Twisted: Nick Stryker Series, Book Two The Shallow End Gals Read online

  Twisted

  Nick Stryker Series,

  Book Two

  The Shallow End Gals

  TERESA DUNCAN

  VICKI GRAYBOSCH

  LINDA MCGREGOR

  KIMBERLY TROUTMAN

  The Characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or coincidence.

  Copyright, 2015 Vicki Graybosch & Teresa Duncan & Linda McGregor & Kimberly Troutman

  All rights reserved

  Copyrighted Material

  ISBN: 1511452870

  ISBN 13: 9781511452878

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904834

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  Edited by Erika Canter

  Cover Photography by Kamber Lee Hadley

  BOOKS BY THE SHALLOW END GALS

  ALCOHOL WAS NOT INVOLVED,

  BOOK ONE OF TRILOGY

  EXTREME HEAT WARNING,

  BOOK TWO OF TRILOGY

  SILENT CRICKETS,

  BOOK THREE OF TRILOGY

  CATAHOULA, BOOK FOUR OF SERIES

  The Nick Stryker Series

  Cusp of Crazy, Book One

  TWISTED,

  BOOK TWO

  A VERY SPECIAL THANK YOU TO:

  SHERYL NOLAND

  MICHAEL SUTHERLAND

  LIST OF CHARACTERS AT THE END OF THE BOOK

  CONTENTS

  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

  List of Characters for Twisted:

  CHAPTER 1

  Monday 6:45 p. m.

  A key scratched in the lock. He quickly tightened the blanket around his shoulders and faced the wall in a fetal position. He willed his breathing to slow and prayed they would think he was sleeping. He heard heavy footsteps. Someone had walked toward the cot and stopped. A large finger pried his eyelid open. He forced his eyes to look back into his head and not stare at his captor. The finger released his lid and a rush of cold air replaced the warmth of the blanket. His veins surrendered to the icy burn of the drug as it pulled him into total darkness and back to the edge of hell.

  * * *

  54 Dalton Street, Chicago

  Karen Lomas had grudgingly planned tonight’s surprise birthday party for her husband, Reggie. His parents had flown into Chicago expecting her to have something special planned. Few people on this earth were more miserly, narrow minded and unlikable than Reggie. His parents were among them. Karen was financially trapped in a loveless, mind numbing existence until she completed her online courses next fall. With a well-paying job already secured and waiting, she took some comfort that this would be the last birthday of Reggie’s she had to endure.

  Karen threatened two of his coworkers into attending and Reggie’s only friend had brought the cake. That was good; she had forgotten a cake. Karen had grabbed a couple of ties from Reggie’s closet and wrapped them as his gift. He’d never know the difference. She wasn’t about to spend money from her meager household account on him.

  Reggie’s parents had arrived early with one of his childhood photos blown up and framed as his gift. She wondered how they had ever gotten it on the plane. It was a 24 by 24, ten year old toothless Reggie, in his undersized baseball uniform. Karen left for the kitchen when Reggie’s mom began walking around the living room with a hammer and nail.

  Karen took a swig from a vodka bottle, replaced the cap, and gasped as it burned its way down her throat. She wasn’t a drinker, yet. She heard the kids laughing at grandpa’s tired magic tricks. She cringed at the sound of the hammer banging on her newly patched plaster walls. The living room crowd clapped. The picture was hung; the deed was done.

  Reggie’s mom screeched from the living room, “It’s almost seven, Karen! You better get in here! We’re turning the lights out now.”

  Karen snatched a piece of cheese from the snack tray and glanced up at the clock. Six fifty nine. She still had six minutes. The one thing she could give Reggie credit for was predictability. He always arrived home at precisely five minutes past seven. Karen glanced at her reflection in the microwave door. She was still pretty. There was still time. She walked to stand in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. That awful picture now glared at her from over her fireplace. Chips of plaster were scattered across the hearth.

  Everyone stood silent in the dark. Reggie’s mom stood to the side of the door with one hand on the light switch and the other hand up to her mouth signaling quiet.

  Reggie walked up the front steps, disappointed that the house was dark. He would have thought that Karen might have at least fixed him a dinner on his birthday. He turned the doorknob and pushed open the door.

  The living room light came on and a crowd shouted “Surprise!” at the very instant his head exploded from a sniper’s bullet.

  * * *

  Attorney James Baxter’s cell phone rang as he pulled into his brownstone’s garage. The caller ID was blocked or the caller was using a burner phone. “Yes?”

  Alexia Cummings’ voice screeched from the other end. “Do you know what time it is?”

  James had arranged for Alexia’s husband to be shot when he arrived home at precisely seven this evening. Alexia had paid 50 grand for this divorce alternative. James looked at his watch: 7:30 p.m. “Is there a problem?”

  Alexia paused before answering curtly, “You could say that. I never received that package you promised would be delivered tonight.” Even though she was on a disposable cell, Alexia wanted to be careful of what she said. It was well known that Attorney James Baxter represented the mob. She was already nervous doing business with him.

