Death Warmed Over (A Grim Days Mystery)
ISBN: 978-0-692-14800-6
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by J. Kent Holloway
Cover art by J. Kent Holloway and Christian Guldager
Published by Quoth Publications
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To Dr. Bulic…
* * *
Who taught me so much, listened to my wild ideas, and offered answers to a million and one questions.
Contents
Prologue
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 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Prologue
KWAN SU CHINESE BISTRO
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA
MONDAY, 7:15 PM
It had been an unusually hectic night at the Kwan Su Chinese Bistro for a Monday evening. For bits of the night, they’d had customers lined up out the door, waiting to be seated for nearly thirty minutes at a time. Despite the wait, however, everyone had been pleasant and patient. Everyone had enjoyed the new karaoke machine the owners had installed. And from the smiles on the customers’ faces, everyone had enjoyed the food and the company at their tables. It had been a good night for tips. A good night for the register, as well.
That is, until the woman burst through the doors, screaming at the top of her lungs and sprinting through the restaurant at top speed. She careened down the aisles of tables, casting furtive glances over her shoulders as if she was being chased.
No one else had entered the bistro after her, but still she ran, ducking under tables every so often and peeking out from under their shelter before running to the next table and doing the same thing again.
Bill Ngeung, the manager on duty, eased over to the table she now huddled underneath.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
She poked her head out from under the table. Tears streaked her face, making her mascara run in black gashes down her cheeks.
“H-help me,” she whispered. Her eyes darted left and right, searching for something unseen.
“I’m trying to, ma’am. Should I call 911?”
Her hand shot out, grabbing him by the wrist. “No! No police. They can’t help me. No one can.”
Bill Ngeung wasn’t about to point out the inconsistency of her asking for help, then denying that anyone could. The woman was unstable. Possibly dangerous. He was going to have to do whatever he could to protect his customers.
“Okay,” he said. “Fine. So, what can I do?”
Suddenly, her eyes grew the size of saucers and she screamed, shoving him away. Crouched down as he was, he toppled over backwards and she bolted from under the table and slid under the one directly across the aisle. The occupants of the table scrambled away and gathered in a nearby corner, whispering to each other.
Bill righted himself and followed her.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. You’re upsetting our customers. You need to leave.”
“I can’t!” she screamed. She was clutching the hem of the table cloth, using it to hide from the outside world. A shaking hand stretched from the shadows of the table and pointed toward the door. “I can’t! He’ll get me!”
“Who will get you?”
There was a sob on the other side of the cloth.
“Ma’am?”
“Y-you don’t see him?” Her finger pointed emphatically at the door.
He turned to look, but no one was there.
“I don’t see anyone.”
“But he’s right there! Right there!” She was beginning to slur her words, making it difficult for him to understand her. Had she been drinking? On drugs?
“What does he look like exactly? Maybe I’m just looking at the wrong place.”
“Eyes,” she sobbed.
“Eyes?”
“Red, glowing eyes…in a cloud of darkness. A darkness as black as a grave.”
Uh, okay. This woman is just plain freaky.
“I don’t see him. Who is it? Who is chasing you?”
“Death.” She said it without the slightest hesitation. Without a trace of irony.
“Huh?”
“Death is here. He’s after me. He’s been chasing me all night.”
Bill’s heart slowly crawled its way to his throat. This woman was a real nut. He turned to one of his employees and pantomimed calling 911. The employee nodded her understanding and went to the back to make the call.
“Maybe he’s not.” Bill hadn’t been trained enough in how to deal with psychotic people disrupting his diners. He thought he should mention that to the owners when this was all over. They needed training for this sort of thing. “Maybe you’re just confused.”
“I’m not confused!” she roared, exploding from the table and tipping it over. Heaping portions of kung pao chicken, shrimp, and dumplings toppled to the ground. She lunged at Bill. This time, when he fell backwards, she landed on top of him, pinning him to the floor. “He’s after me! I’ve seen his eyes. Those hideous red eyes. He’s coming for me. I’m going to die!”
Customers were beginning to panic now. Many of them were rushing out the door. Probably not paying for their meal as they fled.
“Please,” Bill said. He was rightfully panicked at the moment himself. “Let’s talk about this.”
“But he’s after me!” she screamed. “Death is after me!”
