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A gritty case of resentment, revenge, and recovery.

A businessman was found savagely murdered in his Jaguar. Robbery was not a motive, and forensics seems to indicate that the victim was given a goodbye kiss. When Detective Jesse Collins appears on the scene, his hangover is horrendous. Once a great cop, he is now on a downward spiral. His boss has put him on notice, his partner is done covering for him, and his wife has moved out. “This time it’s for good,” she said.

Jesse tries to find a link that connects the killer to the victim, but a barroom fight slows him down. When a similar murder takes place in a different state, clues point to a stiletto-wearing curly-haired blonde named Kiki. News of the case sweeps the nation. A third victim is found three thousand miles away, and an email message leads Jesse to believe that he might be the next target.

As Jesse crosses the country in search of leads, nagging questions keep him awake at night. He wonders if he will ever get sober. He wonders if he will ever get his wife back. Most of all, he wonders if he can catch Kiki before she kills again.

Click here for a sneak peek of the first chapters.

About the Author

Doug Smith was born in New Jersey, but has lived in six states before landing in New Hampshire. He is proud of his ongoing recovery from alcohol and drugs, and finds peace when he is on his Harley. Doug and his wife, Sharon, have four children and five grandkids that keep them amused and confused.

Visit his website at www.fiveminutesofblackness.com.

1.

The phone screeches. It screams. It shatters my blackness. I open one eye. The Jack Daniels bottle is empty, but my bladder is full. There’s a Bud can in bed with me. As I reach for the phone, the can jabs me. My voice is two octaves lower than usual. “Yeah?”

“Jesse, you won’t believe this.” It’s my friend and partner, Fig. We’ve worked together for the two years that I have been a San Diego detective. “We have a guy sitting in a brand new Jag without any balls!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“God do you sound terrible,” he says. “Did you celebrate last night?”

“Yeah. I celebrated because my wife left me! Why are you calling me so early, and what’s the matter with your balls?”

“It’s not so early, and there is nothing the matter with my balls.”

“Then … what?” I shout into the phone.

“Jee-sus-kee-riste!” he says. “Check this out. Underground parking lot in La Jolla. You know the one on Prospect Street? We have this guy sitting in a brand new Jag. Everything is in place except his nuts. They’ve been blasted clean off. Looks like three or four shots, close range. He bled to death, and man, there is blood everywhere.”

“Ouch,” I say, as the Budweiser can pokes me again.

Fig reminds me that this is not my day off and that I had better get my ass to the underground parking lot pronto.

Someone once described a hangover as a dark green headache, with a light brown taste in your mouth. I have both. I feel antiquated and dilapidated. I am broken, busted, and disgusted in myself.

I hate the mirror. Today I feel old, and so weak. I am only forty-one, but I look seventy. My five foot nine inch frame is slouching. My blue eyes are bloodshot. My face is a sickly shade of gray. The spider veins in my cheeks glow in the fluorescent bathroom light. They look like neon lines on a psychedelic black-light poster. My doctor says that they will never go away.

A lady friend once said that my body is like an old car. My frame is rusty, and it’s hard to start in the morning.

After showering, shaving, and spilling coffee on my only pair of clean Dockers, I climb in my car and drive towards the scene. It’s another beautiful California day, but then, aren’t they all. The mid-morning temperature is probably seventy-five, but I don’t even notice. I turn the AC as high as it will go and direct the cold air to my face. I guzzle three Cokes on the way.

I park the car, and put my San Diego Police sign in the window. I grab my darkest pair of sunglasses and walk towards the underground garage. Long strips of yellow “Do not cross” tape are everywhere. Blue bubble gum machines on top of cars have rotating lights that hurt my eyes. My hangover seems worse in the light of day than it did in the gloom of my room.

The first official who arrives at the crime scene works quickly to seal off the area. I should have been here to do this, but since I wasn’t, Fig covered for me. Again. He has covered for me a lot lately.

As I shuffle down the inclined parking area, I see Fig leaning against a squad car. His arms are crossed, and he has a shit-eatin’ grin on his face. His full name is Sam Newton, but he has had the nickname Fig since high school. He has a crooked nose and broad shoulders. His biceps bulge under his threadbare blue blazer. His crew cut is salt and pepper. One of his front teeth is chipped and he has never bothered to get it fixed. He has been through many battles and some have left scars. The one on his face is long. At five foot six, he reminds me of a bulldog that’s been well-fed, but is still looking for the next scrap. He is a great cop and would defend a partner to the death.

“Jesse,” he says as gently as he can, “the Chief is bullshit! You were supposed to notify the family hours ago. I told him that you were sick, but he didn’t buy it. I hate to say this old buddy, but I just saw a bumper sticker that describes you. It read: Instant asshole, just add alcohol.” His grin turns into a smile.

