Dead to Me
Page 1
Dead to Me
Five Mystery Short Stories
Dean Wesley Smith
Contents
Introduction
The Case of the Pleasant Hills Murder
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Make Myself Just One More
Introduction
Make Myself Just One More
Husband Dummies
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
An Obscene Crime Against Passion
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Two Roads, No Choices
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Dean Wesley Smith
About the Author
Introduction
DEAD TO ME
I love mystery stories. Always have, since my earliest reading days. And from the early days of television in my childhood, my favorite shows were Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Twilight Zone.
So I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise that when I went to put this collection of mystery stories together, I had a lot of mystery stories to pick from. And a number of them twisted slightly into science fiction in a Twilight Zone way.
I thought putting this collection together would be more difficult, but I was surprised. I guess I tend to write more mystery short stories than I thought I did.
A great thing to discover for any writer.
So for this first mystery collection, I decided I wanted a sampling of a few of my series. And I wanted each story in some way to reflect the title of the collection as well.
I also wanted this collection to show how my mystery stories often range both solidly inside the normal mystery world and also a pretty good distance outside the norms.
I think these five stories show that range pretty well.
* * *
The Case of the Pleasant Hills Murder
To start off with, I write an ongoing mystery series called The Cold Poker Gang mysteries. Basically, that’s a group of retired Las Vegas Detectives who meet and work on cold cases.
The novels always end up twisted and great fun. At least fun for me to write. So I thought for this first mystery collection, I should start off with “The Case of the Pleasant Hills Murder.” This story was one of the first Cold Poker Gang stories I wrote, so it would make sense to start here with it.
It first appeared in Smith’s Monthly #3.
* * *
Make Myself Just One More
Just over a year ago, I started a new series called the Mary Jo Assassin series. Unlike the numbers of novels in the Cold Poker Gang, Mary Jo Assassin so far only has one novel and a number of short stories to her name. But I hope to have more shortly.
The story in this volume, “Make Myself Just One More” is the first Mary Jo Assassin story I ever wrote.
* * *
Husband Dummies
I originally sold this story to a traditional anthology back in the nineties. The story is a strange mystery twist on an old movie. I always thought the story fun, although strange.
But the movie was even stranger. Sadly, you have to be of a certain age to remember the movie.
* * *
An Obscene Crime Against Passion
This story has a mystery combined with science fiction twist, which a number of my stories tend to do. But the story works more as a metaphor story, which is why I included it in my Bryant Street series of stories.
Bryant Street stories are sort of Twilight Zone stories set in a suburb.
Very twisted.
* * *
Two Roads, No Choices
The anchor story in this collection was written for a Sherlock Holmes anthology back in the 1990s called Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, edited by Mike Resnick and Marin H. Greenberg, with permission of the Doyle estate.
Again, this story has a science fiction twist on the mystery and involves the Titanic. It was great fun writing the great detective. I certainly gave him something to think about.
* * *
I sure hope you enjoy the stories in this volume as much as I did writing them and then combining them here as a group.
* * *
Thanks for reading.
* * *
—Dean Wesley Smith
January 29, 2017
Lincoln City, Oregon
USA Today bestselling writer Dean Wesley Smith mentioned the Cold Poker Gang in his acclaimed thriller Dead Money.
* * *
Now he introduces us for the first time to Retired-Detective Lott and the rest of the retired Las Vegas detectives who play poker, solve cold cases, and call themselves the Cold Poker Gang.
* * *
They solve cases every week, but this case becomes very personal for Retired-Detective Lott. More so than any cold case he and the Gang ever tackled before. And as with most cold cases, solutions do not come easy. And answers tend not to be what anyone hoped.
One
January, 1992
Pleasant Hills
Las Vegas, Nevada
* * *
THE AFTERNOON FELT DARK and gloomy, the wind kicking a chill through Nesto Poretz’s gloved hands and light jacket as he expertly dug at the soft soil along the ridgeline with his backhoe, taking large shovelfuls of dirt quickly to one side and dumping them on a pile, then returning the big shovel for another in almost a seamless movement.
The sound of the engine a constant rumbling to him, something he was used to after all the years. Something that he sometimes missed at night, when his apartment was quiet, the kids asleep.
He loved the simple noise of a working machine. There was nothing better.
The sky was cloudy and threatening, coloring everything in the normally brown desert a dull gunmetal gray. Nesto’s job, before it got dark, was to get as much of the foundation dug out for this new house as he could. He wouldn’t get it all done, but enough to keep his boss happy.
