Nine Cocktails

by J. V. Speyer

  Nine Cocktails

  By J.V. Speyer

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 J.V. Speyer

  ISBN 9781634869874

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For Sophia.

  * * * *

  Nine Cocktails

  By J.V. Speyer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 1

  Abby drummed her fingertips on her tablet as Mark guided their giant Crown Vic down Summer Street. Summer Street wasn’t supposed to be this wide or open, and up by its start near Boston Common it was exactly as it should be. Down here by Fort Point, Summer Street had been widened, made modern and bland. It could be any street in any city in the country, and Abby hated it.

  None of the widening changed the volume of traffic on Summer Street. Whether true to seventeenth century form or expanded to accommodate the twenty-first, Summer Street was always a clogged mess. Abby and Mark had lights and sirens to get them through the unholy tangle.

  “Where are all these people going?” Mark gripped the wheel hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “Shouldn’t they all be home by now?”

  “Nah, this is close enough to the Financial District. They’re all putting in overtime, trying to impress someone.” Abby scoffed. Her stepbrother worked in one of those buildings. She never could be sure which one. Steve-o changed jobs too often for her to keep track. Whatever it was he did, he made good money at it. She couldn’t imagine it was worth the long hours.

  Granted, here she sat, inching her way through traffic at nine-thirty at night on her way to yet another crime scene. At least Steve-o got paid for it, and paid well too.

  She made a face. “What do we know about this case?”

  Mark sucked his lower lip in, like he was about to drop an f-bomb. Then he glanced down at his wrist, where a rubber band dangled over an angry red welt. Mark’s kid was about eighteen months old now, and repeating everything that came out of Mark’s mouth. He was making a good-faith effort to clean up his language, something Abby had to applaud.

  “Not a whole lot,” Mark said, once he’d recovered his thoughts. “We know we’ve got a dead body, throat cut. Vic is male, about thirty. Crime scene is outside The Gin Barrel and he hasn’t been there that long.”

  “Did anyone try to save him?” If he hadn’t been there all that long, it was possible someone had tried to save him. Maybe they could have. People did sometimes survive having their throat cut. At the same time, rescue attempts would have compromised the scene.

  Abby curled her lip in disgust at herself. Compromising the scene should be the last of her worries, if there had been any possibility of the victim surviving. Instead here she was weighing the benefit like there was any comparison to saving a human life. She’d been in this job too long.

  “No. He hadn’t been dead long, but the weather isn’t great and no one wants to be out in it. The person who called 9-1-1 rolled him over and saw exposed bone, saw the blood, saw his eyes were fixed and glassy. There wasn’t anything left to pump with CPR, according to dispatch.” Mark shook his head and took the left onto A Street.

  “Yikes.” A slashing like that would have been brutal. “It takes a lot of rage to get to that point.”

  Mark grunted. “Or a lot of training.”

  Abby snorted. “Which is more likely, in Boston outside a bar? A ton of rage, or some Navy Seal creeping up out of Fort Point Channel to go cutting throats of random drunks in the night?”

  A tiny smile played at the corners of Mark’s mouth. “Embrace your and, Morgan. There’s no reason a Navy Seal couldn’t have crept up out of Fort Point Channel and cut someone’s throat good and deep. Maybe he was pissed off about all the tea. Or maybe it was road rage.”

  Abby snickered as Mark parked the car in a no-parking zone on Congress, right outside the bar. A few people honked their horns and gave them the finger. It was part of the job. Abby hardly noticed anymore.

  She looked over the building in which the bar was housed. She’d never been in here before. Steve-o had sent her a link to the bar’s website. It was way too rich for her blood. Plus, the whole thing seemed kind of pretentious, almost like it was gentrifying Boston’s past. The Gin Barrel was located in the basement of a building that had once been a warehouse, that had once been a factory, that had once been a different warehouse, with a once-notorious brothel on top. It had no flashing neon signs and didn’t serve lowbrow anything, but it deliberately harkened back to the days when gin was a poor man’s tipple. It was like they wanted to pretend there was something dashing and romantic about rats, human trafficking, and venereal disease.

  She sniffed and walked past the stairs leading to the door. The medical examiner, Dr. Kessler, had arrived before them, but had waited before moving the body. She was ready now.

  Kessler scowled. “The person who rolled him over almost took off his head.” She squatted and pointed to the massive wound in the victim’s neck, which lolled dangerously.

  Abby grimaced. “This isn’t a throat slashing. Someone tried to behead this guy.” The coppery scent of blood mixed with the low-tide aroma of the Fort Point area started to churn Abby’s stomach. Lord, she shouldn’t have had that paneer thing tonight. Dairy didn’t agree with her most nights, but it was even worse when she had an especially fragrant murder scene to deal with. This could only be a rage killing. If they could figure out why someone would get angry enough at this guy to want to take his head like something out of Highlander, they’d find a suspect.