Fig knows my story. He knows that I had given up drinking twice before. Two years was the longest. He knows that I was on the verge of being terminated by the FBI for drunk and disorderly conduct. He knows that since I left the FBI, my drinking has gotten worse. He also knows that the reason that my wife left me was because of the booze. That’s my story. That’s my very boring story.

“Let’s go look at the ball-less wonder,” I grumble. We walk towards the victim’s car and the pounding of my heels on the downward incline jars my temples. I honestly believe that people shouldn’t have to work on hangover days.

We show our badges and finally get to the spot where the brand new Jaguar is parked. I’m sure that it was a great car before someone covered the inside with a testicle shake. A grey-haired man is slumped over the steering wheel. To a passerby, it would look like he was sleeping off a drunk. At the time of his death, he was well dressed in a business suit, wingtip shoes, and a starched white dress shirt. The tie was still in place, and there was no sign of struggle. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Ever again.

Fig brings me up to date. “We found several bullets in the driver’s seat under his crotch. They all went right through his body, and there might be another one or two still lodged in there someplace. It looks like a 32 caliber hollow point. At least four shots close range, dead center, right on target.” My pecker shrinks, just thinking about it. “There was another shot to the heart, just to be sure, I guess,” says Fig. “Ballistics will do the rifling tests to see if they can come up with a make. At that close range, a small pistol would be enough to do the deed.”

My mind flashes past some of the hate crimes that I have seen. Whoever did this really despised the victim. My first thought is that some lady got tired of the dead man’s shit.

“No witness and no visible clues,” says Fig. “The lab guys are checking everything. The perp must have been a woman, because no man would be mean enough to shoot another guy in the nuts.”

The name on the deceased man’s license is Blake Vanderburg. He just turned fifty. He lives on the island of Del Coronado, and I think the address is one of the streets near the ocean. Million dollar joints are all you would see in that part of town. I volunteer to go and talk with the family, and I’m glad to hear that someone else has already broken the news. I hate that part.

2.

On the way to meet the widow, I stop for a double Bloody. I rationalize that the vodka will stop the shaking. It doesn’t.

I don’t feel good enough to deal with the security system mounted by the circular drive, so I park on the street and walk towards the main entrance. The gate is open and I start the long trek up the brick walkway past the designer shrubbery and the manicured lawn. Up ahead, I see the mansion, but mostly there is glass. This house reminds me of a gigantic fish bowl, but it also reeks of money. New money. Flashy money. Showy money. It says, “Look at me. Look at my trappings. I have it made!” The house is right on the edge of the ocean. The deceased Mr. Vanderburg had a good deal, whatever it was.

The massive front door is made of glass and I can see right through the entrance way, and out to a pool in the back yard. Beyond the pool is the ocean. I also see a couple inside, hugging in a tight embrace. Probably an old friend of the family who is consoling the widow, I think. Their eyes are shut, and they couldn’t be any closer. They are oblivious to my arrival. As I knock on the door, the woman jumps. She looks towards me and then looks back to her friend. He just glares.

After what seems like forever, she opens the door, and her friend walks out. “See ya later, Babe,” he growls, as he pushes past me. A quick evaluation puts him a few years younger than the woman. He is big and his tank top is bulging. He climbs into a rusty pickup with oversized tires and roars down the circular drive.

I introduce myself and find out that I am talking to a very young Mrs. Vanderburg. I remember that the victim in the Jaguar was fifty. Mrs. Vanderburg is a true California Trophy Wife in every sense of the word. She is probably under twenty-five. She is fresh and wholesome with very little makeup. She is tall and trim. Her shoulder-length blond hair has been professionally streaked with fine wisps of silver, and it hangs straight. Her fingernails and toes are painted fire engine red. Her see-through white tank top fits perfectly. Her Daisy Dukes are a size too small.

For someone who just found out that her husband had been murdered, she looks remarkably calm.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. Vanderburg.”

“Oh well,” she says.

My job puts me in front of many people who have had a loss. Sometimes there is screaming, sometimes fainting, but usually tears. This, however, is the first Oh well that I have ever heard. For most people, the agony of a loss starts slowly, and ramps up over the first hour or maybe even the first day. At some point, grief will overshadow all other emotions, but I don’t think that Mrs. Vanderburg has any emotions.

I say that I need to ask questions, but before she even responds, I write one word in my note pad. The word is insurance, and it has a big question mark after it.

“Mrs. Vanderburg, do you have any idea who would have done this?”

She looks at me and smiles as if we were just introduced at a cocktail party. “Please call me Tippy.”

“Yes. That’s fine. Tippy, do you have any idea who could have done this?” I ask again.

She shakes her head slowly, frowns, and offers a quizzical stare with her eyes open wide open. She seems to be posing for a picture.

