The Death Box (34 page)

Authors: J. A. Kerley

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense, #Fiction, #General

We filed out in unison, Roy McDermott’s crime crew, the crème de la crime.

Three days passed. Kazankis was dragged off to jail screaming about being a martyr for Christ and I figured some prison psychiatrist was going to have a field day. The crew, my crew, Ziggy’s crew, told us to take a couple days off while they handled the legwork.

There was much good to study, and a tiny bit of bad to deal with. On the good side: My first-ever case in Florida was closing on a soprano arpeggio. Leala Rosales was being assisted by Victoree Johnson. I had high hopes, her resiliency was amazing, her fortitude uncanny. A survivor.

And the bad? I was getting booted from the coolest digs I’d ever known: a nifty house with my own private jungle. It seemed the parcel was zoned for multi-occupancy dwelling and had been bought over the weekend by C & A Enterprises to remake as a condo complex. I’d not had time to search out another place yet, so today’s challenge was seeing if the new owners would give me a few days to find a cheap apartment where I could hole up and look for a house.

I was taking one of my final looks at the quiet little cove when the knock came to the door, a death knell. Roy entered, followed by one of the department’s legal types, T. Raymond Bellington, a compact and overdressed guy with too much cologne and seeming a bit too happy at selling my transient digs from beneath me.

I tapped Bellington’s fingers in the approximation of a handshake. “So you got a new place I hope, Detective?” he said. “Ready to vacate today?”

“Working on it.”

Roy wanted coffee, which I had, Bellington asking did I have a non-caffeinated herbal tea? When I said I did not, but go outside and pick leaves from something and I’d boil them for him, he gave me a look and said water would be fine. I fetched beverages and we went out to the deck. I wanted to spend as much time as possible in my vanishing kingdom.

“Seems kinda sad to turn this into condos,” Roy said.

Bellington disagreed. “Better land usage,” he noted. “Higher occupant density.”

We heard tires moving down the lane. I seemed unable to rise and Roy went inside to answer the door, stepping to the deck a minute later and leading a tall and square-jawed man in his early forties and his assistant, a squat and dark-eyed woman reminiscent of Gertrude Stein. His name was Alan Winquist, hers Francine Bashore. They wore conservative business attire, Winquist opting for a gray palette, Miz Bashore going for a subdued purple, though offset with a sunny orange scarf.

“You work for C & A Enterprises?” I asked, pulling out a chair for Bashore and trying to appear upbeat.

“On a retainer basis,” Bashore said, nodding and sitting. “C & A has a finger in several pots, as they say. Development is a new endeavor.”

“You’re from a Memphis law firm?” Roy asked. He’d spent a few early years in Memphis where, I assumed, they were still recovering.

“Barlett, Duncan, and Ives.”

“Haven’t they all been dead since the Civil War?” Roy said.

“I believe Mr Duncan lived until the late fifties,” Bashore said. “The rumor that he studied under Oliver Cromwell is incorrect, but he did clerk for Oliver Wendell Holmes.”

The firm of BD&I was old line white-shoe. Not the type to grant exceptions. Dropping to my knees and begging was out.

“Our employer was considering sitting in,” Bashore said, glancing at her watch. “But we’re to go ahead if he couldn’t make it.” She pulled a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. “Any questions before we make it official?”

“Uh, Carson,” Roy said. “Didn’t you have a small request?”

I cleared my throat. “I’ve been, uh, intending to find another place, but it seems I’ve not quite located a suitable, uh …”

A frown from Bashore. “If you’re asking if you can remain here, we’re only here to transfer the property. I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

A knock at the door. Roy jumped up to answer it, good, since my legs felt dead.

There was a motel down the road I could move to this evening. Or rent storage space and bunk with Gershwin for a few days. Or I could ask Dubois to store my stuff in his garage and …

“Our new arrival,” Roy said, stepping back out to the deck. “To those who don’t know him I’ll introduce Doctor August Charpentier. Have a seat with the group, Doctor.”

