A Matter of Vengeance
Page 1
A Matter of Vengeance
Introducing P.I. James Benoit Heatley
K.C. Sivils
KATY, TEXAS
Copyright © 2021 by K.C. Sivils
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
K.C. Sivils
Katy, Texas/77450
www.kcsivils.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
A Matter of Vengeance/ K.C. Sivils.—1st ed.
To my grandfather, Frank James Price
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
“LOOKS LIKE HIM.”
“Hard to tell,” Detective Elijah Boucher answered, nudging the dead body with the toe of his Italian Girotti loafer.
"Yeah," his partner, Miguel Garcia, agreed, leaning over for a closer look. "That's a lot of rage." Garcia stood up straight and glanced at Boucher for a second before looking at the body again. "Course, you'd think it would take a lot of rage to beat a man to death with your fists."
"Nobody is saying that's what happened," Boucher groused. He walked around the body for a different view, taking care not to step where forensics had placed numbered yellow markers on the damp pavement of the parking lot, all while avoiding getting mud or water on his Brioni dress trousers.
“Twenty says it is,” Garcia fired back, grinning at his partner. Boucher shrugged, ignoring Garcia’s challenge.
“I say we wait till the coroner can say for sure.”
Both detectives stood silently, staring down at the bloody corpse, its face so severely battered identification would be difficult.
“This isn’t a robbery,” Boucher volunteered. “I’m with you on that, too much rage. The perp just took the vic’s wallet to make it look like a robbery or to at least slow down identification of the body.”
"There's the tattoo, though," Garcia pointed out.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s Wolf Pfeiffer,” Boucher muttered. He looked up, locking eyes with his partner. “You going to make the call, or am I?”
“You think he did it?”
Boucher shrugged again. “Hard to say. Things haven’t been good between them for a long time.”
Garcia took his turn and nudged the body with his toe. “It would explain the rage.”
A loud crack ripped through the sky as a peel of thunder exploded and lightning lit up the dark night sky. The rain didn't wait as heavy drops began to pelt both the two detectives and the crime scene. The pair hurried back to their car as the forensics team scurried to erect a tent over the body to preserve the scene as best as possible under the conditions.
Detectives Boucher and Garcia watched with interest from the dry confines of their car as the forensics crew went about their job.
“Figure it went down here?”
“Yeah,” Garcia said after a second’s thought. “Parking for a welding shop at night. Good place for a meet, nobody to witness anything. Plenty of blood at the scene. You’d have to figure it was bad luck one of Houston’s homeless stumbled across the body and called it in. Otherwise, the body wouldn’t be found until, say six in the morning when the first workers showed up.”
Another lightning bolt lit up the dark sky with a thundering boom, allowing the detectives to see the litter and weeds lining the parking lot's hurricane fencing.
"Yeah," Boucher replied, slowly nodding as he rubbed the two-day old growth of stubble on his chin as he inserted the key in the ignition and started the engine. The former Louisiana native watched as the meat wagon pulled up to take the body away. “We ain’t going to learn nothin’ else staying here.”
Removing a comb from his pocket, Boucher combed his hair straight back, patting his hair carefully to make sure every strand was where it belonged. Upon returning the comb to its place and putting the car in drive, Boucher grinned. “You have to make the call.”
“Why?”
“Cuz, I had to break the news last time, Garcia. It’s your turn.”
“Man, I was hoping you’d forgotten about that. Heat ain’t gonna like it, one way or another.”
CHAPTER TWO
AMY NGUYEN HEARD HER boss long before he entered the small, neat reception area of the office. A quick glance around the room calmed Amy's nerves. Compulsively organized, it took her less than a day to completely reorganize the reception area, her workspace, and to start complaining about the décor.
It had taken a month of pouting and constant whining to get anything done about her workspace. Only when Amy finally compromised by saying she’d repaint the room herself and after scouring used furniture locations to find suitable furnishings had the bosses relented. Her efforts were a reception area and workspace that looked like an interior designer had put it together. Not a twenty-four-year-old high school dropout with a GED for a diploma.
Nervous, the young Amerasian woman tapped her fingernails on the desktop. It was never a good start to a workday when Heat started yelling at one of the other tenants in the office building. Her boss wasted no time expressing his mood as he burst into the office.
“Where is he?”
"No need to shout, boss," Amy replied, smiling her cute, calming smile. "This isn't that big of a space."
"Yeah, well, that guy in Suite 210 jumped me about Wolf parking that death trap of his in one of the parking spots assigned to 210."
Amy twirled strands of her silky, black hair around her right index finger, tilted her head and frowned. “Sounds like a personal problem to me.”
“Yeah, right! That’s what I’m thinking,” her boss grumbled, brushing the edge of Amy’s desk as he made his way towards the short hallway leading to his office.
