Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1)

by Sebastian Blunt

  “Yes. And I don’t think I’m from here.”

  “Right. Me neither. So what’s your name?”

  Jones started to say something but then stopped suddenly. “Isn’t it on my chart?”

  “Nope. You came in here with nothing but the dress you were wearing. No I.D., no bag, nothing.”

  “My name is—”

  “One sec. Let me get a pen. Okay, go ahead.”

  “My name is—damn it!”

  “I’m Doctor Altman. I’m glad to see you are awake. You had me a bit worried the first two days you were here since you took a pretty good hit to your head.”

  She gazed up at the textbook-looking physician. He was trim, no facial hair, black-rimmed glasses—nerd. “Look, doc, I’ve got a massive headache. When will I be able to get out of here?”

  “When you’re healed enough, which will not be today. Can you tell me your name?”

  “I told the nurse. She must have written it down.”

  “That’s strange; it’s not in your file. Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Um. Yes, well. It’s…” Glenda was starting to panic. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I can’t remember.”

  “All right. Don’t get upset. You took a good wallop. Losing your memory is not completely unusual. It will come back in a few hours or a few days, most likely.”

  “What do you mean by most likely?”

  “Just what I said. You’ll get your memory back. Maybe in big chunks, or maybe all at once. But we do need to talk.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I hear you. Reaching for memories that aren’t there is frightening, but be patient; in a day or two, you will begin to recall everything—most likely.”

  “Why do you keep saying ‘most likely’ if you are so sure it will come back?”

  “I’m from New York. We always hedge our bets.”

  “Doc! That’s what you’re going with?”

  Altman closed the door and sat down on a chair next to the bed. He wasn’t sure where to start, so he stated something obvious. “You’re a transwoman. Did you know that?”

  Jones squinted. “Of course I know that. I’ve been this way for a decade.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  Glenda had a blank expression on her face. “I don’t know.”

  “Right, so your memories aren’t wiped. They’re just waiting to come back to the surface. That’s my guess.”

  “Again, the ‘guess’ and ‘most likely,’ isn’t giving me a lot of confidence.”

  Doctor Altman twisted his head to loosen his neck muscles. “Smith or Jones?”

  “Huh?” asked Glenda.

  “I need to put a name on the chart. I can’t stand using Jane Doe.”

  “Oh. So, I think Smith is probably more my style.”

  Altman scribbled the name onto the top of the clipboard.

  “I don’t want to make light of this situation. That’s why I closed the door. As I said, I’m from New York. I did an internship and residency in Brooklyn. I’ve seen a lot of shit. That scrape on the side of your head looks like a grazing wound.”

  “The nurse said it looked like it could have been a bunch of things. Maybe I bumped into a fence. Who knows?”

  “Nah. Ms. Smith, I think maybe someone took a shot at you. It looks like that kind of wound, but I’m just basing that on a hunch. Do you think because you are a transwoman that someone wanted to put a bullet in you? If so, then that is a hate crime, and I need to get the cops involved.”

  “No cops. They will just haul me in and call me a suspect.”

  “Why? Because you’re black?”

  “Not the black part. What happens to an African American transwoman with amnesia and a possible gunshot wound? They will automatically think criminal activity, even if they assume that I am the victim.”

  “Were you doing something illegal? I’m an M.D., so you have the doctor-patient privilege thing. I won’t say a damn thing.”

  “Hell, no. I’m not a criminal. Never was, ever. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

  “The guys at the stone quarry said they found you in the back of the truck, flat out on a layer of dirt. They’d just driven all the way from New York City. Harlem, to be exact. They dropped off a load of fieldstone by some building. Do you think you crawled into the back of that truck in east Harlem?”

  “No clue. But I can’t imagine that I would do that in the clothes I was wearing unless someone chased me.”

  “Fine. No cops for now. Rest up. Enjoy your stay in West Virginia, a state where transwomen with amnesia get great medical care.”

  The next day, Glenda woke up with a smaller headache and was able to go to the bathroom with the help of the RN. Her name was Becky, and she wasn’t Florence Nightingale, and she wasn’t Nurse Ratched either—but somewhere in between.

  “I’m glad you ain’t dead,” said Becky.

  “Me too. Can I get a minute alone in here?”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure. Do you mind if I talk to you through the door? I want to make sure you don’t pass out.”

  Glenda grunted. “Does that ever happen here?”

  “Nope, it is extremely rare that anyone stays here more than a few hours. I get the feeling that Altman has taken an interest in your case. Maybe it beats diagnosing Strep and hemorrhoids all day.”

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t have Strep, but if you don’t start putting fiber in my food, I might end up with that other thing.”

  “White rice, maybe?”

  “Your kidding. You are a nurse, right?”

  Becky laughed. “We like to stoke our patients. I’ll get you some bran flakes. Don’t sweat it.”

  “I’m done.”

  Jones wasn’t allowed to go straight back to bed. Altman insisted that she make a couple of passes up and down the short hallway under her own power. After that, her nap was interrupted by the sound of a kid crying loud enough to wake the dead.

  Altman finally walked in. “How’d you like that screaming boy? A little frightening, eh?”

  “What’d you do to him?”

