The Perfume Alibi

By Jeffrey Cruden

A routine traffic stop. An inconvenience of everyday life. A humdrum event that repeats itself across America hundreds of times every day, every night. It’s late. It’s raining. The driver knows he’s well off the beaten path, somewhere in Ohio. The cop is bored until he hears the ping of his radar unit. A fancy red sports car appears out of nowhere and thus begins an ingenious game of cat-and-mouse.
Two down-on-their luck Hollywood character actors moonlight as cold-blooded killers-for hire. The Perfume Alibi tells the harrowing story of their fumbling, awkward early days to the polished, intricate schemes of their later years as their bloody careers progress.
Exciting, sometimes funny, but always highly entertaining, this tautly drawn mystery -thriller is reminiscent of the pulp fiction novels and film noir of the 1940-50s, but remastered for a 21st century audience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Cruden
• Release date: Jun 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984743964

Jeffrey Cruden

Born in California, raised in Scottsdale Arizona and a twenty year resident of Las Vegas where he currently resides, Jeffrey Cruden is married with three school-aged children. The Perfume Alibi is his first novel, with at least two more novels in the series already close to completion. Look for the second book titled The Ice Cream Shoppe sometime in October.

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The Perfume Alibi

A Novel by

Jeffrey Cruden

Copyright © 2012 Jeffrey Cruden

Copyright © 2012 Jeffrey Cruden

Published by Jeffrey Cruden at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9847439-6-4

DEDICATION

To Judy, the love of my life, and our three amazing children - Chandler, Cameron & Colby.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those of my Inner Circle who gave so much support, advice, and yes – criticism throughout the process of writing this first novel. Judy, Patricia C., Shane H. and Steve D. You all deserve special mention for your precious time and invaluable assistance.

In addition, I’d like to thank Dorothy Hardy for her artistic talents in designing/creating the cover artwork that I feel so perfectly captures the special elements of the my story.

Last, but certainly not least, a very special acknowledgment goes to Carol von Raesfeld of The von Raesfeld Agency whose tireless work on my behalf in both editing and representation made this effort possible. Thank you, Carol, for going above and beyond the call in bringing my vision to life.

PROLOGUE

There's a funny thing about bullets. They don't always kill you, even when you've been shot in the head. A lot of people tell me that I should thank God for giving me such a thick skull, but after everything that’s happened, I don't feel obliged to express my gratitude. I give them a perfunctory response, letting them know that it’ll be a very long time before I'll utter the words thanks and God in the same sentence... like when Hell freezes over.

Chapter One

I can’t feel this way much longer, expecting to survive…

Bye Bye Love, by Ric Ocasek, The Cars − 1978

The brilliant red and blue flashes exploded from out of the darkness, filling the small sports car with their disco-like beat. It wasn’t a welcome sight. The unexpected light show sent a brief chill down the length of the driver’s spine, his muscles clenched in an instinctive response to the jolt of adrenaline flowing into his bloodstream. In a heartbeat his eyes darted to the rearview mirror, but all he could see were the reflected splashes of dazzling lights. Squinting helped a bit as he peered through the rain-spattered back window and sure enough, there was a patrol car creeping into position behind him. The blurry black-and-white reflection painted a brief mental image of a feral cat about to pounce upon an unsuspecting field mouse.

Swift move, Del, he muttered while silently cursing the situation. Bad time to add stupidity to the long list of sins he’d already committed. Clearly he must have drifted a tad too far above the posted speed limit, which really wasn’t all that hard to do – this part of the country being Speed Trap Central. That had always been the inherent danger with taking back roads like this gloomy section of State Route 56 instead of the interstate. Here’s another reason to dislike Ohio, he grumbled. Where’s the seven miles per hour cushion?

He eased on the brakes, guiding the sleek sports car toward the concrete curb. After coming to a complete stop he took in his surroundings, at least as well as he could considering the lack of working streetlights. On his left, across the narrow two-lane highway, was a thicket of redbud, indicating there was an abandoned farm field reverting to forest somewhere nearby. Off to his right, through the passenger side window, he could just make out a dreary vacant home through the moonlit haze. Sitting out in the middle of nowhere, the overgrown property was only missing an occasional flicker of lightning to be a suitable stand-in for the old Addams Family mansion. As if on cue, there was a series of sudden flashes, but the lack of accompanying thunder proved it was only the flickering lights from the patrol car providing the special effects. Del decided this was a fitting location.