Experience had taught Amy to time things. She waited until the sound of all six feet four inches and 215 pounds of James Benoit Heatley could be heard sitting down. The spring of the old school, wooden desk chair groaned in complaint as Heat leaned back and put his feet up on his cluttered desk.
“Boss!”
"What? I just got here," the fair-skinned, blue-eyed man complained. Amy grinned as she pictured the scowl on her boss's face, his brow furrowed, and his brown hair falling across his forehead, displaying a hint of red in the light from the window by his desk.
“You have to return this call,” Amy ordered, standing up from her expensive, ergonomic chair, one of the few new, nontechnological items in the office. She walked briskly, balancing on three-inch heels, bringing her petite frame to a full, five feet four inches in height.
Extending her arm, Amy thrust the message slip at Heat. “Here,” she barked, commanding her employer to take the message.
Heat looked up, taking in his receptionist turned researcher. Such was his mood that Heat's scowl remained in place. He took note of the young woman's perfect figure, displayed tastefully in professional attire, her shi
ny black hair falling down to just beyond her shoulders. Heat noted the black skirt, heels, patent leather belt, and perfectly pressed white, long sleeve blouse. Ignoring the extended arm, covered like its twin in the white cloth of the blouse, Heat looked at his pretty employee's big brown eyes.
Heat sniffed, taking in Amy's scent. It was new, causing his scowl to deepen. He fought back a grin successfully as the young woman grew impatient and folded her left arm across her abdomen. She grasped the crook of her elbow of the extended arm, all while tilting her hips in a display of irritation. When the sound of her toe-tapping started, Heat snatched the message slip from her hand.
“Sit,” he ordered, reading the message. “We need to talk.”
Used to the morning surliness of her boss, Amy complied. She knew exactly what the lecture would be about.
“What does Garcia want?”
Looking at the framed promotional poster of a long past Rolling Stones concert that adorned the wall by the window in Heat’s office, Amy tilted her head and muttered her reply. “I don’t know. He said it was urgent.”
“Urgent like, sometime today or first thing?”
Her expression remained neutral, as Amy replied. "Urgent, like first thing."
Heat grunted while he fished his cell phone from his pocket. “Why didn’t you pawn this off on Wolf?”
“He’s not here,” Amy answered.
“His car is.”
“Well, he isn’t. Just call Detective Garcia and find out what he wants so we can get this over with.”
Heat looked at Amy. She’d crossed her legs and crossed her arms in her lap while leaning slightly forward, staring at his prized concert poster. The blank facial expression confirmed his suspicions.
From memory, Heat entered the number. He put the phone on speaker and tossed it on his desk, leaning back in his chair, which again protested loudly.
“Garcia.”
“Heat. What did you want?”
THEIR DISCUSSION HAD not gone well. It never did. Offering to pay for things only upset Amy, and Heat could understand why. His offer was genuine, though. She needed professional help. His proposal to pay for it was his way of eliminating any legitimate excuse Amy would throw up as a way out of getting the help she needed.
New perfume meant a new boyfriend. The fact Amy had not told him about her new beau told Heat everything he needed to know. Another abuser, most likely, controlling and demeaning who, when the verbal and emotional abuse wasn't enough, would start with the fists.
There were limits to what makeup could cover. The last boyfriend had broken up with Amy by text after Heat had seen the purplish-yellow streaks on her cheek and legs. Bruises healing from repeated blows and kicks to her slender frame. The jerk was lucky to have fingers that could type in the letters after Heat had finished explaining things.
If the new one was like the last one, things were going to end the same way. A beating would help the abuser forget the pretty Amy Nguyen and stay far away.
“I should get to vet these guys.”
“No, Heat, I can find my own boyfriend.”
“Sure, you can, but you need some help with the screening process. That's where I come in." Heat had been completely serious, and Amy knew it. "You find one you think has potential, give me his name and the necessary details, and in a couple of days I give you a thumbs up or a thumbs down."
“You’re not my father,” Amy had protested, not making eye contact.
“Nope, just the guy who pulled you off the streets and cleaned you up,” Heat flippantly replied.
“This is none of your business.”
“I made it my business,” Heat growled. “You can walk out anytime you want. I won’t stop you. But so long as you work for me, Amy, no man is going to hit you, cut you, or abuse you.”
“Ben is nice.”
“I hope so,” Heat had told her. “Set up a lunch. I want to meet him.”
That had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Amy got up and left his office, slamming the door behind her. He'd followed her, intent on getting Amy to understand she needed some help if for no other reason than to stop dating abusers. Round two of their discussion had ended with Amy standing and pointing at the office door. Her expression indicated Heat needed to leave immediately, their HR meeting for the day had concluded.
Thinking of his summons by the police to answer questions, Heat shook his head in disgust as he eased his Honda Pilot out of its parking spot. First, the idiot in Suite 210, yelling at him about something stupid Wolf had done, the phone call from Detective Garcia, and now Amy flaking out on him.
