Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  Jill furrowed her brows.

  “You said ‘solve’ implying there is a solution to our problem.”

  “We’ll see about that. But right now back to the matter at hand.”

  “Your point, Ms. Seacrest?”

  “I’m going to find Lucy and then I’m going to be Lucy.”

  “And can I list for you about a hundred concerns I have?”

  “Yes, you may, but later. And by the way, you just took a step in the right direction yourself.”

  “How so?”

  “You just admitted that my plan concerns you. Maybe even angers you. You know anger is an emotion humans sometimes use to solve problems. You should try it some time.”

  “I will. Now if I promise to get angry will you tell me what’s wrong with my original plan?”

  “First of all, you can’t trust a vice cop. A vice cop will end up busting Lucy because that’s what they’re paid to do. They won’t care about your sting operation.”

  “Not even if I get angry at them?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll never live this down, will I?”

  Carter mercilessly pressed on.

  “Maybe if I put this anger pact in our wedding vows you’d accept your transfer more graciously?”

  Jill ignored Carter’s barb, casting her eyes sideward and withdrew her hand from his.

  “Do you think if I put my fist in Supervisor Hurley’s face he might behave more graciously? And just so we’re clear—that’s not a rhetorical question.”

  “Okay, truce.”

  “I assume that means you’re approving my undercover assignment?”

  “On the condition that you’re wired and that a van of officers accompanies you—discreetly. I may not be your supervisor but I am lead detective on this case.”

  She extended her hand to Carter.

  “You’ve just made a deal.”

  “Oh no. I would never make a deal with you, Jill. I respect you too much for that. But I will shake your hand.”

  They shook hands and kissed.

  Five minutes later Jill was accessing her iphone to find the nearest Frederick’s of Hollywood. She found the number and connected. When the salesperson answered, she said, “I’m on police business and need an outfit that will turn men’s heads.”

  “Ah yes, madam. We can accommodate you.”

  “That’s good because a girl’s life depends on it.”

  The salesperson responded without a hint of emotion. The voice was singsong in pitch, possibly belonging to a high-pitched man or low-pitched female.

  “Ah, yes. I remember playing sex games back in the day. Don’t worry your outfit will definitely ‘save’ the girl if you know what I mean.”

  Jill muttered under her breath. “Maybe I should have asked Stanford to list his one hundred concerns after all . . . ”

  ***

  The moment he stopped the car and released the wheel Carter could feel the ache in his fingers. He had wrapped them about the wheel so tightly during the drive they were not only stiff but also sore.

  If Jill only really knew, Carter thought stepping out of his vehicle.

  Then she’d really know how hard it is for me to contain my anger . . . He slammed the door shut.

  He was mad, more than that, he was pissed at the Thomases for their obvious deceit, angry that Sherry Thomas let her husband control her, doubly miffed by Darryl Thomas’ suspected abuse of his daughter and whacked out psycho mad at Darryl’s possible involvement in her murder.