Without even glancing at the tiny clock on the dash, he knew that he still had plenty of time to get to where he needed to be − if this delay didn’t get too far out of hand, that is. Places to see, people to go...or something like that, he grimaced.

Del stubbed out the remains of his cigarette into the new car’s already overflowing ashtray. With a deep sigh, he stabbed at the power button with a heavy-handed jab, killing the stereo in mid-tune. Gone was the classic Cars tune he’d been listening to over and over again, the dying vibrations fading to silence. There was a reason the song was important to him, but he just couldn’t remember why. He was sure if he listened to it long enough the reason would become clear. It hadn’t so far. Another one of life’s unexplained mysteries.

Closing his eyes, he enjoyed this last moment of solitude, the tranquility enhanced by the occasional droplets of rain as they thudded upon the thick fabric of the convertible top. He could feel in his bones that the storm was nearly passed, sensing more than seeing that the roadway was already beginning to dry. In the distance he heard the sound of a car door shutting, forcing this brief Zen moment to end. The sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the car’s interior. He steeled himself for the confrontation that was about to occur by grabbing a powdered doughnut from the crumpled bag on the front seat. Comfort food, he decided.

There’s absolutely no reason for this to be anything but a routine traffic stop...as long as the trunk of my car remains closed.

Although, he supposed, the cop discovering a dismembered body wrapped in an old shower curtain would certainly change this dynamic.

* * *

Officer Andrew Devereux thought about it long and hard before deciding he was bored stiff.

How could I be anything else? Staring down a stretch of empty highway with nothing to see other than rain turning potholes into puddles was nothing less than mind-numbing. Pawing through the rubbish haphazardly strewn across the front seat of the old cruiser, he took a quick inventory of what the debris said about his life. For one thing, I’m eating far too much fast food − that’s for damn sure. Looking at the latest ATM withdrawal slip proved that he wasn’t getting rich anytime soon either. The nasty letter from the credit card company did little to improve his self-image...or his credit score.

Tossing the letter aside, he flipped open the wallet he’d stuck in the center console. As he studied the forlorn-looking photo on the driver’s license, other questions crossed his mind. Am I disappointed with myself? Yes. Why didn’t I just get the hell out of Pottsville when I had the chance? What is it about this stupid little town that’s kept me here all thirty-seven years of my life? It wasn’t like he hadn’t had opportunities to leave, like joining the Air Force or the Coast Guard, but inevitably something always managed to pop up at the last minute and stop him dead in his tracks.

No doubt it was following the path of least resistance that had led him to where he was tonight, wallowing in introspective self-pity. Who could be happy spending another soggy night in a twenty year-old Crown Victoria police cruiser for Christ’s sake?

Swell, he muttered, picking absentmindedly at the layers of accumulated dirt encrusting the steering wheel. He sniffed in disgust while examining a discarded laundry ticket from the cruiser’s ashtray. When you add in the layer upon layer of vintage body odor absorbed by the gross, stained upholstery, it’s no wonder that my dry cleaning bill is so goddamn high.

As if resigned to his fate, he sighed. All in all, it’s not such a bad life as much as it’s really no life at all.

He picked up an issue of The Sporting News from the passenger seat to pass the time, thumbing through the articles until coming to a page where someone had scribbled some notes in the margins. He thought about the NFL strike delaying the start of football season. Stupid Bengals, like they’re gonna do anything this year anyway. Maybe being the fan of a baseball team already nineteen games out of first place is what was getting him down. Stupid Reds. Exasperated, he tossed the magazine on the floor. He needed some direction in his life...anything to stir up some excitement.

He lit up a cigarette and then proceeded to study the photo taped to the dash. Years of sun had caused the tape to become yellow and brittle, eventually giving way as the edges curled. A Lay’s potato chip had somehow laminated itself onto the corner, making the autograph difficult to see. For the thousandth time, he re-read its silly declaration of eternal love, signed by Gina back when life was fun and exciting. The flurry of cutesy Xs and Os across the bottom spoke volumes about the girl who had drawn them there. He wondered if he still felt the same way about the plain-looking girl in the homemade flower-print dress. Gina, Gina, Gina, he sighed. When it came right down to it, she really wasn’t his type. Where’s this relationship going? he wondered. Probably nowhere. After all, there was no wedding ring on his finger.