  James exited his BMW. The lock chirped on his car as he walked to the door. “Something must have happened. I’ll get back to you.” He disconnected the call and punched in Frankie’s number.

  Eventually Frankie answered, “Yeah.”

  James tried to control his anger. Using Frankie for these hits was risky. If the mob found out they were contracting jobs on the side, they were both dead. At one time, Frankie was the best hit man the Chicago crew ever had. He was still trusted and, in theory, enjoying his retirement.

  “I’ve got an unhappy customer at 45 Dalton Street.” James waited for Frankie’s excuse.

  Frankie frantically pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. Did James just say 45 Dalton Street? He had written down 54 Dalton Street. Frankie’s hands began to shake. He willed them to stop and answered, “I had a problem. There were too many people around. Tell her I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  James detected nervousness in Frankie’s voice. “Are you okay? You’re starting to worry me. If we mess up and Dom finds out, we’re dead. This bitch is 50 grand pissed.”

  Frankie steadied his voice even though his mind was swirl
ing. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  Frankie glanced at his rifle case resting on the couch and slowly hung his jacket in the closet. He slid the gun case under his bed, walked back to the kitchen and poured himself two fingers of scotch. The booze burned his throat. He noticed that he had left the milk out on the counter. He could have sworn he had put it away.

  A rush of fear swept through Frankie’s mind. What had he done? This was a serious mistake. How could he fix this? Frankie forced his mind to focus. The newspaper will report the shooting at 54 Dalton Street. James will figure out he had hit the wrong address. James will distance himself from Frankie, and then set him up. That’s how it works. The bitch at 45 Dalton Street might figure this out, too. Frankie’s arthritis was gnawing at his knees. Damn it. He didn’t have a choice. He had two more kills to do tonight.

  Frankie layered up in his heavy, brown cardigan and long coat. He checked his pistol, dropped it into his pocket and descended down the steps to the sidewalk. As he walked toward the bus stop, he remembered when he had to disguise himself as an old man for a hit. There was spring crispness to the night air and the sidewalks glistened from a recent brief shower. Frankie’s allergies relaxed in the clean air.

  Frankie rang the doorbell at 45 Dalton Street. He briefly wondered who he had shot less than an hour earlier just a block away. Alexia opened the door and Frankie shot her between the eyes. The quiet ‘pop’ was barely audible. As she slid down the doorframe, Frankie picked up the newspaper from the stoop and slowly walked back toward the bus stop. He still had to visit James.

  * * *

  On the small front lawn at 54 Dalton Street, patrol officers struggled to keep the victim’s mother under control. The wife, Karen, was squatting down, her arms embracing her two children. Nick Stryker, Homicide Detective, and Jen Taylor, Nick’s partner, stood in the center of the living room. The coroner and Crime Scene Unit were preparing the body of Reggie Lomas for transport to the morgue.

  One of the CSU agents walked over. “We’re done here. Looks like everything happened right at the door like they said. Single bullet, a .300 Winchester Magnum, or something like it based on the damage. We’ll know more after we get him on the table.”

  Nick tilted his head for Jen to walk away from the crowd with him. “What’s your take on the wife?”

  Jen shrugged. “I’m sure she’s upset for the kids, but I haven’t seen a tear yet.”

  Nick respected Jen’s instincts. Jen wasn’t sold on the wife’s innocence.

  Nick glanced out the front door. “This was a sniper shot. Got that little park across the street; I’m going to check it out. See if you can’t get a list of family friends, business associates, anything.”

  Jen kept her voice soft and answered, “Not that many people here for a surprise party. Could be there aren’t many friends.” Jen noted the oversized picture of a young Reggie over the fireplace and plaster chips on the hearth. The furnishings were what her mom would call ‘thrift store treasures’. It was a pricey neighborhood. Jen was surprised at how austere the interior was furnished. Her mom would call it ‘shabby sad’.

  Jen added, “I’ll see if she won’t come in for an interview in the morning, and I’ll have her sign a release for bank and phone records now.”

  Nick pressured the Crime Scene Unit to work through the crime scene quickly. He wanted to be able to release it back to the family as soon as possible. It was always hard when family members witnessed the murder of a loved one, especially children. Nick’s five years in homicide hadn’t made dealing with grieving family members any easier.

  Nick walked to the small park across the street and walked around a six foot tall memorial wall. The wall would have provided cover for the shooter. Scrape marks on the concrete walk confirmed that the iron park bench had been slid to rest against the back of the wall. It made a perfect step ladder.

  Nick whistled for a CSU agent to join him. “Our shooter stood here. Check the bench and the top of that wall for prints.” Nick knew they wouldn’t find any. He glanced behind him again. A row of shrubs across from the walk would have offered perfect cover. The sidewalk circled back toward the street from each side of the memorial wall. The neighboring building was windowless on the side facing the park. Everything pointed to a professional job.

  Sticky, wet dogwood blossoms carpeted the sidewalk and grass along the walk. Tonight, the tiny neighborhood park was both a beautiful, green oasis blanketed in dogwood blossoms and the chosen spot of a killer.

