Deceitful Moon

by Rick Murcer

  Deceitful Moon

  By

  RICK MURCER

  AMAZON KINDLE EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Murcer Press, LLC

  Edited by

  Jan Green-thewordverve.com

  Interior book design by

  Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  Deceitful Moon © 2011 Rick Murcer

  All rights reserved

  www.rickmurcer.com

  Amazon Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  For my wife Carrie, who still believes in me.

  For JC, who loves me and keeps me on the path; I’m grateful.

  To Jessie, Sarah, Marie, and David for being the best editing team ever.

  To Josh and Buzz . . . this is for you.

  Chapter-1

  “Hey Manny, hear the one about the pig, the priest, and the chicken?”

  Detective Manny Williams rolled his eyes and turned toward Sophie Lee, his partner. She was slouched in her chair, looking at the screen of her laptop, wearing that smartass look she wore when she was bored. The diminutive, Chinese-American cop reminded him of his fifteen-year-old daughter when she moped around the house complaining there was nothing to do. Manny would point out that her room needed cleaning, but apparently that wasn’t something “to do.”

  “No, Sophie, I haven’t. And would it matter?”

  “Nope. I’m going to tell you anyway.”

  “Am I going to laugh?”

  “Don’t know. I just need to tell it.”

  “How are you coming on that report?”

  “Don’t change the subject. You’re not gettin’ out of it that easy. Besides, I don’t do B&E reports.”

  “You do now; at least until someone in our fair city decides murder is their God-given right.”

  “Whatever.” Sophie sighed.

  Manny knew how she felt. Once you worked homicide, nothing else came close. Some people thought homicide detectives were a little crazy; hell maybe that was true, but there was no substitute for putting a killer away, not to mention the thrill of the chase. It was like comparing Boone’s Farm to Dom Pérignon . . . and this busywork of writing and filing reports was driving them both insane.

  Maybe he should consider that other offer. The pay was way better and there was no shortage of work with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. He was pretty sure they didn’t do B&E paperwork either. But would it take him away from his family even more?

  “Okay. Tell me.”

  “Okay, tell you what?”

  “Tell me about the pig, the priest, and the chicken.”

  “Nah.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t think you’d get it. You’re all blue-eyed and blond, not Chinese.”

  “Remind me to kick your ass later.”

  “Yeah, like I’m going to do that. I just live for having my butt kicked.”

  “No problem. I’ll remember on my own.”

  “At your age? Pssfftt. I’m safe.”

  “Oh, I won’t forget. Trust me.”

  “It’s because men can’t get me off their minds, isn’t it? Admit it.” Sophie winked and blew him a kiss.

  Manny caught it, put it in his pocket, and winked back. It was amazingly good to see her bouncing back to her former self. The whole thing on the cruise ship three months ago had affected them all, maybe for a lifetime. Sophie had not only lost a good friend in the murdered Lansing DA, Liz Casnovsky, to a psychopath, but she had lost an ex-lover as well. Sophie’s affair had just happened to be with Liz’s husband Lynn. That kind of guilt and remorse would put anyone in a different place. Manny knew about those different places.

  The first two months back had been tough, but she was reverting back to her old persona, even though that meant she was going to be a pain in the ass from time to time. Some types of pain are just worth it.

  Argyle. He was still out there, and that fact made Manny more than a little nervous. The psychotic doctor had left bodies strewn all over the Caribbean and then disappeared after they had tracked him from Aruba to New York. Manny’s newfound friend, Special Agent Josh Corner, claimed the FBI had Argyle high on its radar and was monitoring the Good Doctor’s every known contact and source. But Argyle was clever, wealthy, and worse, the most ruthless killer Manny had ever encountered. Not a good combination.

  That wasn’t all. Argyle had put them all on notice that the books weren’t balanced, and there were more paybacks coming to the Lansing law enforcement family. It was a promise that triggered some sleepless nights for Manny and added more fuel to his workaholic streak. Manny wanted no more of the pain and loss he’d suffered on the Ocean Duchess.

  The time was coming when they would meet again. Argyle seemingly controlled when that encounter would happen. Manny would try to be ready.

  Meanwhile, there had been extra security put into place surrounding the families involved in the cruise ship incidents, and they were doing all they could. He hoped it was enough.

  “All right, I’m done with this report. Where do I stick it?” panned Sophie.

  “You can’t figure that out? I’m going to have to–”

  The phone on Manny’s desk rang. He looked at the number and quickly snatched the headset from its cradle. “Williams here.”

  Manny listened, then hung up without speaking. He stood, ran his hand through his hair (an old nervous habit from his teen years), tightened his shoulder holster, and motioned to Sophie. “No more reports for you or me today. We’ve got a dead parolee, and it ain’t pretty. Let’s go.”

