ColdScheme Read online

  Cold Scheme

  Edita Petrick

  When Meg Stanton walks out of a convenience store to find a dead man sprawled across the hood of her car, she thinks he’s been shot. It’s the worst assumption she’s ever made in her ten-year career as a cop. Forty-eight hours later, a hotel waiter drops dead while serving the CEO of the third largest national bank. Meg suspects the victims are links in some kind of scheme…but she has no idea she is its key element.

  And then her daughter’s father reappears in her life…

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Cold Scheme

  ISBN 9781419921346

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cold Scheme Copyright © 2010 Edita A. Petrick

  Edited by Helen Woodall

  Cover art by Dar Albert

  Electronic book publication March 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Cold Scheme

  Edita A. Petrick

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  7-Eleven: 7-Eleven Corporation

  Acura: Honda Motors Co. Ltd.

  Chevrolet: General Motors Corporation

  Chrysler Concorde: Chrysler Corporation

  Denny’s: DFO Inc.

  Doctors without Borders: Bureau International des Medecins sans Frontieres

  Ferrari: Ferrari SPA Italy Joint Stock Company

  Ford: Ford Motor Company

  Freer Gallery: Smithsonian Institution

  Grand Prix: General Motors Corp.

  IBM: IBM Corp.

  IMF: International Monetary Fund

  Kevlar: E.I. du Pont de Nemours & Co.

  Lamborghini: Automobili Lamborghini

  Maserati: Maserati SPA

  McDonald’s: McDonald’s Corporation

  NASA: U.S. Government Federal Aeronautics and Space Agency

  New York Stock Exchange: New York Stock Exchange Inc.

  Phantom of the Opera: Really Useful Group Ltd. U.K.

  Porsche: F. Porsche AG Corporation

  Salerno’s Pizza: Arnaldo Salerno U.S.

  Twilight Zone: CBC Broadcasting Inc.

  University of Maryland: University of Maryland Public Corporation

  Visa: Visa International Service Association

  Yellow Pages: Yellow Pages Integrated Media Association

  Chapter One

  It was one of those nights that hell’s accountants crow about, full of black ink and rising death statistics.

  A citizen, running an errand in a dependable quiet neighborhood in Woodbrook, was found lying prostrate on the hood of the car—prone forever.

  My shock wore off quickly. Its byproducts were fatigue and irritation.

  “He’s dead, Kenny,” I said to my partner.

  He finally gave up administering CPR to the male victim, Caucasian, mid-thirties and dressed like any other Baltimore dweller who skips out to a convenience store at ten o’clock at night, in jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt.

  “What the hell happened here, Meg?” He backed away from the car, bloodied latex-covered palms upturned.

  It was a strange question. Viewing dead bodies with professional objectivity was our job.

  On a harsh day, when the pile of cold cases on our desk grew so tall we could no longer see each other, I’d ask him if he wanted to take a rotation—with our bomb squad. It always worked to clear his perspective. He would call Brenda, his girlfriend, to reassure her that he had survived another day as a homicide cop.

  Now, looking at the body sprawled on the hood of Ken’s car, I wondered whether, upon rising, I had missed a divine sign—a warning.

  * * * * *

  The new dawn of work-filled pleasures had started on a decent note. It was a vibrant morning, sunny and sea-fresh, the fifth such glorious day in May. Half the city of Baltimore, which translated into two-thirds of the government employees, decided to take Wednesday off. The traffic was light. I made it downtown in half an hour and stopped to pick up two large cappuccinos at the Urban Bean. The manager had flirted with me. At thirty-two, I didn’t think I looked like Sandra Bullock’s high school rival but it made me laugh. The coffee sales were brisk. He was having a good morning and tried to get my phone number. I flipped out my badge from my denim shirt and let it dangle on the twisted cotton braid that my daughter had made for me the year before at the summer camp.

  He raised his hands, alarmed. “Whoa there, Officer! I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken, sir.” I smiled.

  As I walked away, a couple of suits standing in line did a circle-check. I wished they had whistled. It was that kind of irreverent morning.

  By nine o’clock, wired and ready to take on the world, I had attacked a looming paper pile. They were all old and cold cases, waiting for resolution. Our Cold Case Unit was humble in staff numbers but our caseload was three times that of the here-and-now homicide unit.

  By noon, Kenny and I had reviewed seven old cases and picked out a dozen “tags” that we had previously missed. We felt a sense of accomplishment, went outside, bought hot dogs at a vendor’s stand and practiced “reading” people.

  After stuffing down dogs slathered in all kinds of unhealthy condiments, we returned to our desks and spent the afternoon arguing about the order of importance of the seven cases we planned to follow up.

  I like to start with the simplest case first.