My heart stopped. It was my brother, Jeremy, in his false identity. He sat and crossed his long legs, a picture of elegance in his sky-blue seersucker suit, open white shirt and blue-banded straw Panama. I concentrated on not keeling over as the head of FCLE’s investigative division handed coffee to my fugitive brother.

“Sorry to be tardy,” Jeremy said in a Frenchified accent. “I’ve been on the phone with my long-winded accountants. How are the proceedings going?”

“We’re making the transfer, sir,” Winquist said. “A wonderful site for multiple units, I’d say.”

Jeremy nodded. “Excellent, though my accountants just advised me to delay actual site development until several new tax issues are resolved. I’ll simply hold the property for a bit.”

“Accountants know best,” Bashore said.

“It does, however, leave me with a bit of a problem.”

“Which is, Doctor Charpentier?”

Jeremy cleared his throat as if preparing to ask a great favor, and turned to me. “I guess my question is, Mr Ryder, if you haven’t already made other plans … could you possibly remain here as a tenant? Keep the place safe and all?”

I tried to speak, couldn’t. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I, uh, guess that might work, Doctor,” I managed. “For a bit, at least.”

Jeremy clapped his hands. “Splendid. My cab awaits so I’ll leave you folks to work out the details. Rent of say, four hundred dollars a month?”

Winquist raised an eyebrow. “That seems exceedingly low, sir.”

“Then I’ll consider it an investment in law enforcement, an occupation that has always fascinated me.”

“Are you heading back to Kentucky, Doctor?” Bashore asked as Jeremy turned for the deck door.

“No, I’m staying a few days to check out local properties.”

I stood and walked him through the house as the lawyers scratched on papers. Roy followed to refill his coffee cup, too close for Jeremy and I to drop our façades.

“Local properties, sir?” I said, barely able to squeak out words.

Jeremy nodded as we reached the threshold, his hand on the knob. “I’m becoming attracted to sunnier climes, Mr Ryder. New worlds to conquer and all that.”

“Uh, where are you looking, sir?”

“I’m considering Key West. It has such a romantic history. I hear a lot of pasts have been buried out there.”

My mouth dropped open, and my brother’s grin went as wide as the horizon. He whispered, “See you soon, neighbor.”

And walked into the sunlight.

If you liked THE DEATH BOX, try:

THE KILLING GAME

He’s coming to get you …

After a humiliating encounter with a cop, Romanian immigrant Gregory Nieves launches a vendetta against the Mobile Police Department, Alabama. Nieves can’t fight a department, so he selects one man who symbolizes all men in blue: Carson Ryder, the MPD’s specialist in bizarre and twisted crimes.

Carson has never seen a killing spree like it: nothing connects the victims, the murder weapon is always different, and the horrific crime scenes are devoid of evidence. It almost seems he’s being taunted. Even laughed at.

Carson doesn’t know it yet, but he is caught up in a sadistic game of life and death. And there can only be one victor …

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The Killing Game

Acknowledgements

Thanks to the fine crew at the Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency, and an equally splendid group at HarperCollins, UK, most notably Sarah Hodgson and Anne O’Brien. An ex-adman, I also recognize the too-often-unsung heroes in the Marketing department. Great job, all.

About the Author

J.A. Kerley spent years as an advertising agency writer and producer before his wife demanded he quit work and write a novel, which he thought a fine idea. The result was
The Hundredth Man
, the first in the Carson Ryder series. An avid angler, canoeist and hiker, Kerley has traveled extensively throughout the South, especially coastal regions such as Mobile, Alabama, the setting for many of his novels, and the Florida Keys. He has a cabin in the Kentucky mountains, which appeared as a setting in
Buried Alive
. He lives in Newport, Kentucky, where he enjoys sitting on the levee and watching the barges rumble up and down the Ohio River.

Also by J.A. Kerley

The Hundredth Man

The Death Collectors

The Broken Souls

Blood Brother

In the Blood

Little Girls Lost

Buried Alive

Her Last Scream

The Killing Game

Harper

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins
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2013

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Jack Kerley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007493654

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007493661

Version: 2013-12-05

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