone?” Rafe didn’t find humor in murder.

  “Got a motive?”

  Rafe stroked his chin. “First things first. Enough about me, what are you working on?”

  “A bank fraud.”

  “Could be interesting.”

  Tony shrugged his sloped shoulders. “You get the high profile cases. I get the crumbs.”

  “But I get the stress and the danger, not to mention the nightmares. I’m sure you sleep well at night.”

  “With Bertha?” Tony’s bushy black brows shot up.

  “Hey buddy, you married her.”

  Tony winked. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Viagra works, doesn’t it?” Rafe teased. With Tony it was difficult staying serious for long.

  “You know, that’s what you need, a good woman. You wouldn’t be needing all that strong coffee.”

  “Here we go again. Have you been talking to my sister and my mother?”

  A knock rattled Rafe’s office door.

  “Come in,” Rafe called.

  In strolled a bespectacled young woman, his more efficient than pretty administrative assistant.

  “What’s up, Jamie?” Rafe asked, eyeing the padded envelope she gingerly held.

  “This came for you. Priority Mail,” she answered, handing him the envelope.