  Yet by the time he reached the steps, he opened the chute and was throwing those boxes down it. He could almost hear them slide along the steel ladder they rode upon as they tumbled into the dark, vast expanse of his cerebral junkyard, the gray walled warehouse that had become home to all his worries, fears and addict-like obsessions. The biggest box by far in this junkyard was the one that tried to hold his fear of losing Jill. And even though that fear only related to the aspect of losing Jill as a colleague, and not as a future mate, it still encompassed a large part of the junk pile. He could not only hear, but also feel the other boxes crash and collide with it. It reminded him that all his anxieties about his job and his cases were related. Just because they were in small boxes, it didn’t make those fears and worries any less troublesome. Those boxes showed Carter he had indeed become selfish. He boldly placed his fear over his relationship in a larger crate, giving it more significance, more importance, more attention. And if Jill could see inside this warehouse, she wouldn’t have been so angry. She would see his outward appearance as illusion. The fact was Stanford Carter had nothing under control but the act that made him appear passive at will. He was a magician. Sean Lyons once brought this to the attention of Carter but the stubborn young detective refused to equate the Zen teachings as illusionary trickery. If Carter had listened back then, Lyons would have explained that Zen masters were indeed magicians because they saw life as an illusion. That fear was nothing to be afraid of because it was vacuous. Fear was no more palpable than the vast expanse of Carter’s cerebral warehouse. Basically, life and everything it encompassed was the true illusionist and those who saw it in that light were magicians themselves. They didn’t let the dark scare them. They just let it pass over them; wash over them like harmless rainwater. Carter felt he had failed Lyons and his teachings because he was not able to let the fear or the darkness simply wash over him. Instead, he validated it by putting it into boxes; giving it substance. He sometimes wondered if this pseudo self control was any better than letting emotions rule him. He saw how emotions ruled Jill and he sometimes envied the way she took a hands-on approach to life’s problems. She would never put her problems into boxes. Instead, she would swing a baseball bat at them, chase them down and consequently give them substance out of her unbridled fury. In the end, who might emerge the healthier individual? Carter really did not know the answer and he was not pious or pompous enough to demand Jill follow his lead. Maybe he was a Zen pretender. Maybe he truly couldn’t let the dark wash over him. Maybe someday he would confront all those boxes with a baseball bat. And maybe one day he would lose control and his self in a fit of rage. For now, he would stick to packing his phobias and rage into neat boxes he could deal with at a later time. Because as of now, he was responsible to Jill, and although he believed he was most responsible to his job, he was not. He was really a slave to love. The biggest box in his junk pile was living proof.

  He greeted the Thomas’ at the door, with a cordial ‘hello’ yet flashed his badge.

  “I think we’ve told you all we know about Cheryl’s disappearance,” Darryl said to Carter.

  “What about the fact you hired a private eye to find her?”

  “Look, that was to protect her. We didn’t want the cops involved. So we hired a private eye. No offense, the police would have not only spooked Cheryl farther away from us, they would have degraded her—and our memories of her.”

  “I can understand your motive”—Carter said emphasizing the last word—“but now that she is gone, how would police spook her? And no offense, Mr. Thomas, but I am the police and I can assure you I am not here to degrade Cheryl—in fact, I am here to catch the person that ultimately degraded her. But bottom line Mr. Thomas, I am not questioning why you hired the private eye. I am questioning why you’re covering it up—even now, after Cheryl’s passing.”

  “Again Detective Carter, you’re not a father. You don’t know . . . ”

  “You know what I do know Mr. Thomas? I know that I will be subpoenaing your financial records for the past six months. And do you think I might find a huge cash withdrawal or cashier’s check paid out to a private named Jay Fishburne?”

  “So, what? We had to pay his fees. You know daily fee, expenses . . . ”

  “I think I have a pretty good handle on what it costs to hire a PI. And I think I have an even better handle on what it might cost to hire a killer for hire.”

  “Now you wait a minute . . . Carter . . . ” Spittle flew from Thomas’ mouth. H
is wife Sherry tried to stop him from moving from the threshold of his doorway toward Carter, but he deftly pushed her away, mostly in part with his portly stomach.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Thomas; you won’t be alone. I’ll also be subpoenaing the financial records of Mrs. Collins. You see—Therese Collins also hired Jay to investigate her husband. And we now have a common denominator in the two cases: murder. So if you were trying to protect Jay Fishburne in any way you might want to reconsider. I’m just wondering what he might give up in the interrogation room.”

  “I’m through talking to you, Carter,” Darryl shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at the detective who was walking back towards his vehicle. “I’m getting a lawyer. And then I’m filing charges for police harassment.”

  “Gee,” Carter said, pausing before starting his car, “and I thought you’d be spending all this time in mourning, making arrangements for a glorious funeral so you can honor the beloved child you tell me you tried so hard to protect.”