  Chapter-2

  Eric Hayes knew he wasn’t alone in the dark. The duct tape over his mouth and eyes proved to be efficient enough, but he heard his captor. Worse, his captor heard him. He knew the large man was staring at him from the other side of the small table situated in the middle of the suite on the ship’s eleventh deck. Eric was sure his captor had taken great pleasure in his attempt to demand and even coerce his freedom. Eric’s angry actions had evolved to desperate, silent screams. Then, as harsh reality showed its aberrant face, terror-stricken sobs had forced him to hold hands with helplessness. Lastly came a hushed acceptance that was somehow more terrifying than the act of being bound in a chair at the whim of a maniacal stranger, all his pleas smothered by the gagging effects of the tape.

  The strong man doubling as his jailer had planned this attack well.

  Eric never could resist a story, or the thought of one, and the mysterious note had assured him that if he came to this stateroom at the proper time, he would be part of a blockbuster story that would make him famous—more than famous, a household name. He didn’t know what that meant for sure, but the cruise ship was docked in St. Thomas for the day, so how could he ignore a guara
ntee like that? It was like promising dope to a junkie, and he had chased the promise like an addict.

  One giant hand over his face, a rag immersed in chloroform, and voilà, instant prisoner.

  My God, he was still so naïve.

  Eric, for the hundredth time, speculated about the purpose, and maybe more importantly, the reason, for being bound in this room.

  Did this glimpse into hell have anything to do with his career as a small-town reporter for the Lansing Post? He would be a liar—any reporter would— if he said he didn’t worry about writing something, somewhere down the line that would offend someone to the point of repercussion. The public was as fickle as any weather forecast, and even in the land of the free, you had to watch your ass.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  “Mr. Hayes. It is so good of you to join me for this happy fiesta. Well, happy for me.”

  The voice was powerful and confident. Eric also detected a hint of enthusiasm. The thought of his captor being excited at his prey’s confinement sent a horrifying chill up his spine.

  “I know you are wondering what you are doing here, and I assure you, I won’t keep you waiting. But first, I’m going to remove the tape from your eyes. That’s the least I can do.”

  The feel of ripping tape against his skin caused him to let loose a muffled scream as the hair of his eyebrows left his face—with precious skin attached. Almost as pointed, however, was the sudden flood of light. Eric blinked and squinted his way to the realm of focus and after a few moments, succeeded. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t.

  He recognized the man standing across from him. Anyone in Lansing would—and maybe half the nation. Dr. Fredrick Argyle had added a blond goatee, but it was him.

  “Do you remember me, Mr. Hayes? I assure you that you have not been far from my thoughts for years. I couldn’t be more pleased that we are finally together. I love reunions. Ask anyone at the Lansing Police Department.”

  Argyle’s eyes rolled, and he laughed wildly, almost like a cartoon madman. Then he brought it under control so quickly that Eric jumped. He began a new round of struggles against the bindings.

  “I assure you, Mr. Hayes, that your efforts to escape are futile. Duct tape is a wondrous invention to be sure. Besides, you don’t have my permission to leave. But you’ll have it soon.”

  The big man slammed his fist on the small table, and Eric felt his heart skip beats. “You must atone for the things you have written about me. About my research. You’d write anything to sell a piece-of-shit newspaper.”

  The doctor bent close to Eric and pointed to the table. Eric’s smartphone sat so very close to the longest knife he had ever seen. “I’m going to offer you a chance to right wrongs, understand?”

  Eric nodded with desperate enthusiasm.

  “This phone will inform your rag of a paper that you were wrong. That the Lansing Post should never have printed the drivel you wrote. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Eric shook his head and felt a little relieved. If that was all Argyle wanted, it would be the best damned retraction ever printed. He wanted to live. Swallowing some pride seemed a small price in exchange for that opportunity.

  “Excellent, Mr. Hayes. A wise decision to be sure. Shall we begin?”

  Before Eric could blink, Argyle snatched the knife from the table and plunged it deep into the left side of his neck. He felt the blade came out the other side, and he suffered the accompanying agony. His eyes grew wide watching the crimson spray that, somehow, didn’t seem to be his.

  Just before his world went dark, he heard Argyle laugh.

  “Never mind, I’ve had a change of heart.”

  Chapter-3

  Reaching to turn off his computer, Manny saw the e-mail notification pop up. He recognized the sender, a local reporter named Eric Hayes. The e-mail had an attachment. Manny would have to look at it later. His crew had a crime scene waiting for them.

  Eric and he had worked some cases the way reporters and detectives do, but weren’t exactly on each other’s Christmas-card list. Manny knitted his brow, decided it could wait. Maybe this was another reason to get a smartphone instead of the one he’d had for years. But answering e-mail and downloading data to and from a phone appealed to him like snakes in the shower. People already had enough ways to mess up his day—and night. He flipped off the computer.

  “What?” asked Sophie.

  “Nothing, just an e-mail from Eric Hayes. I’ll check it out when I get back. Kind of odd though. I don’t really talk to him much. Come on, let’s get to the car.”

