The Ultimate Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Bestsellers)

by Perkins, Cathy

  Oh, jeez, Mrs. Wilcox strikes again, he silently groaned. The good mood that sleeping in his own bed and an hour at the gym had produced evaporated. He stared at the computer, urging it to start faster.

  “It wasn’t so much what she was wearing, as what she wasn’t.”

  He sighed. Frank wasn’t going to leave it alone until he responded. “What was she wearing this time?”

  His partner rocked on his toes. Enthusiasm lit his voice. “She had on this little-bitty robe over a baby-doll gown. It was that kinda sheer material, you know, where you can see, but not really.”

  “Hmm.” He focused on the laptop and launched the database program.

  “That’s the best you can do? ‘Hmm’? What is wrong with you, O’Shaughnessy? She’s hot. I mean, she has these tits…”

  He rolled his eyes. Frank was pantomiming cantaloupes or maybe watermelons. “Go for it. She’s not my type.”

  “Your type?” Frank asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah. As in Barbie has no brain.”

  “Who cares?” The man’s hands rose and fell in exasperation.

  Mick ignored him and opened the car file.

  “Christ. Sexy woman throws herself at him and he bitches ’cause she isn’t a nuclear scientist.” He opened a cabinet, grabbed a mug, and poured coffee. “You’re out of sugar again.”

  “There’s Sweet’N Low.”

  Frank made a face, but emptied several packets into his mug. He moved to the refrigerator and stood in front of the open door.

  Mick shot a concerned glance into the kitchen. Frank had been making too many comments like that lately. But what was he supposed to ask? Was everything okay between Marilyn and him? Was he thinking about having an affair? Their relationship didn’t work that way. Frank meddled in his life, not the other way around. His partner was supposed to be the solid, married man.

  Frank pulled out the milk carton, sniffed and grimaced. “This is pathetic.” He examined and replaced a carton of orange juice. “What’s this?” He lifted a white container as if it might contain anthrax.

  He leaned back so he could see what the guy held. “Probably leftover Thai. You might not want to eat it.”

  “Do you have anything in here that didn’t die last week?”

  “I haven’t been here. The apples and those little carrots in the bottom drawer are okay.” He’d had a handful for breakfast, along with a bagel he found in the freezer. “I need to go to the grocery store this afternoon.”

  Frank grimaced and closed the refrigerator. He opened cabinets and finally found a box of Triscuits. “You want more coffee?”

  He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the DMV records scrolling down the screen. “There are over two hundred thousand lines in this file. I had no idea there were so many old cars around here.”

  “Half of them are in my neighbor’s yard,” Frank replied around a mouthful of crackers. He leaned against the counter, scanning the front page while he crunched noisily. “You see this?”

  “You just brought the paper in.”

  Frank held it up and Mick glanced at the headline.

  “The Professor, huh?”

  “Yeah, he’s made the big time. Bastard has a name now. I’m sure he’s rejoicing, wherever the asshole is.”

  “Damn. If the TV people use it on the news tonight, we’ll be stuck with it. Anything interesting in the article?”

  “Let’s see…rehash of the press conference. Wasn’t that fun? Here we go, unnamed sources…believe he’s a professor at one of the local colleges. Is that official now?” Frank looked up, an amused expression on his face. “Where do they get this stuff?”

  “Did Terri Blankenship write the article?”

  Frank glanced at the paper. “How’d you know?”

  “Rumor has it Andersen’s sleeping with her.”

  “Ouch. Talk about sleeping with the enemy.”

  “No kidding. I wonder what else he’s leaking to her. And don’t even say what you’re thinking.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Frank dropped the newspaper on the counter. “How do you want to tackle the car?”

  “All we have are reports of a coupe or sports car and a big engine. No one actually got a real description.” Mick’s fingers tried to smooth the tension from his forehead. He’d had a headache for days. He propped his elbows on the table, thumbs at the hinge of his jaw, fingers cradling his head. Their one clue was turning into a grain of sand on a wide Carolina beach.

