“Dan, you haven’t hurt anybody yet. Let’s keep it that way.”
Murphy frowned. “Haven’t hurt anybody? What’s that supposed to mean? What about that scumbag Garrison Franco? Wasn’t he anybody? What about that other scumbag Ted Smoot? Wasn’t he anybody? It’s too late for that hostage negotiations shit, Chuck. I’ve already killed two scumbags.”
“Yeah, but they deserved it, Dan. You haven’t hurt any innocent people. Let’s keep it that way.”
Murphy brandished his gun to emphasize his words. “I always wondered about murder-suicides. Jorge and I always joked: If he’s going to commit suicide, why not do the suicide first? What’s the point of killing someone else, if you’re just gonna kill yourself? I mean, what’s the point anyway?” He dropped his gaze to the table. “What’s the point of anything?”
Tears flowed down his cheeks. He raised his head. “Well, now I understand the murder part of murder-suicide.”
Murder-suicide. That was the key phrase Chuck had been listening for—all while hoping never to hear it. God, I hate to hear Murphy say that. He’s made my decision for me.
Chuck waited for his opportunity, prayed it would come in time.
Murphy pressed the barrel against Jessica’s neck. “You know, Chuck, it wouldn’t be so bad if the bitch had left me for another man. Maybe I could compete with another man. I could kill the bastard in a duel. Or I could frame him for murder and send him away to prison.” He laughed again. “Get it? I could frame him for murder.” Murphy was waving his gun around like a kid with a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
He waved the gun in Chuck’s direction again. “But to leave me for a woman. A fucking dike. How the hell do I compete with that?”
Chuck kept his eyes riveted on the waving gun, waiting for the right moment. For a split second, Murphy’s gun pointed at the ceiling.
Now!
Chuck leaped to the left, reaching behind his back for the Glock 26.
Murphy’s eyes widened as he caught the motion and brought the pistol down.
Chuck pulled the compact gun from his waistband and rolled left.
Jessica screamed and jerked against the handcuff as Murphy pulled the trigger in rapid fire.
Chuck felt a fist hit him over the heart. Another round tore through his right thigh.
He put three rounds into Dan Murphy’s chest.
Murphy kept firing. A bullet hit Chuck’s right biceps and spun his Glock 26 across the floor.
Jessica kept screaming as Murphy tumbled off the chair, pulling her on top of him as he fell. Murphy’s pistol fell to the tile and skidded inches away from his outstretched arm.
Chuck’s right arm dangled uselessly. He tried to reach the ankle holster, but he couldn’t pull his injured leg high enough to reach it with his left hand.
Blood spread like a red tide across Murphy’s shirt as he stretched toward his dropped Glock.
Jessica got up on one knee, leaned across Murphy’s shoulder, and seized his right wrist. “No! No! No! You bastard,” she screamed. “Not this time.”
Snoop burst in the front door, gun drawn, but Jessica blocked a clear shot at Murphy.
She levered her body from behind the table, twisted her legs around, and kicked the Glock across the room.
Murphy turned his head to look at her. Blood bubbles formed in his mouth as he tried to speak. His head fell to the floor with a thunk.
Snoop rushed over to Chuck as he collapsed onto his back in a pool of his own blood.
Chapter 91
Snoop was waiting in the hospital room when a nurse wheeled Chuck in from surgery. So was Vicky.
The nurse set up the IVs, adjusted the bed, and fluffed Chuck’s pillow. “I’ll be back with water for those flowers.” She left with a smile.
“You owe me a burger and a beer at the Fat Tummy,” said Snoop.
“That’s the whole reason I survived, Snoop. I didn’t want to deprive you of a Heart Stopper burger.” He smiled. “At least I wasn’t unconscious for a couple of days like last time.”
Snoop laughed. “You get better at getting shot the more you practice. You picked a better spot for the bullets this time.”
The last time Chuck had been shot, he’d almost died. Snoop had waited in his hospital room then too. For two days. So had Terry.
