Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  Kindred Killers

  A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

  Gary Starta

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 1

  “Hey, how about this new barmaid, Jay? She flick your Bic?”

  Private Investigator Jay Fishburne stared down at the wooden bar table; his wooden reflection stared back, enveloping him in a filmy coat of polish. Aware the banter was just talk, he hoped like hell the barmaid Denise wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. Yes, she did ‘flick his Bic’. She had a full chest, skinny waist and a nice firm butt. But Jay had never dared to look into her eyes to see if the twenty something beauty felt any attraction for him. He also didn’t want to strike up a relationship with someone this way: over cheap talk at a dive. And if she was listening, well the talk was just bullshit—just like it was in every tavern and pub in the city. He was sure she would dismiss it as that. That’s all it ever was between the two friends—Jay and his old friend Sid. Just talk. Just bullshit. Besides, Jay already had a girl.

  For several years, Jay and his police sergeant buddy, Sid Auerbach, had enjoyed the quiet, dark confines of Brian’s Bar several evenings a week. Sid always said it relieved tension, at least that was how he justified it to his wife, Nancy. For Jay, the bar and eatery, located just one block from Boston’s police headquarters, allowed him to keep in touch with his old high school friend, and keep his finger on the pulse, so to speak. He’d dreamt of being a police officer since his teens, but being judged by his height dashed his hopes. Turning to private investigation, Jay made a living, but his cases never made him feel important. Talking to Sid, a member of the force, somehow validated his worth as an investigator, albeit a private one.

  “You haven’t answered my question.” Sid wore a facetious grin, as he reached for a nut from a complimentary bowl. There was another long moment of silence between them. The Tom Petty song Last Dance with Mary Jane filled the void; it was about the urge to leave an old life.

  “I think,” Jay said, “the song says it all.” He placed the palms of his hands upward, imitating a priest.

  “What? You think it’s too late? Maybe if you stopped screwing hookers you’d find out a real woman could really be interested in you.”

  Jay’s eyes flashed a warning to Sid; he had crossed a line. The joke had offended Jay. Sid’s point was truly ironic. If only Lucy the hooker would accept his help. And if he could change her, then surely his dream of marrying her would follow. His frustration surfaced. He said, “Hey, for the record, it’s just one hooker. And Lucy is someone I feel will eventually come around.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Sid paused to order a refill. Denise nodded at him, her eyes full of possibilities.

  “Oh, to be young,” Sid told Jay, once Denise was out of earshot.

  “Young has nothing to do with anything for me,” Jay muttered.

  Sid’s eyes begged for an explanation.

  “The reason I hooked up with Lucy is that it’s honest. We both knew what we wanted going in. I didn’t have to play games to get what I wanted.”

  “And you have what you wanted?”

  “For now, Sid.” He smiled. “It’s just that when I’m at a public place and I find myself wanting to look into some chick’s eyes, I don’t have to feel sickened by my desires. If she happens to not be interested, and I end up holding a glance too long, I don’t feel like some kind of degenerate pervert—or worse some aging geezer trying to rob the cradle.” Jay’s smile disappeared.

  “But paying for sex,” Sid waved a mozzarella stick in his right hand, “that doesn’t cheapen the mood for you? And you can feel good about that?”

  “Okay, I’ve had my full of your wiseass wisdom for one night.” Jay shifted in his seat, as if to leave.

  “No, come on, buddy. Don’t go. I’m . . . sorry . . .”

  Jay eased back onto the barstool. Then, he leaned forward and whispered to Sid.

  “So—you wouldn’t make any trouble for her, would you?”

  Jay wondered if Sid’s interest in his love life was more professional than personal. Was his buddy just trying to rattle his cage?