She leapt off him, zig-zagging across the restaurant, overturning numerous tables and chairs. The floor was now carpeted in a slush of food and drinks, trampled underfoot by the crazed woman. Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she ran out the front doors and into the street beyond.
1
SUMMER HAVEN BEACH
SUMMER HAVEN, FLORIDA
WEDNESDAY, 12:45 AM
The salty breeze whipped through the man’s slicked-back mane of jet black hair as he stood curiously over the body of the dead woman sprawled face down on the beach. His deep-set eyes, nearly as black as his hair, traced the contours of her body against the sand, taking in every crease, every fold of cellulite pocking her naked body. Imagined the feel of her silky black hair through the gaps of his fingers. He sniffed the air, tasting the aroma of death and unexpectedly wincing as he did so.
In all his years, he’d witnessed an incalculable number of such sights. An untold number of tragic souls taken before they’d even begun to live. Each face had been ingrained into his psyche—imprinted into his memory like a carving in stone. But the blood-covered
dead woman at his feet now perplexed him. She wasn’t supposed to be dead. It wasn’t her Time yet. She’d literally been taken too soon.
And the worst thing about it was that he had no idea how it had happened.
He closed his eyes in thought. The silver brilliance of the full moon burned past his eyelids, while the sound of waves crashing against the shore thrummed like a marching band’s cadence in which to collect his thoughts.
It makes no sense, he thought.
Then again, none of the others had made any sense either.
He released a long-held sigh and let his eyes graze over the murder scene again. The first thing he’d noticed upon finding the body was that the blood was off. It didn’t fit somehow, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. The woman’s back was covered in the congealing crimson. Someone, presumably the killer, had used a finger or some type of stylus to scrawl strange arcane symbols in the blood. But that wasn’t what felt wrong about the sight. It was just off somehow. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew, despite the wicked-looking ceremonial knife plunged deep into her spine, there shouldn’t be nearly as much blood as there was. Of course, for now, there was no evidence to support his theory. It was more like a hunch.
Funny. I’ve never had a hunch before. Never had any need of them. Feels kind of weird.
It wasn’t just the blood that threw his deductive equilibrium off though. It was everything else too. The position of the body. The drag marks from the road to where she now laid. And of course, the candle sticks placed in a circle around her body. From the looks of them, the candles had only burned a few minutes before being blown out from the rushing wind coming in from the ocean. They wouldn’t have burned long enough to conduct any sort of ritual they were left there to convey.
So, what else is bugging you?
He knew the answer, of course. It was the fact that the woman shouldn’t be dead in the first place. He would have thought it impossible for her to be, in fact. At least, not unless her death had been sanctioned by him. He knew for a fact that it hadn’t.
He stepped over to her left and crouched down for a closer look at the dagger. It looked Afro-Caribbean to him. The multi-colored beads—red and white—that wrapped around the handle had a distinct Kongonese flavor to it. Voodoo, maybe. Or Santeria. From the color scheme, he was favoring the latter.
It’s not very smart of the killer to leave the murder weapon. It’s handcrafted. You can’t buy something like that at your local Walmart sporting goods department. Something like that should be pretty easy to trace.
His eyes drifted back to the blood. He inhaled and took in another whiff. There was just something strange about it. The smell was wrong. He tilted his head, tracing the spatter across the small of her back.
He began to smile.
Of course.
He leaned forward and removed the knife from her flesh. A small dollop of blood bubbled up to the surface of the wound, then settled back into her body as he pulled the dagger up to his eyes.
“You’re a wily one, aren’t you?” he whispered to the blade. “Or at least, you think you are. You think you’re so, so clever.”
His smile widened. He was beginning to get a clearer picture of what happened here.
“So, I know what. Now to just figure out the ‘who’, the ‘how’, and the ‘why’.”
He stood, holding one hand under the blade to keep the blood from dripping on the body.
And with any luck, I’ll figure out more than just who the killer is. I’ll find out who’s behind it all.
There was a sudden crunch of sand from behind him.
“Stop.” The female voice behind him was stern. Confident. “Don’t move.”
The man went rigid.
“Turn around.”
He remained still.
“I said, turn around.”
“You also said not to move,” the man said. “I’m confused.”
The woman behind him sighed. “You understood what I meant.”
“Actually, I’m still trying to learn the syntax and subtleties of the English language,” he said, holding up his hands, knife still clutched in his right fist, and slowly turned to face the woman who’d so adeptly ambushed him.