Life goes on, thought Chuck.
Vicky sat on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid his bandaged thigh and arm. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head on his chest. She sighed heavily and Chuck felt her body shake as she began to cry.
He hoped she was crying from relief. He stroked her hair. “No need to cry, Vicky. I go home tomorrow, Doc said. Just flesh wounds. Two weeks of rehab and I’ll be good as new.”
Vicky wiped her eyes on Chuck’s hospital gown before she sat up. Mascara streaked her cheeks. And Chuck’s gown.
Chuck pointed at it. “You’d better watch it, or you’ll lose your Macho Certificate.”
They both laughed for several minutes. As the laughter trailed off, one of them would point to the gown and they would go into fits of laughter again.
Snoop smiled in sympathy, but Chuck was sure he thought they were both crazy.
Chuck took a sip of water. “Sorry, Snoop. This reminded us of the last time that Vicky smeared her mascara when she was with me.” They laughed again.
The nurse brought in Chuck’s cellphone. “I forgot to return this to you, Chuck.”
He thanked her and checked for messages.
His parents, his American grandparents. His Mexican grandmother. His Uncle Felix. His siblings. About a dozen more cousins and such.
No Terry.
Renate Crowell’s face appeared on the screen as the ring sounded. He accepted the call. “How did you know I was back in my hospital room, Renate?”
“The Press-Journal has spies everywhere. How are you, handsome? Ready for an interview?”
“You certainly know how to charm a guy, Renate. Might as well. Come on over. When do you expect to be here?”
The door opened and Renate walked in with a big grin on her face. She held her phone in one hand with Chuck’s picture displayed on the screen. In the other hand, she carried a huge flower arrangement.
Chuck turned back to his phone. “I’ve got to hang up now. I’ve got a visitor.”
Chapter 92
Vicky Ramirez sat on the chaise on Chuck’s balcony and set her daiquiri on the end table next to it. She and Chuck had spent the day on The Gator Raider Too and had returned to his condo to watch the sunset.
The last time Chuck sat on this balcony this time of day, it had been with Terry. Again today, boats swung at anchor in the bay. Again today, the eastern breeze lined them up for sunset watching.
For an instant, tears welled up in his eyes. He blinked them away. That was then; this is now.
Vicky broke his reverie. “If I take off my top, do you think my boobs will get any browner?”
“I don’t know if it’ll make your boobs any browner, but it would sure make my spirits rise. Maybe something else too.”
She laughed and untied her top. She swung it in a circle by one string and draped it across the back of the chaise and did a shimmy.
Chuck watched every movement as she twisted and turned. She reached for the pitcher and refilled her glass. “What do you hear from Jorge?”
“I talked to Mother Weiner today. He’s been reinstated as a police detective with back pay. He needs a new partner. Mother’s working on that.”
Chuck held out his glass so she could refill it even though it was half full. He just wanted to see her move. And she knew it.
Chuck had spent the last two weeks with Vicky while he recuperated and went to rehab. She had taken two weeks of vacation. These weeks had been quite liberating for Chuck. No expectations, no pressure.
Chuck had dated Terry for the better part of a year. Chuck wanted the American dream family so badly that he’d seen more in Terry than was there. The hint of future domestic b
liss he’d seen in her had been a reflection of his own desire.
Now she was gone and Chuck saw his self-delusion. Terry never lied to me. We just wanted different things. Chuck had no delusions of domesticity with Vicky. She was a career woman all the way.
He sipped his daiquiri. “Has Karen’s divorce been finalized?”
“I’ll file the paperwork when I get back from this vacation I’ve been on. She’s in no hurry. She and Jessica are moving in together. The lack of a divorce hasn’t slowed them down.”
“Well, it’s back to work for me next Monday.”
“Let’s enjoy the rest of the weekend.” She finished the last of her daiquiri and reached over and took Chuck’s glass from his hand. “I think it’s time I made you exercise your injured thigh again.”