  “What? Bust her? Nah, no way, José.” He sipped his drink and when he finished he added, “It would be hypocritical, anyways. I know guys on the force who engage in some questionable activities—off duty, of course. But, if I were to see an illegal activity while on the clock I suppose I would be forced to follow protocol . . . ”

  Jay punched Sid in his arm. “I don’t know why I let your bullshit still get to me. You’ve always been the kidder.” Jay polished off his non-alcoholic beer. “You know, I can still remember that impersonation you did back in the day. Now what was it?” He held his glass up to his forehead as if it could summon memories. “Ah, yes. The gangster guy, you did him so deadpan it always killed me.”

  Sid furrowed his red brows. They matched the bright orange redness of his hair. The shocking coloring often kept people from dwelling on a slight indentation in his forehead, about a half-inch above his left eye. It stood out to him now, but Jay had never pried. He did not know how Sid got the scar. Jay couldn’t remember it happening in school. He concluded Sid must have gotten into a tussle with a perp as a cop.

  Jay would only go so far to encourage Sid to talk about his cases. As an offering, Jay freely talked about his investigations and personal life, even divulging names—like Lucy’s—if that even was her real name.

  “I don’t remember any impersonations,” Sid replied tersely. “You think I got my stripes by being some wiseass, some kind of joker?” Jay paused, searching his friend’s eyes. Is he pulling my leg again? Jay pondered. The PI didn’t recognize the steel cold look in Sid’s eyes. Maybe Jay had finally connected. Score one for the schmuck private eye. He had finally struck a sensitive nerve with his childhood friend, putting him on the defensive for once.

  Jay felt relief when Captain James Eldridge passed by their table. It was a good distraction.

  “Hey Captain.” Sid saluted his superior with his glass.

  Captain Eldridge, interrupted from his destination, turned to peruse Jay. He acknowledged Sid’s hello with his eyes only, the rest of his face was taut, grimacing.

  After the Captain disappeared from view, Jay mumbled, “Nice to see you, too . . . ”

  “Ah, don’t take it so hard, Jay.” Now the sergeant sounded like his old self, the childhood pal—quick to trade barbs but also able to comfort when feelings had been hurt.

  “He hates me, doesn’t he? What did I ever do to him?”

  “The Captain is afraid our conversations might get too personal. He is so afraid,” Sid made quotation marks with his hands, “that someone might glean an important department secret. If you ask me, there are no important department secrets, at least not regarding me anyways . . . ”

  “How can you say that?” Now it was Jay’s turn to come charging in to save his friend’s feelings. “You are a sergeant. One of Boston’s finest. You garner respect.”
/>   Jay saw doubt in his friend’s stare.

  “Hey,” Jay punched Sid’s arm, “I mean it, no crap. Shit, I wouldn’t dream of ever getting you into hot water.”

  Sid’s eyes misted. He looked away, but not in time. Jay equated the tears as guilt for giving him a hard time about his hooker girlfriend. The guy was a true blue friend, always there for him, never fading into the distance like other childhood buddies who only sent cards at Christmastime.

  “So you really think you can change this broad, huh?”

  Jay nodded.

  “Well, I wish the both of you the best of luck in the world.” He raised his brandy glass to toast him.

  In an uncomfortable moment of silence, Jacob Dylan’s throaty vocals play over the loudspeakers.

  “I’ve always wanted to make a difference, Sid. I know investigating deadbeat dads, insurance fraud and adultery cases isn’t going to fix anything. It’s just uncovering what people try to avoid seeing, admitting. It exposes the problem but doesn’t solve it. With Lucy, I think I have a chance to help, that’s all. Its fuckin’ silly, I know. Probably some shrink would say it reeks of juvenile arrogance. But . . . ”

  “ . . . It is what we do,” Sid finished his sentence.

  They both stared at their drinks, as if an answer might appear there.

  “Don’t think any less of yourself,” Sid said, “just because you work privately. Hell, I think you’re a better investigator than half my squad. So dare to ride your white charger, my friend.