  ***

  So maybe I bit off more than I could chew, Jill thought, preparing to strut her half naked body through a crowd on Providence Street. She was not in the minority. Others were ‘working’ despite the early hour of day. One black woman even sported a neon blue mane of feathers in the hope of a payday. Desperation made them bold. Jill had briefly been versed on what to expect by a vice cop named Maxine. She didn’t expect to find herself this shocked by her up close and personal tour of duty however. It wasn’t just the brass and crass make up of the girls that disturbed Jill. She expected to see flesh. They were peddling it after all. Huge breasts splaying over skimpy tops, low cut jeans revealing the beginnings of the most perfectly round and sumptuous derrieres men could ever dream of. Stiletto heels accentuating the beauty of one woman’s calf muscle. But what Jill couldn’t fathom came in the form of the she-male, the transgender hooker who mingled among the brightly painted women of these mean streets.

  Female after female rejected Jill’s advances. They didn’t buy her story that she was new in town, looking to hookup with an old gal pal named Lucy. They can smell me. I’m a shark circling in their waters. She felt her breasts pushing up and outward of the black ‘instant attraction dress’ she was wearing. Two skimpy Spaghetti straps dared to hold the whole shebang in place. The clingy black material flattered her hips to the delight of one male pedestrian who whistled.

  The blonde woman in the bandanna gave her Jill a hard look for not responding. “Why aren’t you on that?” she asked Jill who replied with a shrug. The woman was a pretty good interrogator, asking her if she knew the pimp Lucy worked for. A brunette friend of the blonde joined in the interrogation; boisterously pointing a finger at Jill, demanding she produce a badge and state her real name. “We have nothing to hide,” the blonde in the bandanna said, spreading her arms out to encompass the entire block. “You’ve can’t prove shit, you’ve got nothing. Now why don’t you go and return your pretty outfit to Frederick’s and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Hey listen,” Jill said. “I’m only looking for Lucy to help her. I’m not vice, so I’m not looking for a bust.” The girls rolled their eyes. Jill extended her arm to touch the brunette’s shoulder. Cold eyes stabbed at her like daggers from every direction. “Look, I’m a CSI and I’m investigating a man who may harm her. In fact, he may pose a danger to all of you. He’s a customer and he’s a suspect in two murder cases.”

  “Well I’m touched by your concern Miss Guns N’ Roses, but I don’t rat out girls in my posse,” the brunette said, hands on hips.

  Despondent, Jill began to swear at herself. How arrogant she was. She thought she could bond with women who lived in a predatory world full time. They were not going to be easily shaken by stories of a serial killer.

  Jill felt a hand on her shoulder. For an instant, she thought it was Carter’s. She was about to spin a 180 and rip him a new asshole. How dare he follow her! But the male hand on her shoulder was not Carter’s. It belonged to a transgender.

  “Hi, my name is Bobbi,” he said. He wore a red wig. Blue mascara competed for attention with his long fake eyelashes. Jill could only wonder, as her eyes naturally perused his body, what other falsities this man boasted.

  He waited a moment for the blonde and brunette to resume their business. A horn honked and they flocked to it like geese.

  “So, you’re looking for Lucy. Well, you’re not going to find her here. She works on Arlington, not Providence, child.”

  “Uh. Thanks for the tip, Bobbi. Why are you helping me?”

  “I’m not helping you. I’m helping her. I’ve seen her hop into a lot of cars and everyday I think to myself she’s on her last ride. She’s a lot bolder than these girls out here—don’t let their talk fool you—the truth is in the walk sweet mama. You shake a baton at any of these bitches and they’ll scurry faster than a nest of roaches caught in a flashlight. This one, Lucy, she’ll take on any customer. Even one who wore chain male and carried a spiked ball. But I do sense something about you. Something that tells me you truly want to help this woman. And I’m betting this creep you’re talking about hung that Cherry woman on a goal post? Am I right?”

  “We’re investigating that possibility. I’m not at liberty to . . . ”

  “Yes, well you won’t get any static from me if you hang this bastard by his balls. I say string him up and hang him from Paul Revere’s statue. That ought to get the tourists back in the city.” Bobbi paused to laugh. “Don’t take everything I say seriously though, he said, eyes shifting for eavesdroppers. “I’m a lover, not a hater. But do believe my tip. Now go and save Lucy.”