  “Funny. Little Bobby put a fishhook through his thumb. That happens about five times a week in the summer. I mean, not the same kid, but that’s what happens out here in the country.”

  “I’ll be careful if I go fishing.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will be. Now, what do you remember?”

  “I didn’t get shot.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “I got mugged—in Philly. The guy took a swing at me, and he must have had something metal in his hand because it stung like an S.O.B. when it scraped my head.” Somehow, I remember that, and then someone ran into me, and that’s all I got.”

  Josh stared at his patient, then laughed. “Good story.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Okay. Let’s ditch your fairytale. I checked a few things. That truck that you ended up in? It was dumping off stone in Harlem for a job. Some people must have money up there. Then, in a really strange coincidence, two guys got shot in the garage of the same building. It just hit the news today. Somebody hushed it up. Is this starting to sound familiar?”

  “You can’t tell anyone. Please.”

  “So my guess about your memory coming back was a good one. Everyone likes to give crap to the doctor, but sometimes I’m right in my predictions.”

  “I woke up in the middle of the night. It started flooding back in. Can you tell me more? The garage stuff is hazy.”

  Altman checked the door and lowered his voice. “Two guys down. A cop named Ty Williams and a teenager name Juan something. Are you the good guy or the bad guy in this?”

  Glenda snorted. “What do you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  “If I’m the good guy, then we have to talk. And if I’m the bad guy, then you’re taking a big risk.”

  The doc shook his hands in the air, feigning fear. “Actually, you’re the one walking the tightrope. Becky’s got a .45 in he
r desk, and I promise you that she is a real marksman. This is hillbilly country; the youngsters get their first weapon in kindergarten.”

  “Then I suppose it’s better to be the innocent victim.”

  “Are you?” asked Altman.

  “Victim? Yes. Innocent? Most of the time.”

  The physician sat down and leisurely unbuttoned his lab coat. “Start talking.”

  “The things I tell you might put you in a little danger.”

  “I’m from New York. I worked in the emergency room at the nastiest hospital in Brooklyn, Ms. Smith.”

  “It’s Jones.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “I mean, my real name is Jones.”

  “I’ll leave Smith on the chart.”

  “I’m a reporter for an aggressive newspaper. I’m good at digging up dirt. Maybe too good.”

  “That puts me in a difficult position. If you were at the scene of a double homicide, I gotta turn you over to the cops.”

  “Don’t do that. If you do, then I’ll be dead in 48 hours.”

  “C’mon. Haven’t you heard of witness protection?”

  Glenda was quiet for a few moments, thinking of a response. “Sure. And I won’t make it that far. If you tell me that Ty and the Hispanic kid got shot, then these people are hunting for me right now. And there are cops involved, dirty cops. No. I’ve got to disappear.”

  “That puts me in a bad position,” said Altman.

  “Let me tell you the straight-up news, doc—you’re already in the crosshairs. If they find out that I was here for a week? I’ve figured out a lot of things, and the people looking for me won’t think twice about some country doctor; you and your family.”

  A trickle of sweat emerged on Josh Altman’s forehead. To Jones, it looked like the physician was weighing options.

  “I don’t have a family. I don’t even have a girlfriend right now.”

  “Do you have friends? Anyone they could track down if they find out that I was here?”

  “No. A couple of friends from Brooklyn. I don’t see them much at all. Only Becky, and she’s a loner because her boyfriend is a trucker.”

  “You both have to scrub this place like I was never here. And Becky needs to understand that she has to forget about me forever. I’ll go somewhere until I figure out who I can trust.”

  “Try Los Angeles or further. If your gangsters are as connected as you claim, then they will trace you here—to Becky and me. That means I’ll be watching over my shoulder for the next twenty years. No thanks. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Like what, Doc?”

  “Like you’re going to stay by me until we figure this out. The operative word is ‘we’ because I don’t want to be collateral damage in whatever it is that you’ve uncovered.”

  “What about the truck people?” asked Glenda. “The dudes in Harlem will figure out that there was a truck coming out of that building. It may not be much to go on, but they might track it to your buddies at the quarry.”

  Altman looked stressed. “That’s a problem.”

  “Yeah, a big f-ing conundrum.”

  They both sat there thinking things through.

  “Becky’s boyfriend knows the two guys who brought you here. They were already told to shut up about the whole thing. With any luck, they didn’t tell anyone. Becky will get them to keep quiet.”

  “Wow. Good plan,” Jones said sarcastically. “You want to put your life in the hands of a couple of Appalacian truckers? Did you see the movie Deliverance?”

  “This is West Virginia. People know how to keep their mouths shut. If they get a call from N.Y., it will be a dead-end for whoever’s hunting you. In the meantime, Ms. Jones, we just became roommates. Or you might say, friends without benefits.”

  “West Virginia,” said Peter.

  “Tell me more,” she responded.

  “The surveillance camera at the garage got a picture of a dump truck from West Virginia.”

  “Is there video?”

  “Unfortunately not. The thing takes snapshots every thirty seconds. They didn’t want to spring for a $150 hard disk, allowing for continuous streaming. A few terabytes would have solved the problem.”