  A list of evidence collected from a stockbroker’s office, had, among the wastebasket contents, a discarded bulldog grip. I checked all the reports attached to this homicide-disappearance. No one had bothered to tour the neighborhood gyms. The stockbroker had left his secretary slumped in an ergonomic posture chair, a bullet hole in her forehead. He was a marksman. He may have toned his muscles in a local gym. Estrelle Gomez did not deserve the kind of job performance review her embezzling boss gave her. We owed it to her next of kin to keep trying to apprehend her killer. I stuck this folder into the first metal filing slot on my desk and moved on.

  Ken had made fresh new photocopies. He’d turned the printer contrast to maximum because the paperwork was five years old. That’s how he discovered someone’s hand-scribbled notes on the margin. Sidhi Ben Ahbib was gunned down at midnight, closing down his gas station franchise in Greenmount neighborhood. Since he was a Syrian immigrant, we’d been working a terrorist angle. He had kept a gun in his till. It was an Israeli issue, a “Baby Eagle”, Jericho 941, with a 12-round, .40 magnum capacity, the cherished companion of every urban commando. The handwritten notes o
n the margin claimed that Ahbib was a gambler—and a womanizer. The Muslim community frowned on such risky hobbies. What if it was a jealous husband or an irate father? We decided that we would pay a visit to Ahbib’s family and gently broach this difficult character issue. Five years were certainly enough to speak well of the dead. It was time to reflect on his lifestyle faults and solve the case.

  The third case was a paradox. A thirty-one-year old economist, Jonathan Anderson Brick, had disappeared from a 7-Eleven in Dundalk four years ago. I had tried to avoid this file as often as I could. In my experience, there was no such thing as solid moral fabric. A dedicated churchgoer, a devoted family man, might take a walk and never return to his genetic and financial obligations. I told Ken that women grew and sank roots that stabilized the slopes of life. Men just liked to climb them.

  Patricia Vanier—Brick’s fiancé—had become unhinged when she’d given a statement at the Central District headquarters. Her Johnny just went out to get popcorn and pop, to spice up their evening entertainment. The 7-Eleven was a block down the street. He took the car to get back faster. He could not possibly have been steeped in thought to a degree that saw him drive to Dundalk, to visit their 7-Eleven.

  Our colleagues four years ago had assured her that he was. She had reported him missing the next morning. Six hours later, the owner of the 7-Eleven in Dundalk handed over the shop surveillance tape and swore on a string of meditation beads that citizen Brick had visited his establishment last night.

  A lot more manpower would have been thrown at this case, had Patricia not insisted that her fiancé was kidnapped, threatened, tortured—and possibly murdered. That brought her under the scrutiny of Preston Jacks, a consulting psychiatrist for the Baltimore Police Department

  I glanced through his report and felt sorry for her.

  Thanks to her four previously filed missing-kidnapped-tortured-murdered reports, when Brick went to the 7-Eleven and lingered longer than she considered appropriate, she was recommended for extensive mental therapy. Since he had returned each time, the reports were stamped with “ERROR” and filed in the “false alarm” drawer.

  What I got from the dispirited perusal of her historical-hysterical term papers, showed that Brick was not just a career-climber but also a peripatetic spirit. Each time he had gone out at night to a convenience store, he’d gone further—and lingered longer. She was just starting to question the “lingering” part when he disappeared.

  Jacks had pointed out this developmental trend to her. Her loyal, loving, sensitive and well-paid boyfriend, was most probably trying to walk away from the engagement ring she wore on her finger. He had never returned from Dundalk’s 7-Eleven. Jacks had spelled it out for her. Brick had made up his mind to end the relationship. Patricia went into withdrawal, then depression and finally into full-time residence at the Mongrove Psychiatric Facility.

  Brick didn’t resurface. That’s how we ended up with his file.

  It had been four years since the 7-Eleven in Dundalk had swallowed him. We should pay a visit to Ms. Vanier, I decided.

  I sighed and scribbled down a note to track her down. We should at least ask her if she’d ever heard from him.

  The other four cases were homicides where the killer had kept on running—under several different aliases. We needed to check as to whether any of the names might have landed in any of our penal institutions. After all, our criminal and justice system worked—sometimes. We closed three cold case files that way last year.

  At six o’clock, Jazz left a message on my pager that she was running away from home. I phoned Mrs. Tavalho, my housekeeper. She assured me that my daughter was still in residence and so were three other ten-year-olds who would be sleeping over.

  “Blackmail?” I sighed.

  “Not to worry, Miss Stanton,” she assured me. “You know she always does something like this when she wants her friends to sleep over and knows you wouldn’t allow it. I’ll have a chat with her.”

  “I’ll be home by ten, eleven the latest,” I told her. She confirmed that our arrangements for her overnight stay stood and told me to have a good time at the party. I thanked her and hung up.