Glancing at the cheap cell phone that rested on the passenger seat next to a half-empty bottle of vitamin supplements, he found himself searching through the call history and noticed numerous missed calls and messages from Tiffany. He knew that he’d be rendezvousing with the buxomly Tiffany as soon as his shift was over and the thrill of the illicit relationship made him forget his boredom for a couple of minutes. If that didn’t speak volumes about his future with Gina, he didn’t know what did. Oh what a tangled web we weave...he chastised himself before idly wondering, Is that a line from Shakespeare?

He shook his head at the foolishness of the situation. Here he was speeding towards that awkward time between youthful vigor and middle-aged apathy, yet he had no idea where he was going. Yes, he said, breaking the silence inside the cruiser, my name is Andrew and I’m a bored cop. There, he’d said it. Now let’s get the 12-step program started.

Officer Devereux knew that he needed a purpose...a goal...something far more engaging than girls, sports, or dodging creditors. Making lots of money would be good. Now there’s a line of thought that might be worth pursuing, he realized as his mind leapt from one possibility to another.

He quickly dismissed changing careers as being too radical even though he did have a standing offer from his uncle to go to work for him as a carpenter. On the floor was an open Sears & Roebuck catalogue turned to the power tool section to prove his interest in woodworking. Then again, what about advancing in his current situation? There wasn’t much room for advancement in working patrol, but what about becoming a detective? The hours weren’t much better, but the pay was and there’d be a better car to tool around in − one at least a decade or so newer than the beater in which he was currently sitting. An interesting idea, he had to admit. Engrossed in thought, he reached for his thermos to pour himself a second cup of coffee and proceeded to spill half of the lukewarm swill down the front of his uniform.

"Crap!" he groaned, surveying the mess, though it really didn’t matter. He was going to have to launder the damn thing anyway due to the bloody stain on his collar. Must have nicked myself shaving last night. He stubbed out what was left of his cigarette in the ashtray.

Getting back to becoming a detective, how could he make this happen? It’s not like he lived in a big city like Columbus or even Xenia for that matter. In a dump like Pottsville, everyone wore multiple hats. A detective in the morning could expect to be a file clerk in the afternoon. But what the hell – it beats the nothingness of what’s going on now. Old man Mackenzie, who he hadn’t thought of as an old man until about ten seconds or so earlier, had to be pushing retirement age. Hell, at fifty-two, the man had to be almost senile! With only a couple more years to go until early retirement became a solid option for ol’ Mac, well, perhaps planting the seeds for his eventual replacement wasn’t so far out of whack after all. Patting his shirt pocket he realized he’d left his pack in his other car. It’s a nasty habit anyway...probably time to quit. They don’t let you smoke in the office anymore. Wimps.

A jarring noise snapped him out of his reverie, as the urgent pinging of the radar unit announced the approach of an oncoming vehicle. Looking out the passenger side window, he could make out twin beams of moving light slicing through the low hanging mist from the passing summer storm. Must be a foreign job with those arctic-white headlights, he mused, while reaching to trigger the display on the radar gun. The efficient radar unit sped through its calculations and up popped the number thirty-one in big, bold red numbers. Hmmm, only six over the posted twenty-five...less than a 50/50 call for a stop. Factoring in the inclement weather dampened his enthusiasm even further, so as the car drove past his secluded location, Andy made the decision to let this one slide. That is, until he saw the temporary tags.

Wasn’t there some chatter earlier in the evening about a fugitive hightailing it out of Chicago?

It’s one thing to daydream about becoming a detective, but thinking like one, well that would take some practice, wouldn’t it? The thought spurred him into making a quick decision, so he flipped the switch activating the MARS lightbar on top of the cruiser. An expensive car on a lightly traveled highway late at night, going just fast enough to blend into the scenery, but with no tags? Just the ticket for a real detective. He loved that just the ticket line. It reminded him of Jon Lovitz as the Pathological Liar, a character who never failed to crack him up.