  Nick’s phone buzzed. He listened to dispatch announce another shooting victim one block away. He lifted the crime scene tape, crossed the street and touched the coroner’s shoulder. “You’re going to get a call to head down the block. 45 Dalton. We’ll meet you there.”

  Jen also received a call on the second shooting and met Nick at their car. “I guess we can come back later to canvas the neighborhood.”

  Nick grinned as he pulled their car into traffic. “Livin’ the dream.”

  Jen smiled, “You better call Lacey. You’re going to miss that awards dinner tonight.”

  Nick cursed. “I forgot all about that, thanks.”

  Jen listened to Nick make his apologies as they sped down the block. She was convinced he couldn’t handle a real relationship without her help. He was so single-minded when on a case that he had left her at crime scenes.

  Nick glanced over, “Once again, you saved my butt.”

  Jen shook her head. “It’s purely selfish. If I marry you off, I don’t have to watch over you anymore.”

  * * *

  Attorney James Baxter stood at his back door as his wife’s Pekinese sniffed the bushes and grass for the perfect spot to do her duty. She had scratched a circle in at least three spots before deciding they were unworthy of her droppings. The dog never noticed him stumble forward from the steps and fold down onto the lawn, his lifeless form only feet from the orb of the back door’s light. Frankie considered taking the dog. Cute little bugger. He decided he didn’t want the bother. He’d probably just kill it after a few days anyway.

  He was tired and Dom had called a meeting for the morning. It wasn’t that often he was included in mob business these days. Something special was on the agenda. He needed to be fresh and alert, especially now that he had just shot Dom’s attorney.

  * * *

  45 Dalton Street, Chicago

  The Coroner whispered to Nick, “This is going to get messy.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you know who that guy is?” The coroner pointed to the grieving husband.

  Nick glanced over his shoulder and back to the coroner. Jen leaned in closer to hear.

  The coroner said, “Travis Cummings, investment banker for the mob.”

  Jen moaned, “Great.”

  Nick looked at the wound between Alexia’s eyes. “This wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. This was up close and personal. If he tests clean for gunshot residue, this might have been a warning shot.”

  Jen added, “From very bad people.”

  Nick leaned against the trunk of his car as he jotted notes from the street scene. The amber street lights cast eerie shadows down the long sidewalks. The brownstone adjacent to the Cummings’ residence did not have a front light on. Nick walked to stand at the edge of the darkness. In his peripheral vision, he saw something lodged at the edge of the sidewalk in the wet grass. He bent down; it was a dogwood blossom. Neither he nor Jen had walked that far from the crime scene.

  Nick bagged the blossom and asked each of the responders if they had walked on that part of the sidewalk. None of them had been more than fifty feet from the crime scene. Jen joined Nick outdoors and raised her eyebrows at the sight of his plastic evidence bag, “We have something?”

  Nick smiled as he handed Jen the baggie. “No dogwoods on this block.” He winked. “But there are plenty in the park across from 54 Dalton.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Tuesday 8:00 a.m.

  He forced his mind to focus
on his body. He practiced moving his fingers and toes, and did some deep breathing exercises. He sat upright on the cot and dangled his legs over the side. The small room began to spin, but he hung on to the edge of the mattress. His hearing seemed impaired. Noises outside the room sounded as if they were underwater or miles away.

  There was a very small window secured with iron bars up near the ceiling. Bright rays of daylight streamed to the corner of his cot. He held his hand in the beam and gasped at the purple bruises and dehydrated skin. How long had he been here? He tried to remember where he was, who he was; before they came back.

  * * *

  Mitch had a small computer station set up behind the sandwich case of ‘Momma’s Corner’. He and his mother owned the sandwich/ newspaper shop, and the morning rush had just ended. Momma had excused herself to freshen up and Mitch had decided to work on some of the charity brochures for Joseph’s homeless community in the tunnels.

  The bells at the door jingled and announced the arrival of a well-dressed elderly man. Mitch rose to wait on him.

  The elderly man removed his hat and said, “Good morning, young man. I have an appointment with Momma, but I see I’m a little early. Would you be so kind as to inform her that Artie is here?”

  Mitch opened his mouth to answer just as Momma whipped through the curtain door from the back and squealed. “As I live and breathe! Artie my love. Give Momma a big smooch!”

  Artie wrapped Momma in his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. He pulled back and studied her face. “How did you manage to become even more beautiful after 25 years?”

  Momma giggled, squeezed Artie’s waist and turned to look at Mitch. “I’ve been waitin’ on that kiss for 25 years.” Momma’s face erupted into a toothy smile and Artie kissed her cheek again.

  Mitch stammered and walked over to shake Artie’s hand. “Obviously you’re a good friend of Momma’s. I’m Mitch, her son.”

  Artie smiled and clasped both his hands around Mitch’s. He turned to look at Momma. Artie raised one eyebrow and Momma nodded. Artie smiled at Mitch and said, “You are a fine looking gentleman. Momma did well. We need a proper introduction. My name is Artie Corsone. I have loved your mother for 40 years. Sadly, she didn’t love me back.” Artie’s eyes twinkled. “I am honored that she considers me her good friend.”