  Kenny nodded at me. “It’s time. Let’s change.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I looked as good as any of those women who deliver authoritative weather reports. I was about to knock on the men’s washroom to see if he was ready, when my pager went off.

  Mrs. Tavalho must have told my ten-year-old what she thought of her prank. Jazz had left me another nasty message. She said that since she never had a father and didn’t know whether there ever was one, she saw no point in having a mother either. She wanted to be an orphan. Ken came out—hair gelled and slicked back. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks. He looked like a groom who had been dieting for months, not a guest heading to a staff dinner party for our office supervisor who was getting married.

  “Jazz?” he asked.

  We’ve been partners for three years. He could read my face.

  “Yep.”

  “Torching the house?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Drowning the cat?”

  “The theory about nine lives is true. She gave up on that.”

  “Drinking bleach?”

  I laughed. “We’ve exhausted that threat.”

  “The father issue?” He averted his eyes. He knew this topic would not grow into a discussion.

  “Let’s go. We’ll be late,” I said.

  We had a good time at the Carmine Steakhouse. What seemed like the entire Homicide Section was there. Audrey was well liked. She tempered her administrative clout with common sense and compassion. It was her second marriage to a cop. She had buried the first one after twenty happy and loyal years. We wished her and Barry Grant from Traffic, all the best.

  At quarter to ten, I said to Ken, “I ought to be going. Do you want to stay? I’ll take a taxi.”

  He shook his head and said he would drive me home.

  We headed west on Fayette, when I remembered that with three guests, there better be enough pancake mix and syrup to feed the army in the morning.

  “There’s a convenience store just up the Woodbrook,” I told him. “Mind if I run in? I have to pick up some stuff for breakfast.”

  “No problem. You know, they have these mediators. They’re not expensive. They charge fifty, maybe sixty dollars an hour. They come to your house. You tell them what the problem is and they sort of ease the two of you into it…”

  “Ken! No mediation. When I’m ready, I’ll talk to my daughter about her father.”

  “She’s ten years old, Meg. She should know. It’s natural.”

  “Natural? How long have you been dating Brenda—since college? You’re thirty-five years old. Do you think dating a woman for fourteen years is natural?”

  “I’m a cop. Marriage statistics for cops are…”

  “I know damn well what marriage statistics for cops are. People like Audrey are part of those statistics. Hell, if her husband hadn’t died of cancer she would still be happily married to a cop. Don’t abuse words like ‘natural’, all right?”

  “Do you know who her father is?”

  “No.”

  “At least I don’t lie to Brenda—or my partner.”

  “Brenda is a diamond-in-the-rough I can’t figure out,” I laughed.

  “She understands,” he said, defending his peculiar lifestyle choice.

  “Or just likes her freedom as much as you do. Of course, with a woman, you never know when that glorious feeling of independence is going to fade and a nesting instinct will take over.”

  “What?”

  “Would you marry her if she wanted to start a family?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “We’ve never discussed…it’s not an issue.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We’ve never discussed…” His voice trailed off.

  “Take a walk on the wild side, Ken. Tr
y it—but make sure Brenda has smelling salts ready to revive you.”

  “Why didn’t you ever get married?”

  His question surprised me. The answer was—I still am. There are two more names hiding beneath Meaghan Stanton but that’s been buried so deep there’s no chance it will ever rise to surface.

  “I’m a career woman. One day I’d like to see ‘Detective Colonel’ as part of my job title, along with a division full of productive police officers, like you.”

  “You’re thirty-two. In nine years you rose from a police cadet to Detective Sergeant,” he chuckled. “Another year or two and you can make your bid for a Squad Supervisor.”

  “Make a right here,” I interrupted him, pointing at the street sign that said Woodbrook Ave.

  We pulled into a little strip plaza with a 7-Eleven. He decided to come inside.

  Ten minutes later, shopping bags in hand, we stood rooted to a spot on the sidewalk, outside the store.

  It was after ten o’clock and the little plaza was deserted. Ken’s Malibu was the only car parked there. Off to the side was an asphalt apron. It belonged to the neighboring gas station. I saw a car parked at the fuel pump but no one was pumping gas. The body lay sprawled on the hood of our car, hands stretched, palms down, as if he was embracing the front of the vehicle. It occurred to me that someone could have tossed him across the car hood.

  We were not in a police frame of mind and didn’t move for a few moments. We’ve seen our share of dead bodies but I doubt there was a homicide detective in BPD who had ever exited from a 7-Eleven to confront a dead man sprawled across the hood of his car.

  “Jesus!” Ken dropped the shopping bag.

  My training kicked in. I dropped my groceries.

  We turned the body over. Ken set to do the mouth-to-mouth. I climbed on the hood and straddled the body.

  I heard a sloshing sound when I started compressing his chest. It sounded as if I stuck my hands into a washing machine, redistributing soaking laundry.