“Slave driver.”
She winked. “You get on top this time.”
Acknowledgments
My thanks to my editor Marsha Butler. She makes me a better writer. Also to my colleagues in the Authors’ Roundtable of Mount Dora, FL for their support and encouragement. And to my cover designer Michael Butler of Michael by Design.
About the author
Dallas Gorham is a sixth-generation Texan and a proud Texas Longhorn, having earned a Bachelor of Business Administration at the University of Texas at Austin. Like his fictional hero, Chuck McCrary, Dallas now lives in Florida, where he has followed his lifelong love of reading private-eye novels into writing them. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, the Florida Writers Association, and the Authors’ Roundtable of Mt. Dora FL.
One of his goals in life is to find more golf balls than he loses. He is also a defender of oppressed palm trees.
You can visit his website athttp://dallasgorham.com, follow him on Twitter at @DallasGorham, or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DallasGorham.
Hello from Dallas Gorham
Now that you have finished my novel, can I ask you a favor? Please go to the Website where you bought it and write a review. We authors live and die by our reviews. Your review can help someone else decide whether they might like my book.
Thanks.
I always love to hear from my readers. Email me at [email protected]. Tell me how you liked my story and what you’d like to see Chuck McCrary do next. Or tell me anything else on your mind.
All the best,
Dallas
Also by Dallas Gorham
I’m No Hero
A short story introducing Carlos McCrary when he was a sergeant in the U.S. Special Forces in Afghanistan. Available on Amazon.com.
On a clear night in June 2006, Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha 777, the Triple Seven, gets their mission: Free an Afghan mountain village from a ruthless Taliban blockade which is starving the people to death. The village's crime? They educated girls in the village school.
A courageous young boy from the village sneaks through the hot summer night to escape the Taliban blockade. He runs ten miles barefooted to get help, arriving at an Afghan National Army garrison with bloody feet. He seeks the help of Afghan Major Ibrahim Malik. But Malik knows that his ANA small force is no match for the well-armed Taliban terrorists. Malik and the boy come to the Green Berets of the Triple Seven for help.
The Taliban have a larger force, heavily armed with Kalashnikov AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenades. The Americans must rely on their equipment, their training, and themselves.
This is a story of Sergeant Carlos "Chuck" McCrary, a Mexican-American Green Beret, and his team of soldiers who risk their lives to save two thousand Afghan townspeople they have never even met. Chuck and his fellow Special Forces soldiers live the motto: “We own the night.” They set off in the darkness to defeat the Taliban and break the blockade. But when the soldiers of the Triple Seven don their night vision goggles and show up in the dark hours to liberate the village, they are surprised and outnumbered by an ambush of heavily-armed Taliban terrorists.
The soldiers of Team Triple Seven must fight for their lives, or the villagers won’t be the only ones the Taliban wipe out.
Six Murders Too Many
The first novel in the Carlos McCrary series, Six Murders Too Many is available in both electronic and print editions on Amazon.com.
Private detective Carlos “Chuck” McCrary digs into a paternity dispute and uncovers a series of murders.
Millionaire oil man Ike Simonetti tells Chuck McCrary that his late father’s widow is trying to steal over $200,000,000 from him.
While seventy-five-year-old billionaire Sam Simonetti was hospitalized for his second heart attack, his two daughters from an earlier marriage died in a house fire, leaving Ike as Sam’s only child and sole heir. Or was he?
After Sam’s death, his trophy wife (now widowed) produced another contender for the fortune—a baby girl born six months later. The widow stakes a claim to half of Sam’s estate for her infant daughter Gloria.
Now Ike wants Chuck to uncover the identity of Gloria’s real father and cut her out of the will.
The investigation takes Chuck from the sun-splashed beaches of South Florida to the burned-out Cleveland home of the two dead daughters. He stirs up a hornet’s nest and uncovers a triple murder.