After a very long silence, I ask another question. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

Tippy is far, far away and there is still no comment or response. All I get is a smile that could be perceived as flirtatious. Is she coming on to me, or is this the way that she reacts to all men? Her husband was just murdered, and she is standing here with twinkling eyes. Her posture is erect, and she is so still that I wonder if she is breathing.

I am so mesmerized by her attitude and engrossed with her physical appearance that I almost forget why I’m here. I have been waiting for a reply, but the silence has not been awkward. Just looking at her is pleasant. As I try to figure this young woman out, I ask one more question. “If you could think of one person who wanted to hurt your husband, who would it be?”

Finally, I get a reaction. Her eyes change as if she has suddenly woken from a deep sleep. Her head slowly tilts to one side, and her smile fades.

“His first wife,” she says, almost as a matter of fact.

“Excuse me?”

“His first wife, Sandra. She hated him. She hated me. She hated the fact that we have the money and she has nothing. She hated the fact that we live here in this place, and she lives in a shitty little condo. She hates the fact that I always call her Sandy instead of Sandra. She did it. She killed him.”

“Did he see her? I mean did they get together?” I am thinking of the parked car and the crime scene. No struggle. The person who shot Blake Vanderburg had to be close. Very close. It was not the kind of crime scene that would have taken place between two people who fought all the time. If she hated him, how could she possibly get so intimate?

“She was always after him,” Tippy explains. “And she used their son, Alex, as a reason to see him. She constantly wanted to talk about Alex. That boy was a real pain in the ass. He was always in trouble. He scared the hell out of me. I didn’t want anything to do with him. Sandy kept saying that Alex should come down here and live with us. She said her son needed a father figure. What that kid needed was a jail sentence. Oh my god! If that spoiled brat moved in here, I would have moved out in a heartbeat, and Blake knew that.”

“So, Blake would see his ex, just to talk?” I ask.

“They talked about Alex’s therapy, or the trouble that he had just gotten into. He was always in trouble, and she always wanted to talk. Blake didn’t want to keep seeing her, but I encouraged him to go, because the last thing I ever wanted was for that overgrown baby to move in with us.”

After a long pause, she continues. “But I know what she really wanted. She wanted to get into his pants, but not for the usual reasons. She wanted to get into his pants, ‘cause that’s where the money was.”

Tippy has such a warm, compassionate way of sharing.

“Did your husband have any enemies?” I ask.

“I think that he had more enemies than friends,” she says, starting to open up. “He was always talking to his lawyer, and there was always someone who wanted to sue him. But I know that Sandy did it. She hated him. She hated me. She wanted our money. You should just go over and arrest her!”

“Just two more questions, Tippy. Could you tell me who the gentleman was who just left?”

“Oh him? Murphy? He’s my personal trainer.”

“And where were you last night?”

“Well, actually, er, I was with Murphy. We were, er, training.”

I let myself out of the mansion.

I drive away and focus on my pain. I have the Taj Mahal of hangovers. As I look for the nearest watering hole, I pass the Del Coronado Hotel. I could go into the pub, but they charge for parking. Further on down the street, I see a hand-carved restaurant sign hanging in front of an old brick building. The Cock and Bull Tavern happens to be a very upscale café, but I can see through the picture window that they have what I need. I need a drink. Before I even walk through the door, I sense that this place is out of my league, but this is an emergency.

The barmaid on duty is trim and stylish. She has an air of sophistication, and I suspect that she had been striking in her day. She is wearing black slacks, and a short tuxedo jacket with a starched white blouse. Her black and gray hair is pulled straight back and small flowers have been painstakingly woven into a bun. Her complexion is flawless, but she can’t hide the tiny wrinkles that came from years in the California sun. Her blue eyes still sparkle, but they peer out at me over tiny, wire-framed glasses. She smiles warmly.

“Hi there. What a beautiful day! I’m Georgette. What can I get for you?”

“Cuervo, straight.”

After pouring my tequila into a fancy low-stem glass, Georgette returns the bottle to its rightful place on the back bar. She turns and faces me to start the small talk. Within a second, my glass is empty. I say nothing, but in drinker sign language, I tap the glass. She understands the signal. She reaches back and retrieves the tequila. This time, before putting the bottle away, she watches to see if this drink will disappear too, and it does. She stands in silence. She will not need to ask where I am from, or what I do for work. She knows that I am here for annihilation, not conversation.

Within ten minutes, I spend twenty bucks. Wham Bam, thank you ma’am. The five-dollar tip is the quickest that this fading beauty will make all night.

I’ve started the process. Once I have the first drink, I can’t predict how many I’ll have, how long I’ll drink, or where I’ll end up. All bets are off for the rest of the night. I’m on a roll.

Most people get drunk a little at a time. They can feel the booze sneaking up on them. The average person has a built in warning system that tells them when to slow down. I don’t have that warning system. I just have a switch. My switch is either off or on. My switch flips on. I’m screwed.

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Copyright Doug Smith 2013