  Frank wandered into the dining room and peered over Mick’s shoulder.

  He angled the screen so Frank could see the information. “Let’s see how many we can get rid of. If we ignore the generic Chevy and Ford four-door sedans, that cuts it nearly in half.”

  “Get rid of all the trucks too,” the other agent suggested.

  Mick further narrowed the list by excluding the foreign cars. He paged through the remaining records. “Corvettes didn’t have big enough trunks to conceal a body.”

  “Thunderbirds were clubby boats by then,” Frank said. “They had big engines, but they weren’t cool enough for our guy to be driving one now.”

  “The clerk did say it was a coupe.”

  “You were what in the eighties? Two? Three? I was in college. I can’t believe that was thirty years ago.” Frowning, Frank drummed his fingers on the table. “What were the tough guys driving?”

  “British cars were hot when I was in high school.” Mick stretched, remembering a time that seemed so simple in retrospect. “Old Triumphs and MGs. Jeeps and Blazers were big. Lots of four-by-fours. As far as domestics went, we’re talking Mustangs, Camaros or Trans Ams.”

  “They’ve been around a long time. Seems like they were big when I was in high school too.”

  There were thousands of them. He cursed the mild South Carolina climate that didn’t turn cars into rusting hulks, eaten away by salt like the cars of the Northeast and Midwest. They’d have to find and investigate the owners of each car.

  Frank hung over his shoulder. “It would help if they’d included the exterior color.”

  Mick’s attention caught on the Vehicle Identification Number. “The manufacturer would have everything—including the original body color and interior package. Clark said the fibers were old. They could be the original carpets.”

  “Good idea,” his partner nodded. “It’s possible he repainted the car, but we can at least start with the shorter list.”

  Mick’s fingers danced over the keys, sorting the remaining cars by maker, then model, and sent each manufacturer the relevant VIN list, requesting specifications. As much publicity as this case had generated, he knew he’d have no trouble getting the information.

  The message list refreshed with the outgoing requests, and the incoming message tone sounded.

  “That was quick.”

  “‘File received’ confirmations,” Mick said. He pointed at the screen. “Who’s Kevin Rynd?” The message subject line read, “Investigation.”

  “Agnes Scott address. Did we talk to him when we interviewed people at the college after Baldwin’s murder?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mick opened the message.

  Miss Geiger—Emily, since I have been intimate with her—is not young and beautiful any longer. Such is the cost of war. Soldiers die, women break. She is not the first, nor will she be the last.

  What the hell was this?

  Emily foolishly believed in her own abilities. Women have neither the strength of mind nor body to compete with men. Soon they will recognize this and return to their subservient position—the one they have held throughout history as man’s property and indulgence.

  “My God,” he murmured. “Read this.”

  He turned the laptop so Frank could see the screen. “The asshole’s sending me e-mail now.”

  At the end, Emily’s struggles were pathetic, but her fear, her terror, was very real.

  Anger clamped Mick’s jaw like a vise. The contemptuous basta
rd.

  You understand the exhilaration of wielding authority over others.

  What? Was this scumbag trying to draw a comparison with what the police did?

  But you can’t imagine the bliss, the rapture, of holding the scales of life itself. Will Emily die today? Or tomorrow? Or should I show mercy to the vanquished? Why should I? Emily signed her own fate when she haughtily assumed random, genetically provided features afforded her special compensations.

  What about the next one? Shall she die, as well? It is not her decision. It is up to you. It will be on your conscience, not mine.

  Don’t lay that on me, you asshole. Even as he rejected it, Mick felt the taunt hit home.

  How confident are you of your abilities? You stand at the fringes of my battles, my successes, looking manly and proud, but we know it is a charade. You follow my lead, waiting for any bread crumbs I deign to throw your way. I have the upper hand—and I’m laughing at you.

  “Jesus,” Frank said.

  “Amen,” Mick answered.