  “I can’t speak to intent, and I can’t get into specifics until I’ve examined the body in the lab. But speaking in layman’s terms, yes. The assailant did come close to severing the victim’s head from his body.” Kessler wrinkled her pretty little nose. “Transportation may be an issue. We’ll do our best, but I’ve told the crime scene specialists to take extra care with photography just in case.”

  Christ. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Abby looked around for Mark. He was in the alley between The Gin Barrel and the next building over, squinting at something on the brick wall.

  “What’ve you got here?” Abby slipped a pair of nitrile gloves onto her hands and joined her partner.

  “Five wads of used chewing gum, all stuck on the wall in a neat little row.” Mark waved at a spot on the wall, and Abby stared. Whoever had put the gum there had indeed lined the gum up perfectly. Maybe one p
erson would have lined their wad of chewing gum up with the previous vandal, under an impish impulse or just by accident. Five people all doing the same thing was unlikely.

  Abby hailed a crime scene tech, who brought a photographer over. “That’s quite a find. With any luck, we can get some DNA on it,” she said to Mark. “It’s a big clue. Completely disgusting, but a big clue.”

  Mark made a face. “You know you’re in Boston when…” He shook his head. “It proves intent, though. Our boy must have stood here waiting for the vic for quite a while, you know? He wasn’t just looking to take out some guy. He was targeting our boy, and he had all the time in the world.”

  “Even though it’s cold and damp.” Abby ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. Boston had homicides. They had fewer homicides than other cities of the same size, but they still had homicides. Any time someone gathered people, money, and dirt in the same place people were going to kill each other.

  Most of those murders were pretty solvable, though. Domestic homicides were terrible, but Abby could at least follow the process from point A to point B. Abusers turned into killers at the drop of a hat. Gang-related homicides hurt Abby on a fundamental level but she could understand them. She could figure out the why, and once she had the why it was a pretty quick process to get to the who.

  Creepy and unique crimes like this were another thing. Boston didn’t have a lot of stranger or stalker crimes. And while the violence of the assault said rage, the gum said stalker. It was a bad combination.

  It was harder to solve, but at the end of the day murder was murder.

  She straightened her back. “Do we have an ID on our victim?”

  “Austin Connery, age thirty, currently living in Stoughton.” The crime scene tech didn’t look at either of them. “The medical examiner just pulled his wallet.”

  “Cool.” Abby didn’t comment about the tech knowing that information before the detectives. It wasn’t a contest. “Let’s go see if anyone inside knew him.”

  The people in the bar were restless already. Most of them just didn’t like being denied the opportunity to leave, even though uniformed officers were taking statements as fast as they could. A few had distinctly nervous expressions, and one jumped from one leg to another in front of the bathroom door. Mark rolled his eyes and sighed before going to talk to that individual in person.

  Working cases at a bar always had complications.

  Abby took in the scene before talking to anyone. The Gin Barrel had low lighting, deep pools of shadows broken up by regularly spaced lights. Three small, sleek, square bars took up the middle of the space. It wasn’t a huge place, which explained why there was always a line to get in. The staff dressed in black outfits intended to look old-fashioned, with striped aprons that provided pretty full coverage.

  The most senior uniform on the scene explained to Abby that most of the people stuck in the bar didn’t have any information. She asked them if they knew an Austin Connery, they said no, and they were free to go. Uniformed officers had their contact information. If Abby needed to get in touch with them later, she would.

  A handful of other patrons, on the other hand, had identified one patron as having seemed a little nervous. When Abby showed them the driver’s license picture of Connery, which had already arrived on her phone by the time she got to talk to that group, all of them agreed it was him. None of them knew why he’d been nervous—he was friendly with all of the staff, but he’d come in alone that night.

  Next, Abby spoke with the bar owner, Mike D’Agostino. D’Agostino staggered back in shock when Abby showed him the photo. “Geez. Austin’s a regular. It’s a shame, you know?” He bit his lip, and something in his eye reflected the dim lights of the bar. “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “This is from the ID in his pocket. Was he here tonight?”

  “He was. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him much. He was his usual happy self, but he did tell a couple of the bartenders he thought someone might have followed him.”

  That explained the chewing gum. If he’d been followed, his stalker would have waited outside so no one would have seen his attacker. “And did he leave at his usual time?”

  “No. He left a little early, to ‘throw the bastard off.’” D’Agostino sniffed, a wry chuckle emerging. “He never was one to just wring his hands and fret about something. God, this is so…I don’t know how I’m supposed to react.”

  Abby didn’t know either. She’d gone into the Academy because she wanted to help people, but it seemed like she only showed up when it was too late to help. “I’m not sure there is a ‘right’ way to react. Everyone is different, and it takes a while to process this kind of thing.” She handed him a card. “When you’re ready, I’ve got the numbers of some grief counselors we’ve referred folks to in the past. I’m sorry to have to keep pestering you right now, but it’s vital that we get as much information as we can in the first forty-eight hours.”