She was wearing the navy-blue uniform of a police officer. The shield on her chest, as well as the pins on her lapel, were gold, designating her as someone of power within the police organization for whom she worked. She was pointing a rather large handgun—a .40 caliber Sig Sauer, if he wasn’t mistaken.
If he had to guess, he was looking at the chief of the Summer Haven Police Department, Rebecca Cole, known as Becca to everyone who knew her. He’d done some research on her before coming to this sleepy little beach community. She was good. Really good.
The chief’s eyes swept from the man to the body on the ground beside him to the knife in his hand. Two other officers could be seen trudging over the dunes, making their way toward them from the parking lot. An aurora of blue and red lit up the night sky in the distance near the beach’s public parking lot.
“We received a call about a dead body on the beach,” Chief Cole said. “Never imagined I’d find the killer standing over it when I showed up. That makes things easy for me.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said. “It does if you’re a lazy detective. With a little effort, you’ll find I’m the one who called you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him just as the other uniforms huffed their way up beside her. The sand near the dunes was high, making walking or running on them difficult for even people in good shape. Given the rotund girth of the two newcomers, it was a miracle they’d even made it to the scene at all.
“I assure you, I’m not lazy,” the chief said. “If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Now, drop the knife.”
He obeyed and the dagger dropped blade first into the sand near his foot. He then looked up at her and grinned.
He supposed the woman was attractive. He’d never been a good judge of beauty. His station—the decisions his purpose and position forced him to take—made such trivialities of no interest to him in the past. In fact, such considerations would have been an outright hindrance. Perhaps even a disaster in the universal scope of things.
But he could see the woman was pleasant to look at. She was of average height for a female—around five feet, six inches tall—with a lean, athletic build. Her skin was tanned, but smooth and soft. Her short-cropped light brown hair was tipped at the edges with blonde highlights that helped to accentuate her large brown eyes. Yes, she was definitely an attractive woman…even though those same large brown eyes now glared at him with suspicion as she trained her weapon at his head with steady hands.
He looked down at the corpse, then back at the chief. So far, everything was going according to plan. After the last three unscheduled, unsanctioned deaths, he’d taken it upon himself to investigate. But, he was no fool. He also knew he’d need a little help. Since the death toll was rising disproportionately in this little beach town compared to anywhere else, he’d figured this was the best place to start looking for answers. And Chief Becca Cole was the perfect candidate to assist him.
“Larry,” she said to one of the overweight cops panting behind her. “Handcuff him.” She nodded in the man’s direction.
The officer named Larry reached back on his belt and removed a set of cuffs before walking over to the man. Chief Cole’s aim never let up for an instant. The gun barrel never wavered. Didn’t betray the slightest tremor of her hand.
Oh, I’m going to like this one, the man thought.
Larry stopped in tracks when he came within two feet of the man and sniffed. “Do I smell…” The fat cop shook his head, then looked over at his boss. “I swear, I smell pie or something.”
The man’s grin widened, but Chief Cole was in no mood. “Larry, just handcuff the man, please.”
“Yeah, yes, ma’am.” Larry walked around the suspect, slipped one of the handcuff bracelets over the
man’s left wrist, brought his hands behind his back, and secured the other bracelet over the right with a series of clicks. The fat cop exhaled, wiped a stream of sweat from his brow, and stepped back to appraise his handiwork.
CLINK.
The sound of metal hitting the sand drew everyone’s flashlight beams behind their suspect to find the handcuffs, still closed, laying casually on the ground.
“I…I…,” Larry began to protest, his mouth agape.
“Officer O’Donnell?” Chief Cole looked reprovingly at the bewildered officer.
“I secured ‘em, Chief. I know I did.”
The man—now a suspect in a homicide investigation—offered Larry an apologetic nod. He brought his hands around and rubbed his wrists before placing them once more behind his back.
Still confused, Officer Larry stooped down, picked up the cuffs, and re-secured them around the man’s wrists. Then, he hesitated, pulled on the cuffs’ chain to ensure they were indeed secure, and stepped back once more.
The handcuffs fell to the ground again.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop it!” Chief Cole told the man.
He chuckled, brought his hands around, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry. Merely having a little fun at your officer’s expense, Chief. But the shackles are hardly necessary. I’ll be happy to accompany you to the police station for questioning. In fact, I’d welcome the opportunity.”
1 Death Warmed Over Page 1