Danny, a tall thin white kid stood beside the hole Nesto was digging, leaning against his shovel. Danny had far too much attitude and thought himself too good to be working this kind of job. He considered himself a real catch for any woman and loved to brag about his conquests, most of which Nesto was sure were completely made up.
For some reason the boss had hired the idiot and had assigned him to Nesto three days ago. As far as Nesto was concerned, letting Danny stand and lean on his shovel was the best place for the kid. That way he didn’t screw anything up.
Nesto dumped a shovelful and swung the shovel back over the hole when suddenly Danny shouted “Stop!”
Danny ignored the hand-signals Nesto had taught him and jumped down off the edge into the hole.
Nesto got the bucket stopped just in time, shaking his head and wondering if he would have just done the world a favor not getting the bucket stopped in time. But then he would have had to live with Danny’s death and that kid just wasn’t worth it.
Most of the time the kid wasn’t worth the air he was breathing.
The hole was only about four feet deep where Danny had jumped down and then bent over, so Nesto couldn’t see him.
Suddenly Danny scrambled up the bank and out of the hole faster than if some woman was chasing him for child support. He ran about ten steps, then bent over and threw up.
Nesto watched him for a moment from his seat on the rumbling backhoe, then put the machine in reverse and backed away from the edge and shut the engine down.
The silence swarmed over him like a blanket as
he climbed down. The cold wind tried to push him back from the foundation hole he had been digging, but he moved over and around to get a better look at what had caused Danny to lose his far-too-expensive lunch.
In his ten years working backhoe, Nesto had dug up a lot of things. Some not so pleasant.
From the looks of how Danny stood, his hands on his knees, shaking his head, this was going to be one of those times.
Nesto moved around and then finally, with a deep breath of the cold afternoon air, he looked down into the hole.
A man’s head and left arm were there, sticking out of the dirt.
Most of the guy’s skin was gone, his eyes blank sockets, but the guy’s brown hair still clung in place.
And on the wrist was a fairly new watch.
Gold watch.
Nesto had just found his third body. The two before had been old settler’s skeletons. This one was far from that.
He turned for his truck to call in to dispatch to get the police coming. There was no chance he was finishing this job tomorrow.
More than likely not even next week.
The boss was not going to be happy.
Two
May 2014
Pleasant Hills
Las Vegas, Nevada
* * *
AT SIX-THIRTY, I took two bowls of Lays chips down the half flight of stairs to my poker room. I had had the poker table custom built a year ago and sized it perfectly for the area to the left side of the staircase. It could seat eight, with eight matching brown leather chairs around the table. There was a place at each seat to hold chips and a drink and a comfortable light over the table.
I loved that table and felt at home sitting at it.
I already had the chips in place and an unopened deck of cards sitting on the wet bar beside the table. It was Tuesday night and I was flat excited for another fun night of poker with the gang.
I had decorated the rest of the room in framed posters of different Las Vegas events from the past, including one classic showing Sinatra and Martin. A large couch and two recliners filled one end of the room facing a large screen television.
I had to admit, I had spent far, far too much time in this room since my wife, Connie, died two years ago. That’s why last year I had decided to completely remodel it and make it the perfect place for me to spend time.
I had made the room all mine, and Annie, my daughter, thought that was a great idea. Upstairs, for me, Connie was still there. I didn’t mind that. I thought about her every day and still can’t believe I managed to keep going after she died, But somehow I had, thanks to a lot of help from Annie. Now this basement was my space.
Three of the gang said they would be here tonight for the game. Sometimes we had six or seven on a Tuesday night. Most of the time we ended up with only four.
We called ourselves the “Cold Poker Gang” since we were all retired detectives and every Tuesday we played poker while we sat around and talked about cold cases.
I loved poker and I loved being a detective, so Tuesday night didn’t come fast enough for me every week.
During the week, each of us would take a case and run down leads and bring the results back to the gang. Just as when we were on the force, one would take the lead on each case.
I just couldn’t believe how much I looked forward to the game every week, and especially this week since the case I had lead on for the last month I had finally solved. Together, the gang had solved ten cold cases in just under a year and since we were working for free, that record of closures sure made Benson, the Chief of Detectives, happy.
There was a loud knock at the door just as I sat the chips down on the bar. I glanced at the time.
Someone was very early.
I headed back up and got to the front door as the knock came again.