  “Now, let’s get things straight about me. You think my job is filled with glory. Most of the time I’m handholding, keeping the newbies in line. Then if I get lucky, I get called to a scene where my wits and my gun just might save a life. But those occasions are rare. And lately, the department doesn’t seem to trust my judgment. At least not in hostage situations . . . I can’t remember the last time I shielded myself against a patrol car, pleading with some wacko holding a girlfriend or wife inside a house and threatening to spray bullets all over the place. Yeah, the good old days.” Sid punctuated the moment by downing the last of his drink.

  Jay wondered if he was being facetious again. He suspected Sid was still upset about failing the detective exam. His silence forced Sid to continue.

  “Usually those situations are handled by a S.W.A.T. team, Jay, which means my ass is somewhere far away from the fray, waiting to enter a house after a team of frickin’ knights in armor knock down the front door and nullify the threat. Nope, I’m not up for any citations. Hell, no.

  “But that Detective Carter, now he’s one lucky son of a bitch. He works with crime scene investigators, has all those fancy thingamajigs at his disposal. He makes the arrest because his officers bring him indisputable evidence. Most of my perps end up walking because some fancy ass lawyer convinces a judge my findings are nothing but circumstantial. Yeah, I find a fucking needle on a floor and just because the junkie’s system is tested clean, he’s free to go. Free to sell more smack to kids because even if he wasn’t using he’s still selling death to children. Look,” Sid said, staring at his hands, “Now I’ve got myself in a frickin’ frenzy—my hands are shaking—even after two shots of brandy.”

  Jay smiled and clapped his arm around Sid’s shoulders.

  “What about those talks you give at schools? You’re a presence, man. You might stop a few of these kids from buying what these assholes are selling.”

  “Might. Might not.” Sid stared ahead at nothing in particular, tight-lipped. His hands gripped his glass tightly. Jay was grateful it was empty.

  “Why don’t I settle up?” he said.

  “Nah. I’ll get it this time. Besides, I need to dry out a bit.”

  “Well, if you don’t dry out, then get your ass in a cab.”

  “Hey, I’m the cop here . . . ”

  The sound system played Death Cab For Cutie performing I Will Possess Your Heart. It was about a man stalking the woman of his dreams.

  Jay slapped him on the back. “Same time, same bat channel?”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, Jay. Have a good one.”

  As Jay left for his rendezvous with Lucy, Sid continued to stare ahead into a mirror until interrupted by Denise.

  “Hey, Cowboy, you look like you just lost your last friend.”

  He nodded. “Very observant; you would make a good cop.”

  “I got a minute.” She winked at him.

  Sid waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want to bother you with this…nonsense, but my friend thinks he can change a whore. Pardon my French. I know better, thanks to my job.”

  “So you think he should back off before she sees him as some kind of a stalker?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Love is a funny thing. There’s no one size fits all kind of answer. But if I had a guy pursuing me, showing real concern for my welfare; I might like it.”

  Sid smiled sheepishly. “You might, huh?”

  ***

  A song boosted Jay’s spirits as he wound his car along a dark Boston street to pick up Lucy. Sting sang the Police hit, Invisible Sun on his HD radio. He even felt good enough to drum his fingers along the dashboard.

  A minute passed. And there she was: His angel. A neon light glowed behind her, enveloping her in an eclipse. He imagined her happy to see him, but when she came out of the shadows she was not smiling. Her eyes were twinkling, though. Her boots clapped heavily along the concrete walkway.

  “Hi, Sugarman,” she called to him.

  He wished she wouldn’t. They had been what he deemed dating for a few weeks now. She should be on a first name basis with him by now. He greeted her, one eye on her, one eye in the rearview mirror. She got in and fluffed her hair.

  “When are you going to call me Jay, Lucy?” he asked, steering the car away from the curb.

  “You keep on paying. I’ll call you anything you want.”

  He braked the car at a red light.

  “This isn’t just about money and you know it.”

  His forceful tone surprised even him.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. Didn’t mean to spook you.”

  Her eyes fell on her passenger side window. Lucy didn’t seem to be looking at anything. He realized she was avoiding him—or maybe thinking about her last hookup.