  It didn’t take Jill long to spot Lucy. From the sergeant’s description, she wore long strawberry blond hair, loved the color purple and sashayed with the swagger of Tyra Banks in her prime.

  Jill pretended to look downward as Lucy approached.

  She waited until Lucy’s silhouette graced the same portion of sidewalk she stood on.

  She reached out her hand and tapped Lucy on the shoulder as she sauntered by.

  “Hey,” Jill said,” don’t I know you from high school? You’re Lucy . . . ”

  “If so, what about it?” Lucy answered with a snarl.

  “I didn’t expect to see you out here. You’re looking great . . . ”

  “What, you looking for a teacher? Well, I don’t teach Hooker 101. Find another mentor.”

  “No, wait Lucy. It’s not that. You’ve got to listen to me. You’re in danger. A client of yours may have killed two people. We have good reason to believe your life is in danger.”

  “Well, what the hell are you doing here? Why don’t you just go and arrest the SOB?”

  “Because we don’t quite have all the evidence and it’s imperative that the charges stick. You can help us with our case against him.”

  “Oh, just like that, no strings attached. What’s to say you’re not going to slap a pair of cuffs on me?”

  “Because I don’t work for the drug unit. I’m a criminalist and I investigate homicides for Boston PD.”

  “Well, who is this fool?”

  Jill felt her heart thud. If this woman was going to make a run for it, she might do it now. She might even have an affinity for this Fishburne if what Sgt. Auerbach said was true. She formed the code word for help in her mind. One wrong move by Lucy, and Jill was going to scream it into the mike that she hid in her metal push up bra. She made a promise to Carter. Call for backup. Don’t be a hero. Stay alive for our wedding. Carter’s words rang in her ears. What might Lucy do for Fishburne if her cold exterior was any indication of her strength? Did she carry a weapon for protection—mace spray, a knife?

  But when the name of Jay Fishburne fell from Jill’s lips, the CSI could tell without a doubt that Lucy was mortified by shock.

  “He’s a puppy dog. He wants to help me get off the streets. He’s a good man, really.” It seemed to Jill she was embarrassed to admit this. Her face blushed and softened. It was as if this woman was adm
itting a truth to herself. When she noticed a passerby listening, Lucy said, “He hasn’t harmed a fly. I think you’re hunting the wrong man.”

  “No, I’m afraid not, Lucy. The last two people Fishburne investigated were murdered. It’s hard to believe it’s not a coincidence. Jay might even be a killer for hire. If he is, he might have put on an act to fool you.”

  “To fool me,” Lucy stammered. “To fool me for what gain?” Her face was contorted in a mix of confusion and frustration.

  “So you can do what you’re doing right now, vouching for his character.”

  “Okay, so say I believe you. What’s next?”

  “Let us take you into protective custody.”

  “No can do.” Lucy waggled her right hand at Jill. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Okay, then how about you join us on our stakeout?” Jill envisioned the shock on Carter’s face for suggesting such an idea. I guess I really am connected to him . . .

  Lucy interrupted Jill’s revelry.

  “I might be okay with that. I’ll stay long enough to see that Jay isn’t your man. He’ll prove you wrong, you’ll see.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” Jill recalled her last conversation with Carter. He had said he would never make a deal with her. Jill realized a deal was just civilized trickery in Carter’s eyes.

  “No, Lucy. I didn’t mean that.”

  “Say what?” Lucy said, eyes rolling. “You bitch . . . ”

  “No, what I meant is that I’ll protect you. I promise.”

  Lucy nodded, clearly taken aback and put on guard by Jill’s riddles.

  It was then that she saw under Lucy’s strawberry blonde wig. A strand of copper hair glistened in the sunshine.

  When Lucy was secured in the van, Jill excused herself to make a call.

  She reached Carter’s cell phone. He was driving back to Boston from Methuen.

  “Stanford, you won’t believe this.”

  “Try me,” Carter said.

  “Lucy’s hair is long and copper.”

  Chapter 15

  The oldest trick in the book, Jill thought. I wonder just how street savvy Lucy really is. Will she really let me have a sample of her DNA through simple trickery?