When three hit men ambush Chuck, the case becomes a matter of life and death. To save his own life and that of the supposed infant heiress, Chuck must discover if one of the billionaire’s surviving family members is the real puppet master behind the murders.
Then Chuck learns that there may be two Black Widows dueling over the billionaire’s estate—willing to kill anyone who gets in their way...including an infant heiress and a nosy private investigator.
If you enjoyed Double Fake, Double Murder, read on for an exciting preview of Quarterback Trap, a new Carlos McCrary novel available from Seven Oaks Publishing LLC in electronic and print format.
Quarterback Trap
A Carlos McCrary Novel
By Dallas Gorham
Chapter 1
The woman stumbled through the elevator door of the parking garage, catching her spike heel in the crack. Goddammit. Why did I wear these shoes? She glanced at her watch: 3:30 a.m. She pressed the keyfob of her rental car. As she looked up, she jerked to a halt at the sight of a dirty white van parked a few feet away, its side door open.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind. Her red Prada purse fell to the pavement, spilling its contents. Her cellphone skittered a few feet, coming to rest under the edge of the van.
Two men half-carried, half-dragged her toward the van door.
“What the hell...?” she sputtered.
One of them shoved her through the open door of the van and across the second row bench toward the far wall where a second man grabbed her arm. He climbed in after her. “Grab her purse and find that cellphone.”
The man outside the van jerked the sliding door closed, scooped up the purse and phone, and trotted around to the driver’s door. He jumped in, tossed the items onto the front passenger seat, and started the engine. As the van drove away, a tire crushed the keyfob to the woman’s rental car.
Chapter 2
Bob Martinez, starting quarterback for the New York Jets, eased through the crowd toward my table, fist bumping and high-fiving as he went.
I stood and waved. Bob was a half hour late. That wasn’t like him.
He paused to send a text message. “Hey, Eighty-Eight, great to see you,” he said in Spanish.
I had to smile. “I haven’t worn number eighty-eight in years, Bob.”
“You’ll always be Eighty-Eight to me.”
We shook hands and Bob pulled out a chair. He continued in Spanish. “This my breakfast?” He lifted the stainless steel covers from the two plates. “Pass the salsa, please.”
I slid the dish across the table. When Bob spoke Spanish, it meant something was bothering him. I went along and switched to Spanish. “Two orders of huevos rancheros with brown rice and refritos on the side, like your text said.”
“Thanks, budd
y. Sorry I’m late. It’s always a madhouse when I’m in public.” He checked his phone before he smothered his food with salsa. “I never know how long it’ll take to get anywhere.”
“It goes with the territory. When you’re starting in the Super Bowl, everyone wants a piece of you. It must be tough to handle so much attention. It’s like you’re on stage all the time.”
“You do what you gotta do.” Bob looked at his phone again and frowned. He dug into his huevos rancheros. “These folks are football fans; it wouldn’t be right to ignore them.”
“Your text didn’t say what to order for Graciela. Where is your gorgeous fiancée?”
For an instant, there was a look in Bob’s eyes, then it was gone. He stuffed a forkful of huevos in his mouth. “Gracie doesn’t eat breakfast; I thought you knew.” He rolled a tortilla in his fingers.
A small boy approached the table and waited for my friend to notice him.
Bob set down the tortilla and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Hey, sport. How’s it going?” He’d switched to English.
The boy blushed and blurted out, “How come everybody calls you the Mexican Muscle?”
Bob grinned at the nervous youth. “What’s your name, son?”
“Travis McKinnon, sir.”
Bob shook hands. “Bob Martinez. Pleased to meet you, Travis.”
Over the boy’s shoulder, Bob saw a middle-aged man in a Jets tee-shirt watching from a nearby table. The man smiled and shrugged. “Is that guy in the Jets shirt your dad?”
Travis glanced back at the man. “Yes, sir. I asked him why they call you the Mexican Muscle. He said he didn’t know.”
Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Page 23