  “Hey, I missed you so much today.” Lucy turned her head away from the window. She stopped chewing her gum. It was a sign—a stop sign. Okay. I get the hint. You’re not my date, at least not now.

  The light turned green. He accelerated and they sighed.

  ***

  He opened his apartment door for her, allowing her to enter first: always the gentleman, always the same act.

  She had wondered what this Jay was up to. He told her after their third time together he worked as a private eye. He had assured her this pleasure had nothing to do with his business. She had relaxed her guard a bit. She had coffee with him afterwards. She didn’t want to kill the cash cow, but she didn’t want to keep encouraging his emotions either.

  She said the same thing to him every time before they started. Tonight was no different. No kissing. Just fucking. She initiated things the same way, she rode on top of him, but in a squat style she knew Jay had never experienced before tonight. She talked to him like any other client. “Yeah, baby. You like that. Only working girls know how to ride our cowboys this way.”

  She suddenly found his hands wrapped around her wrists. Her face crinkled. Her mouth opened as if to issue a warning.

  He removed one hand and put his index finger over her lips.

  “Shush . . . I’m not going to violate any of your rules, Lucy. I just don’t want you talking that way about yourself.”

  “Fuck, I talk about myself that fucking way, every fucking minute, every fucking hour, every fucking day of my life.”

  His face reddened a shade.

  She stopped talking, went back to doing her work.

  They screwed in silence.

&nb
sp; When it was over, she sat at his desk, checking her makeup in a mirror. He was still on the bed, but seated, not resting in a horizontal position like most of the men she had satisfied. She eyed him in the mirror pretending to be consumed by her task. She noticed his hands were clasped together. Shit, what kind of guy feels a need to assume a praying position after getting his brains fucked out? She heard him clear his throat. Uh, oh. Here it comes…the sermon.

  “You ever heard the phrase: God helps those who help themselves?” Jay spoke in a manner which reminded Lucy of those bible thumping people that used to visit her neighborhood on Saturdays.

  Lucy paused. She held her lipstick in front of her and it reflected back upon from the mirror as if a candle. “I’m not so sure that’s the correct phrase, but yeah, sure? What, you don’t think I’m ‘helping’ myself?”

  “Helping yourself is not all about the material. It’s about the spiritual.” Jay said. He unclasped his hands and spread his arms angel-like.

  “You can’t make me see the light, Sugarman.”

  “I don’t just want you to believe in a higher power. I want you to believe in yourself. What I said about helping yourself can be achieved by most. Sometimes, others need a little push. I am here to give you that push. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

  “You’ve told me this many times.”

  “It seems you haven’t digested what I’ve said. I am here to help you.” Jay annunciated the last sentence in slow, staccato bursts. “Maybe guys have told this before. I can understand that. I also empathize with your anger.”

  “Don’t try to turn the tables. I know you’re the one who’s angry. Ha! You just got laid and all you wallow in is anger. Maybe you’re the one who needs some help.” It was met with silence.

  She resumed her regimen, running a comb through her hair. Her eyes lingered a moment, staring back at Jay through the glass. It was a very personal act for her—grooming her hair in front of a client—and to share her views on life was even more intimate. Usually, Lucy wore a strawberry blond wig for her clients, but Jay liked everything au natural—even the hair color. Usually, Lucy just shut her mouth and spread her legs. But Jay was different, he did have an effect on Lucy, she couldn’t deny it. Yet she wouldn’t admit it to him, so to save face she painted a nasty portrait of her life. “Think of me as a vampire,” she finally continued. “I’ve been turned. Whether or not I chose this lot means little. I am what I am—now.” She stopped brushing, and caught his gaze in the mirror once again. She bit her lower lip, reflecting another few seconds before she resumed talking. She was onto Jay’s game. He was not going to be confrontational. He was not going to take her bait and yell at her like every other man she had ever known. He was going to sit there like a fucking psychiatrist, letting her explain her fucking feelings to him. Okay. I’ll play your game.