  KILL TO INHERIT

  by Nolan Radke

  KILL TO INHERIT

  MAIN MENU

  Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

  Prologue (Same for each book): Enter the Ghost

  Sam Riley pulled off the narrow dirt road and stopped the borrowed police cruiser on the edge of the ditch. Opening the door, he adjusted the small Colt .380 in the holster under his left arm and glanced at the badge clipped to his belt. The sun caught the window glass on the door of the new 1929 Durant, flashing the light across Riley’s face. He ducked his head slightly to let the Fedora block the glare and then stepped out onto the packed soil. Sucking in a breath of cold air, Riley scanned the tree line back to the driveway he had passed.

  From Washington to Washington was a long train trip. He’d borrowed the police cruiser in Seattle to drive out to the Fonck mansion in the foothills of nowhere. He wasn’t expected company, and he didn’t expect a warm welcome. Especially once he started asking his questions. He tugged at the long gray overcoat he wore, straightening it out, allowing easy access to his gun, then started up the driveway.

  Wind blew the branches and they rattled a little. Most of the leaves had fallen, yet so many trees were evergreens that he couldn’t see the house. When it finally came into view, it shocked him. It was bigger than anything back East. He shook his head, knowing that there wasn’t anyone around for many miles and that a lot of work would have gone into a home this size. Four cars were parked in front of the house, all Fords. The grass near the house had been cut short and a large barn could be seen out back.

  He was still taking in the big picture when the front door opened and a man stepped outside, a rifle cradled across his left arm. He stood in the shade of the porch and didn’t appear much more than a shadow.

  “Good evening.” Riley called out.

  The man nodded.

  “I’m looking for Mister Fonck.”

  “Which one?”

  Riley heard a window open and looked up. A rifle barrel parted the curtain and then steadied on him. “I’d like to talk to Pierre.”

  The man shifted a little and his rifle leveled off, pointing directly at him. “I’m Pierre.” He nodded at Riley. “Who are you?”

  Riley pushed his hat up a little as he thought of the best reply, and when he decided on one, he answered, “FBI.”

  He was staring at Pierre when he spoke and from the corner of his eye he saw a flash of light from the rifle protruding from the window. Instantly he was struck in the head with a sledgehammer-like force. Lights exploded in his vision, followed by darkness.

  Riley opened his eyes and blinked. He felt no pain, no discomfort. He looked around in the pitch blackness, but didn’t see anything. There weren’t any lights. Nothing. No sun, no moon, or stars. There were no sounds either. Not even the background noise of wind. Riley concluded that he must be in a cellar and reached out with his hand. He swung it gently around trying to find something. He touched his fedora, but other than his hat, there was nothing within his reach. He felt panic rise in his chest. Was he blind? Deaf? He sat up, reaching farther out and still not finding anything.

  He reached farther and farther into the darkness. Still nothing. He reached out with a foot, then moved upright. Suddenly he was seeing stars through the outlines of branches. He scanned the area around him. The bushes. Water dripping from branches. Soggy soil.

  Chest deep in the ground? Why was that?

  Riley lunged forward and rolled over, pulling the rest of his body from the earth. He scrambled to his feet and glanced back. There was no sign of a hole or disturbed dirt. His clothes were clean.

  He shivered, but not because he was cold. In fact, he couldn’t feel a thing. Habitually he reached for his gun and found it, then realized the badge was missing. For a long time he stood staring at the ground from where he had crawled. Then the rain came as if to answer a question that he was afraid to ask. The rain came and the droplets fell, but Riley didn’t feel them. They passed through him and hit the ground.

  The spot of soil that mesmerized him, hid his body. He was certain of that. There was one other thing Riley was certain of—he wouldn’t rest until he found his killer.

  1

  Chase Bowden stood on the wood porch of the ancient white house and knocked without ever touching the door. No one was expected to answer his silent beckoning and he took the time to look around. He was on the outskirts of Issaquah, Washington, but he felt like he was miles from nowhere.

  He scanned the edge of the trees for any movement and then glanced down the long driveway. Nothing moved except the driving rain. Fifteen minutes had passed since the red Corvette convertible had sped away from the house.