  “T.M.I., Peter. Did you get a still shot of Jones in the back of the truck?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “So either the reporter has excellent timing, fell into an open truck, and is in another state, or she’s hiding out in the city licking her wounds. Where do you think we should be looking?”

  “I think we should track down that truck.”

  “Wrong, Peter. If she were shot and then found in the back of a West Virginia vehicle, the media would be on that story like white on rice. No, Glenda Jones is hunkered down somewhere in Harlem—or maybe further out. Start shaking the trees, and don’t be overly gentle.”

  “May I just ask. Don’t you think she could be in a hospital? Maybe the driver found her and took her?”

  “Zero chance, but you can have one of your group call the hospitals down there and pretend to be a friend. Make up a script and make it believable.

  “On the other hand, a gunshot wound is an automatic call to the police. We would know by now. What kind of crazy E.R. doctor would ignore the law and not report a G.S.W.? It doesn’t happen, even in a backward place like West Virginia. A story like that would be all over. Make your checks, but I’d say Jones is within five miles of here, so start squeezing the locals. If you don’t find anything in three weeks, then you can go visit the hillbillies.”

  Chapter 10

  Kimberly Manshu was, by all opinions, attractive. As usual, she arrived at the Jefferson Town Bank precisely on time and conservatively dressed. She did her best to be just another bank specialist, but her looks and intelligence stood out noticeably.

  Because of her momma, a tall woman of Jamaican and East African roots, Kim had a Kenyan marathoner's looks but with a few added pounds of muscle and grace—there wasn’t a man in Belize that could look only once.

  “Good morning!”

  “And to you,” she replied to her co-worker.

  “Your brother’s looking for you.”

  “This early? He’s usually asleep until ten after chasing punks off the beach at three in the morning.”

  Alvin handed her a piece of paper. “He said to call him at this number.”

  She looked at the note. The number wasn’t familiar. Kimberly headed to her desk, which sat dead-center in the bank's large, high-ceilinged main hall. Four large pillars formed a square, and behind that was the massive vault. It was a regal-looking building, but that made sense considering the amount of money held secretly for so many elite clients.

  “Hello, Kenny. Did you call? This isn’t your usual number.”

  “I know, Kim. I’m down in the morgue, and there is no cellphone here.”

  “As long as you’re there on business and not a resident, I’m okay.” She laughed at her own humorous observation.

  “Yes. Business. I’m reviewing a case that everyone else is frustrated with. I need you to check something at the bank.”

  She hesitated. “Brother, that is not so simple. If you want me to check if I have some spare envelopes, no problem.”

  Ken, a Belize detective on San Pedro, understood her meaning instantly. He mulled over his options. A court order would die on the vine. Judges routinely told the department to shove it whenever they tried to subpoena bank records—even in a murder case. He tried a different tactic. “Okay. Nevermind. It’s not that important, but let’s have lunch today. You’re buying.”

  “I bought last time, brother.”

  “I know, but I am a cheapskate.”

  She sighed. “Where?”

  “Guess!”

  “Elvi’s? At noon? You’ve got rich taste on my wallet.”

  Tourists loved Elvira’s for many reasons, and any native with a brain loved the place also. Kenny had a habit of choosing the restaurants where San Pedro tourists ate. He li
ked to scan the foreigners and imagine what kinds of laws they might be breaking—that was Kim’s take on it.

  She sat at a small table for two. The detective was already waiting and made an obnoxious point of looking at his watch and tapping his foot.

  “I work for a living. Being fashionably late is fine, also.”

  “Yes, but mom asked me to keep you in line, and that includes making sure you stay punctual.”

  “Really? Well, Dad told me to ignore you at every opportunity.”

  “I already ordered for you. The thing you want, as always.” He displayed a more severe look. “I need you to get some records for me. It’s important.”

  “I can’t.” She shook her head emphatically.

  Detective Manshu returned an intense gaze. “We are talking about a murder investigation.”

  “So go to the judge—”

  “I can’t, and he won’t.”

  She twisted her lips subtly. “Try a different judge.”

  His frustration surfaced. “The judges have no brains. With or without the extra years of school, they would let a crime go unsolved rather than bend a little.”

  “You call digging through records a little bending? We’re talking about billions of dollars held by some big people. Don’t you get it? Those are the important clients, and you and I are the little people. We don’t get to screw with the rich people's money and accounts. I said that in a way that you can understand.”

  “Check it anyway.”

  “Kenny, you are dense sometimes.”

  He slid a piece of paper across the table as the server brought out the seafood that Kimberly adored.

  “What’s this?”

  “Shrimp,” he answered.

  “No, stupid. I mean this paper.”

  “It’s a date range—just two days. I want to know how many people made deposits over 100k. Do you see the other date? That coincides with another murder that might be the same killer. I think that if I find large deposits that happened in conjunction with the timing of the murders….”

  “You are crazy. Maybe you should go to all the jewelry stores to see if anyone bought a diamond on those days.”

  “That is why you work in a bank and not as a cop. It just so happens that the two victims had big money taken out of their American accounts before they came to San Pedro and got dead. What do you think happened to that cash? Did you ever hear the phrase follow the money?”