“This is going to be a long day.”
CHAPTER THREE
"LOOK AT YOU, BOUCHER," Heat mumbled a greeting to his fellow ex-pat from Louisiana. "Egyptian cotton?"
Boucher nodded, running the back of the fingers of his left hand up and down his dress shirt. “Nothin’ but the best for Missus Boucher’s baby boy,” he replied. “Might not have two nickels to rub together, but I’m gonna look good.”
Ignoring Garcia, Heat shoved his hands in his worn and stained khaki pants and leaned against the hallway's dirty wall. “Why did the two of you call me down here? What has Wolf done this time?”
“I didn’t call you,” Boucher protested, pointing as his partner. “Miguel did.”
Garcia frowned at Boucher. “Look, we don’t want no scene now, Heat. Let’s take this someplace where we can talk in private.”
Heat stared at the Latino detective. Miguel Garcia had come up through the ranks the hard way, earning his detective shield. On the other hand, Elijah Boucher had somehow wrangled himself a shield during his stint in the New Orleans police force and, knowing Boucher, had finagled himself a detective’s job when he’d followed his ex-wife to Houston after Hurricane Katrina. The two detectives couldn’t have come from more disparate backgrounds. Garcia from a working-class family. Boucher from old money and French creole society in New Orleans, the youngest of four children and the only male heir. An odd couple they indeed were. But the pair had the highest clearance rate of any detectives in Houston's Homicide Division.
If Heat had murdered someone, Boucher and Garcia were not the detectives he would want to catch the case.
“THAT’S WOLF.”
"You sure," Boucher asked kindly, nodding at the young male intern to pull the white covering back over the body. The intern restored the body to its resting place in the long wall of square, stainless steel doors, each hiding what had once been a living person.
"I'm sure," Heat replied in a surly tone. "Why didn't you just tell me this is why you wanted me to come down here?"
A stony silence ensued, tipping Heat off as to the pair’s reasoning. “You think I did this to Wolf,” he growled, clenching his fists.
“Hey, chill, man,” Garcia quipped, placing his hand on the butt of his pistol. “We had to start with you, Heat. Word is you and Wolf ain’t been getting’ along so well of late.”
“So? It’s like being married when you’re partners, you two should know that," Heat snapped. "You have ups and downs, but you don't just go and get a divorce because the other spouse pisses you off half the time. Wolf and I were goin’ through a patch, that’s all.”
“Where were you, last night, say from eight till bout three in the morning?” Boucher asked in his smooth manner.
“Watching a no good, cheating, soon to be ex-wife of a client have a night on the town.”
“That’s nice, but just tellin’ me, that ain’t proof.”
“How about the ticket stub from the House of Blues? They started the evening there, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones were the main act. Then it was off to the JW Marriot Downtown for some carnal fun. I have time stamps on the photographs if you want. After that, I went home to sleep for a couple of hours."
Boucher nodded, stroking his immaculately groomed mustache with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Sounds good, but you’re gonna have to produce the stub and the photos.”
“If you like that sort of music, yeah, it was a good show.”
“Email me the photos this afternoon,” Garcia said firmly, handing Heat a card. “My email is on there.”
Garcia took his cue from his partner and moved the questioning along. “Let’s say you didn’t do it, Heat. Anyone come to mind that would do this to Wolf?”
"Lots of anger, whoever did it," Heat replied, stating the obvious. "Yeah, I can think of a few husbands Wolf caught that would want to do that to him. Few other people I can think of as well."
"Can you get us a list of names," Garcia asked respectfully. Heat was in a mood, and being pushy was not going to generate any cooperation. "Sooner would be better, first forty-eight hours, you know?"
Heat nodded. “As soon as I get back to my office. Can I go now?”
“Yeah, I think so. You got any other questions, Elijah?”
“Yeah, I do,” Boucher blurted out. “How did Wolf get that for a nickname?”
Heat stared at Boucher and let out a long sigh. "His name was Wolfgang Johann Pfeiffer, fourth-generation German-American, from the Fredericksburg area. Wolf was just short for Wolfgang."
“YEAH, BOSS?”
“Get me the list of all the husbands who threatened to kill Wolf.”
Amy's pulse quickened, and she dropped the phone. Hurriedly, she retrieved the headset and held it to her head again.
“Boss? Is Wolf okay?”
Heat responded by saying nothing, letting the silence over the phone line do his talking for him. He hadn’t figured out how to tell Amy what happened to Wolf. Not telling her seemed like as good a way as any once she asked the question. Heat could hear Amy’s rapid breathing over the phone as she worked up the nerve to ask the question he didn’t want to answer.
“Is Wolf dead?”
"Yeah, Amy, he is. It's why I need the list. Boucher and Garcia want it, and I want to cooperate."