  “I saw that on TV.” D’Agostino took a deep breath. “Sorry. What else do you need?”

  “The better we know the victim, the easier it is for us to figure out why he was targeted. And that way, we can figure out who did it. Are there any staff members to whom he was close?”

  D’Agostino scratched at his jaw. “Well, yeah. Um, he had good relationships with all the bartenders, like I said, but he was really tight with Paige.”

  “Paige?”

  “Paige Lim.” D’Agostino pointed to the center bar. Behind the bar stood the most beautiful bartender Abby had ever seen. She was about medium height, and her chin-length hair had been dyed purple at the ends. Her hand shook as she measured out a shot.

  “I’ll interview her. Thanks.” Abby shook D’Agostino’s hand and approached Lim.

  * * * *

  Paige froze when the cop approached her bar. Since when did they hire cops who looked like this? For one thing, if this detective wasn’t gay Paige would burn her camera tonight. Straight women might cut their hair short, but they wouldn’t get a cut like that. Paige couldn’t see much of the detective’s skin, but the hint of some kind of black-ink chest piece stuck out through her white dress shirt.

  God, what a time to think about sex. Someone, Paige didn’t know who yet, had been killed. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with The Gin Barrel, but Paige wouldn’t bet on it. And sure, lots of the people working here had problems. Paige knew for sure seven of the patrons had issues with stalkers. One had even given her helpful advice on dealing with her own.

  None of that changed the absolute certainty, deep in Paige’s heart, that she was the one to blame for whatever had happened. Most of the patrons had already been dismissed, and for the bar to be empty by ten thirty on a Thursday night was going to kill their numbers. Paige wasn’t a businesswoman, but she knew a place like this couldn’t afford to be empty on Thirsty Thursday.

  She also knew she depended on the tips she got on crowded Thursday nights.

  What the hell is wrong with me? A man is dead, and I’m worrying about my tips?

  The cop walked up and sat down at an empty place. She glanced from side to side with her pale blue eyes, and then she gave a little grin. “Hi. I’m Detective Abby Morgan.”

  Paige blushed, even though she had no logical reason to be embarrassed. “I’m Paige,” she blurted.

  “I know. Mike D’Agostino told me.” Abby grinned a little and pulled out a notebook—a paper thing, really old school. Did people still use paper? What about the trees and such? “Listen, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I won’t insult your intelligence and pretend you don’t know why we’re all here.”

  Paige swallowed. “I know someone was killed.” She looked down at the bar for a second. “Do you mind if I clean up? The mess on the bar is making me antsy.”

  Abby grimaced. She looked genuinely sympathetic. “I wish I could. The crime scene team is going to have to take all of your dirties from you. I hate that, personally, but it is what it is. The killer’s DNA might
be in this room. I doubt it, for what it’s worth, but we have to make sure we cross all of our t’s and all that, or it creates a loophole for the killer when the district attorney brings him to trial.” She took a breath and pulled out her phone. “First things first. Do you know this man?”

  Paige covered her face. It didn’t matter if Austin was the victim or the killer, either option was bad. And Paige knew Austin. He wasn’t a killer. Not by any stretch of the imagination. “Oh my God.” She took a second to get control of herself. “Yes. Yes, I know him. He’s Austin Connolly. He’s here at least two nights a week.” She met Abby’s pale eyes. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Abby nodded, looking down. “It looks that way. They found his ID in the victim’s wallet, but they won’t make a positive identification until after the autopsy. D’Agostino said you were close?”

  Paige swallowed. “Yeah. I mean, I guess we were as close as he was to anyone in the area, you know? He’d only lived here for maybe a year, a year and a half. He’d come here from…” Paige had to search her memory. “Maine, maybe. He’d come here to work at one of the big banks but he didn’t have any friends in the area yet. He dated a little here and there, but no one really serious.”

  Abby’s posture shifted, subtly. “So, you two weren’t seeing each other?”

  Paige fought back tears and laughter at the same time. She didn’t know if that marked her as shallow, or fickle, or just insane. “He and I had the wrong equipment to interest each other. But I don’t know, I guess not everyone knew that.” She reached for a mixing glass. “Sorry. I need to do something with my hands.”

  “I get it.” One side of Abby’s mouth quirked up in half a grin. “Believe it or not, I understand. So, Connolly was in the closet?”

  “Not exactly.” Paige poured gin, vodka, and Lillet into the glass with ice and stirred. She didn’t need to measure. She’d made this drink a thousand times before. “He couldn’t be all Mr. Pride at work or anything, and I don’t think his family was too thrilled when he came out to them. He said they hadn’t spoken in years, but it wasn’t one of his favorite things to talk about.” She strained the drink into a coupé glass and pushed it over to Abby.