Picking up the radio handset, Andy cleared his voice several times before deciding not to call in the 10 code to the late-shift dispatcher. Screw Arlene and her surly attitude. So what if her nose is still out of joint? Her ass did look like an overstuffed sofa in those pants. As he set off down the highway, Andy’s look of chagrin was lost in the gloom of the car’s darkened interior. He wasn’t going to be falling for the Do these pants make me look fat? question ever again.

The BMW had gone around a wide, arcing bend in the road and was out of sight by the time Andy’s patrol car got up to speed. With the accelerator pedal shoved all the way to the floorboard, it didn’t take long before he saw the ruby-red tail lights of the shiny new sports car reflected upon the crossword patches of rain-slickened asphalt. Observing the car’s occupant through his quarry’s small rear window, he noted there was no unusual squirming or ducking within the small compartment. If anything, he was disappointed at the driver’s calm as the vehicle pulled to a safe stop on the side of the road, as gently as if he was pulling into his own driveway after a hard day’s work.

This didn’t bode well for a dramatic battle of wits between a criminal mastermind and a clever detective, thought Andy as he grabbed his citation book from out of the clutter covering the passenger seat. Probably nothing more than a routine traffic stop.

* * *

Del watched the cop striding towards him in his sideview mirror. Even in the restricted view, he could see that the guy was a mess. Pants that would have earned a taunting epithet of floods back when he was in grade school, a shirt straining under the load of too many extra pounds. Though to be fair, the extra weight looked more like muscle than fat, but it was clear that the cop was no slave to fashion. The big coffee stain running down the front of his uniform completed the look. Everything about the man shouted Slob!

There was a sharp rap on the window, which Del dutifully rolled down.

Anything I can do for ya, Officer? the driver asked in a friendly, glad-handing salesman kind of way. I gotta tell ya, you scared the bejesus out of me comin’ outta the woods the way you did. He grinned as if expecting that the officer would see what a great guy he was and let him go. Fat chance of that, he knew, but it was worth a shot.

The policeman’s expression was fixed with a look that fell somewhere between disgust and seething anger. In other words, he looked like a typical cop. License and registration, he said without a trace of humor. And proof of insurance.

The driver suppressed a groan. He possessed only one of the three items requested. The one document he did have was going to raise some issues − his driver’s license was a forgery...a very good forgery, but a fake nonetheless. Silently he cursed the last minute change in plans that had ended with his driving the bastard’s car. He hated last minute changes. If he got out of this mess there was going to be some hell to pay.

The driver began fumbling for his documents while pleading his case. Are you sure you pulled over the right guy, Officer? he asked over his shoulder. I’m sure that I was under the speed limit. Maybe your radar equipment isn’t working right. I know that when it’s wet…

"My equipment works fine, sir, the cop grunted in displeasure. Yours is the only car that passed by in the last ninety minutes."

I wasn’t questioning you, Officer...I mean...uh, ‘Sir,’ Del apologized as he shifted his weight to gain access to his wallet. Andy could see that it wasn’t an easy task as the car was far smaller than what a 300-pound man would normally chose to drive. With a heavy grunt, the driver freed the leather wallet from beneath his bulk and pried the license out from behind its cloudy protective cover. Whew! That was a lot of work, Del laughed good-naturedly, Here ya go.

Andy didn’t smile. He repeated his request for the registration and insurance.

Well, Officer… Del began as he launched into a long explanation of how he had just taken possession of the car and didn’t have either of the other documents. The convoluted story went on and on, involving his wife, Marie, and several of his co-workers down at the shower ring company where he worked, among a host of other excuses. But I’ll send you copies of them as soon as I get home, he promised sincerely. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Devereux’s pained expression spoke volumes as he endured the blabbering idiot’s crock of bullshit. Without a word he snatched the driver’s license from Del’s fumbling fingers. I’ll be back, he grumbled in the most ominous Terminator tone that he could muster. With that he spun on his heels and huffed his way back to the cruiser.

In the darkness of the car, Del’s expression went cold once again. Gone was the friendly bluster of the shower ring salesman, replaced with the look of a man who might have a dead body in the trunk of his car. The brief encounter with the cop was unsettling. There was something about the man that set his internal alarm bells off.