  He pulled a soggy pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and crammed them onto his hands, then flexed his fingers to loosen the fit. From his pocket he pulled out his lock-picks and took one last look around, then knelt in front of the lock. The cold wind bit through his wet clothes and he shivered. He shook his head in disgust as the pick fell off the tumbler and he had to start again. Two minutes later the lock was defeated, and he slowly opened the door.

  Water dripped from the sleeves of his coat onto the doormat. He listened for any sound that might betray another person’s presence. The sound of the falling rain, pattering in the mud and bouncing off the roof, covered the sound of the door as he closed and locked it behind him. The interior of the house was lit only by the ambient daylight. He decided that it was enough and left the small flashlight in his pocket.

  Old portraits, some in black and white, hung on the wall. On his right were stairs leading up to the bedrooms. Underneath the stairs was a closet door and next to it a door for a half-bath, but he wasn’t interested in this. He wanted to find the study. Now that he was in, he didn’t know how much time he had. Padding through the house, he passed the kitchen and dining room, another bathroom, and down a small hallway to an open door. He glanced in and saw a large oak desk. The study. As he stepped inside, he scanned the walls for the painting he’d been sent to retrieve.

  A bookcase covered the entire wall behind the desk. The wall on the south side contained two large windows, and the other wall held a dozen paintings. None were the size he was looking for. A blank spot on the fourth wall showed where the painting had hung.

  He exhaled and his head dropped to his chest. Three days of vigilant surveillance, wasted. Three days standing in the rain, soaked and shivering. Wasted! He looked at the huge desk and wondered if the eccentric old man had left anything that might hold something of value to his client.

  As he stepped towards the desk, he saw a shag of sandy blond hair on the floor. He jumped back and thrust his hand under his jacket, jerking his Glock free of the holster. Three swift steps carried him to the other side of the desk, and he brought the gun up to eye level as the hidden person came into view. Then he lowered his gun. No threat here.

  The large bloodstain between
the man’s shoulder blades showed the cause of death. Bowden knelt beside him and took a closer look at the two-inch gash in the back of the dead man’s coat. A puncture wound caused by a large knife.

  Chase Bowden swallowed and glanced back at the doorway. Was the murderer still here? The house was supposed to be empty, and this man wasn’t supposed to be here, dead or alive.

  His thoughts raced back to the man who had left in the Corvette. He wasn’t carrying anything. Had he stumbled onto the same scene, or had he committed the murder? Bowden didn’t know. He daren’t touch the body to feel the temperature. This guy lived long enough after he was stabbed to lose a lot blood. He hadn’t died instantly, and the blood still looked wet.

  The guy in the Corvette just became a murder suspect. But he didn’t have the painting with him. So someone else had swiped that.

  Glancing at his watch, Chase rose to his feet. His time was up. He couldn’t afford to be caught burglarizing a house, especially one that contained a dead man. He walked out of the room and down the hallway.

  A movement caught his attention. Someone was outside, running away. He burst through the back door just in time to see a man disappear into the woods at the rear of the house. Slamming the door shut, he sprinted after him.

  He jumped into the tree line carrying the Glock in his right hand. The fleeing subject could be seen a couple of dozen yards ahead, ducking around the fir trees. A slate gray trench coat billowed out behind him, and a gray fedora covered his head.

  Bowden smashed through some dead branches and scrambled through a bunch of Oregon grapes. The sharp pointed leaves scratched him through his khakis. He ran on, trying to keep the other man in sight, using his left hand to knock branches out of the way. Each branch he touched showered water onto him. His hair soon lay plastered to his head, while his clothes soaked up the water.

  He was running all out, closing in on the fleeing man, darting in between the trees, twisting and turning. He leapt over a log and landed on the soggy soil, his left foot sliding in the mud, shooting out from under him. He landed on his chest, holding the Glock high to keep it free of soil, while he slid about three feet. Mud splashed against his face and into his eyes. When he stopped sliding, he pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. His quarry was gone.