  Sophie hurried to catch him as he hit the steps to the parking garage. “Get a smartphone, Williams. They don’t bite. Then you could look at his e-mail while we are traveling. It’d take your mind off my driving.”

  “Nothing could do that. And who says those phones don’t bite? Besides, it’s probably one of those ‘Don’t break this e-mail chain or you’ll have 8,000 years of bad luck and grow a third ear on your arm—with little pink flowers in the background.’ ”

  “Maybe. The firewall would have caught it though. And that doesn’t change the fact you’re such a baby with this stuff. I’m going to talk to your wife. She’ll straighten you out . . . and don’t get kinky on me.”

  Manny rolled his eyes as they reached the unmarked cruiser and climbed in. It was a Ford Taurus with a twenty-four valve turbo that kicked ass and took names when the pedal hit the metal.

  They pulled out of the underground garage, Sophie driving, and screamed down Cedar Street, lights flashing.

  “Where we headed, I forgot to ask?”

  “Where else? Behind the White Kitty. Sex, rock and roll, and now murder.”

  “Awesome.”

  They reached the strip club in record time, and Manny reminded himself to take Sophie’s keys away. The woman was a great driver and fearless behind the wheel, but he’d had to liberate her cell phone when she tried to text her husband Randy while driving seventy-five miles-per hour.

  He stepped out of the car and gave her the look, tossing her phone at her.

  “What? I always drive like that.”

  “Consider your license revoked. You’re going to kill us one of these times.”

  “Damn. You are getting old.”

  Manny and Sophie ducked under the yellow tape and moved to the back of the parking lot near the rusting trash bin that also served as roadblock to the narrow alley running away from the strip club/adult theater. The September sun was warm, even at four in the afternoon, and it did little to improve the mixture of scents emanating from the crime scene.

  Day-old, decaying human flesh combined with the truly ripe odor of hot garbage didn’t stir anticipation for Manny’s next meal. He didn’t know how the CSU guys did it, but it never seemed to bother them. That, or secretly they enjoyed it, harboring some kind of warped fetish. He chose not to dwell on that one.

  Alex Downs, his good friend and head of the LPD’s CSU, was bent over a small swatch of cloth near the corner of the trash heap, dark streaks of perspiration running down his pink shirt and khaki slacks. The pudgy CSI was already working hard.

  “What do we have?” asked Manny.

  Alex stood, cracked his back, and flicked away sweat with his latex-covered hand.

  “Not nice. Thirty-five-year-old, white male, based on rigor, dead about fourteen hours. Lividity indicates he’s been on his back. He was partially hidden by the trash dump so none of the patrons spotted him. The janitor noticed the smell and called it in.”

  “Dispatch said he was an ex-con out on parole,” said Manny.

  “That explains his choice of establishments,” smirked Sophie.

  Alex smiled. “Three years is a long time without getting laid. Anyway, his name is Mitchell Morse, and he got out two days ago.”

  “Cause of death?” asked Sophie. “I mean, other than this ungodly heat.”

  “Funny you should ask. Let me show you something. Oh. You may want to cover your noses. It g
ets worse.”

  Alex led them around the corner, and he was right, it did get worse, much worse. Manny eyeballed Sophie as she covered her nose with one hand, then the other, eyes watering like she had been cooking with the harshest onion known to man. He felt her pain.

  After a few moments, Manny was able to control his gag reflex, and Sophie seemed to adjust as well. Alex stood next to the body, grinning.

  “You think this is funny?” he said to Alex.

  “I sure as hell do. But you two have come around, so let’s get to it.”

  “Paybacks, just remember paybacks,” threatened Sophie.

  Alex waved his hand and bent close to the body. “The body is bloated and I’ll have to see the toxicology and autopsy reports to confirm, but I’ll tell you what I think . . . and it’s weird.”

  “Bloated? Good God. He looks like a blimp,” said Manny.

  “Not unusual in hot weather, of course,” responded Alex. “You can see the bullet holes in his chest and the one in his forehead, four total, looks like a small caliber. He was also tied up with black leather straps. But that’s not what I want you to pay attention to. See that area by his groin?” Alex was pointing to a raw patch of skin bulging through Morse’s blue jeans near the left inner thigh. The jeans were perforated diagonally toward his crotch, displaying raw, disfigured muscle tissue—and a small lump of flesh where his penis should be.

  Manny squeezed his legs together and cringed. “Oh man! What caused that?”

  “It looks like an acid burn, and if I were a betting man, I would bet his testicles—if I could find them—got the same treatment. Those burns probably came from hydrochloric acid; he was one hurting puppy before he checked out.”

  “Whoa. Someone burned his pecker off and then shot him four times?” asked Manny.

  “Yep. Definitely antemortem. Someone had to get real close and loving to do it, too. And that’s not all.” Alex asked one of the coroner’s people to help him turn the body on its side.