Probably nothing, he muttered as if trying to convince himself that everything would be okay. Nothing to worry about.

* * *

Officer Devereux, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more pleased. He actually laughed out loud at the man’s nervous ramblings. Are you hiding something behind all those donut crumbs on your chin, Big Guy?

When the driver rolled down the window, for just a second Andy thought the man looked familiar, like someone in a TV commercial or a character actor who appears in many movies without ever actually having a speaking part or having his name listed in the credits...someone a film fan might recognize. He shrugged the feeling off, deciding that if he didn’t think about it too hard the answer might just pop into his head unbidden.

Shining his flashlight on the driver’s license revealed that the man’s name was Del Griffith from Shermer, Illinois. Both the name and the city sounded familiar, although he couldn’t quite place either one. Shermer... somewhere near Chicago. At least he thought that’s where it was, but then again it somehow sounded fake. Wasn’t there some Eighties movie based in Shermer?

It didn’t matter. The bulletin said the fugitive from Chicago was Hispanic and Griffith fell far wide of that particular profile. He picked up the radio handset to call in the license for warrants and whatnot and then stopped, thinking better of it. He didn’t want to talk to Arlene if he could help it. The woman was just too goddamn nosy. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure that she’d been talking to Gina recently, which explained why she’d been so suspicious lately. Ask me why I live in a small town again? He’d been so careful. Tiffany lived out of town. She was driving in from Cincinnati for goodness sakes. But Arlene was always stirring up crap. That woman lives for drama. Okay, I’m not going to call in the license...it’s probably clean anyway. It’s not like the fat guy in the car is the fugitive that everyone’s looking for. But then he had a semi-evil thought. What’s to stop him from making something up?

He decided to create a problem, just to see if it rattled Del’s cage a bit more than it already had been rattled. If he was a betting man, he’d guess that if he applied a little pressure something interesting might shake out of Del’s tree. And if not, it would kill a little time before the end of my shift. In the meantime he decided to pour himself another cup of coffee. Let’s let Del sweat for a while longer and then spring something crazy on him...just for grins.

The evening had become a lot more interesting than he’d originally thought it would be.

* * *

Five long minutes crawled by and the cop still hadn’t returned. Del passed the time counting the number of broken window panes in the deteriorating house to his right. He was surprisingly calm for someone who had been involved in such a whirlwind of crimes over the past day or so. Now that the rains had left the area, the cool night air likely helped his mood. He reached over and turned the car stereo back on. Once again the disconcerting rhythms of The Car’s Bye-Bye Love filled the interior. Del decided that listening to the song was like holding onto a nine-volt battery. You know if you touch your tongue to the poles it’s gonna hurt, but you just can’t stop yourself from doing it anyway.

Bye-Bye Love made him think about Shannon, his wife and the love of his life. They’d met by chance at a dance in a small teen club located in the basement of the old Elk’s Club in Skokie, but that was a full year before the song first appeared. That night he’d gone to the dance at the insistence of his good friend Bronko (with a k) nicknamed after the old-time Chicago football legend Bronko Nagurski. Most of the boys at the club that night played on the high school football team, as did he and his brother Brian. Del, who wasn’t named Del at the time, was a much different person back then − smaller, lighter, happier, far more naïve. He played safety because he was quick and innately knew how to find the best angles for tackling an opponent. Brian wasn’t much of an athlete. He was a punter, but a very good one, who went on to win a championship ring while playing for Notre Dame. Bronko played defensive tackle because he was a beast.

Back then he had no idea that Bronko had a little sister, especially one as cute as Shannon. Bronko was happy to keep this information from the general public. He was quite protective of her and it was easy to see why. He was able to keep the existence of his sister a secret because they attended different high schools. Bronko attended the same public high school as Del because the private Catholic school that Shannon attended was too small to field a football team. Bronko was good enough to go pro and ultimately did, playing second string for the Chicago Bears in the mid ‘80s until injuries forced him out of the game after only three years. Those were the days, he thought wistfully as the song came to an end. "Glory Days," he whispered to himself as he recalled the Springsteen song of