Retired Detective Andor Williams stood there, a file folder in his hand and a frown on his face. It was Williams’ turn to get a new case from the city for tonight, for me to take lead on. The tradition was Williams would present the case to everyone during the game.
Williams looked the oldest of all of us, with almost no hair, wrinkled face, and sloppy clothes like an old man would wear. At seventy, he was still very spry and walked like he was always late for something.
Just like what had happened to me, Williams had lost his wife two years ago, and at times it seemed to me that the gang and solving cold cases was the only thing Williams went on living for. Both of Williams’ kids lived in California and he seldom talked about them. He spent far more time than anyone working on his assigned case as well as helping others with their cases.
Williams said, “Lott, good seeing you.” Then he handed the file to me, and pushed past. “Figured you needed to see this before we open it to the gang.”
I stared at the file in my hand. It was an official homicide folder of the Las Vegas police, with the words “copy” stamped on both sides.
Normal.
I pushed the door closed and followed Williams to the staircase and back down into the poker room. Williams took his normal seat with his back to the staircase and I took the file and went to the wet bar and opened it, spreading it out on the marble top.
It took a moment for me to finally see what I needed to see and why Williams had brought the case to me early. A murder victim had been found in January 1992 and the case never solved.
“Holy shit!” I said.
“My opinion exactly,” Williams said.
I was so stunned, I didn’t know what else to say.
I just kept staring at the address where they had dug up the vic, not really believing it wasn’t a joke or something. The body in this cold case had been found right here.
“That’s why I brought it over early,” Williams said. “They found the body when they were digging this very basement twenty-two years ago. Go figure, huh? And I can tell by the look on your face no one told you when you bought the house.”
I had nothing I could say.
I had had no idea. And I was pretty darned certain Connie would have never agreed to buy the place if she had known.
This was now one of the strangest cold cases I had ever seen.
Three
May 2014
Henderson
Outside of Las Vegas, Nevada
* * *
I BANGED ON the weathered screen door on the small house, knocking some paint flecks loose. Beside me Williams stood, looking stern and official. Or at least as much as he could with his rumpled suit and unshaven face.
The weather was headed toward the warm side for the day, a promise of the hot summer to come. We were about two blocks off the old Boulder Highway, in a Henderson neighborhood that had seen a far better time in the past. The houses here were small and the yards tiny, built to house casino workers coming in during the first boom in the late 1960s.
The house we were at hadn’t seen a coat of paint in a decade or more and the lawn had long since turned to weeds, only slightly green now because of the wet spring we had had.
I had no idea what we would find, but this was the address we got for the dead guy’s daughter.
“Yeah,” a woman’s voice came from inside the house, then some rustling around and the door opened.
Both of us had our guns unstrapped and ready, just in case. If there was nothing else we had learned over the years, we didn’t go knocking on a door without being ready for anything to come at us.
As the big, paint-peeling door swung open, the stench of uncleaned cat boxes and stale beer hit me, turning my stomach. It was a toxic mix and I hoped like hell she wasn’t going to invite us inside.
Beside me, Williams short of shook his head at the odor, giving a slight cough.
Through the dirty screen on the door, I could see an extremely obese woman in what had been a blue bathrobe that had more stains than color. She had short hair that looked greasy and a tattoo on her neck that was as faded as her bathrobe.
“Detectives Bayard Lott and Andor Williams,” I
said. “We’re looking for Karen Rafferty.”
“You found her,” the woman said. She sounded like she had smoked far, far too many cigarettes in her lifetime as well as eating far, far too much.
The Chief didn’t mind us introducing ourselves as detectives as long as he didn’t hear about it. With our track record of closing cold cases, he was willing to let us drop the “retired” part at times.
Williams and I both flashed our old badges as well to the woman who just looked dazed, more than likely on something even this early in the morning.
“What do you want?” she asked. “That kid of mine get into trouble again?”
“No,” I said, “we’re here about your father, Nixon Rafferty.”
She actually seemed to take a step back from the door and her face twisted up into something so ugly, I couldn’t imagine being around her for more than a few seconds.
She pulled her poor, abused robe even tighter across her large bulk and said in a very cold voice. “I don’t want to ever think of that bastard again. Not ever. He ruined my life and killed my mother and my baby sister.”
With that she slammed the door in our faces, sending paint chips flying into the air around us.
I looked at Williams, who just shrugged.
“More than we expected,” Williams said as we turned away.