Bashed (A Sheffield and Black Mystery)

By Charles Alan Long

Just back from a trip to Italy with his boyfriend, Detective Dylan Black is immediately immersed in another unusual homicide investigation with his partner, Vivienne Sheffield. The detectives are dispatched to the local university where John Randolph, a seemingly happy, healthy, 19-year-old college sophomore, has been found dead in his dorm room.

When the autopsy results are in, Randolph’s death turns out to be something out of an Agatha Christie novel: arsenic poisoning. Sheffield and Black quickly identify a string of suspects, including a recently paroled ex-roommate who holds a grudge against Randolph and a couple of homophobic rugby players. Adding to the intrigue, they find evidence of a secret lover that Randolph hid from everyone, including his family and best friend.

As the murder investigation progresses, Sheffield also pursues a secret investigation of her own to identify and stop the cops who are pulling homophobic pranks on her partner.

Soon the case of the murdered college student grows more complicated than either detective expected as they encounter unexpected twists and turns that keep them guessing until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Alan Long
• Release date: Oct 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301166183

Charles Alan Long

Charles Alan Long works full-time at a university and spends much of his free time writing novels, short stories, and poems. He’s published more than a dozen tales—from spy thrillers to superhero adventures—in a variety of anthologies. His first novel, The God Killer, marries his love of detective stories and mythology, and gave him the opportunity to create a gay detective. He has written three novels in the Sheffield and Black detective series.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The tight polyester blouse chafed, the cheap, ratty wig itched like a mother, and the torn pink fishnet stockings did not match the stained suede skirt. The woman caught a glimpse of herself in a puddle and thought, Great prostitute chic drag. Things hadn’t gone well over the past three nights, so hopefully she’d score big tonight. Traffic rumbled on a highway overpass a couple blocks away, but the nearby park was vacant and quiet. Now and then a passing car slowed down, but so far no one had stopped to procure her services. An hour after sunset and the woman was growing tired and grumpy. She continued to pace along the sidewalk in her white vinyl go-go boots, never straying far from the illuminated umbrella of a streetlight.

The woman’s panties were bunched uncomfortably so she reached behind and tugged at them just as a black Ford truck approached.

Oh that was attractive. Nice way to impress a john.

She cupped her C-sized breasts with her hands hoping to draw attention to what she believed were two of her best assets.

The move worked. The truck slowed and then pulled over.

The driver cocked his cowboy hat, flashed a pearly white smile, and called through the open window, Hey, baby, looking for some fun?

Not bad, the woman thought. Maybe. Depends on what you’re packing. She nodded her head toward his crotch and smacked her gum.

Whatta you like? The southern accent was clearly affected.

The heels of her boots clicked on the pavement as she took the final steps toward the truck and leaned through the passenger side window.

The driver was wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and appeared to be somewhere between 35 and 45. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected the intricate tribal tattoo encircling his bicep was as fake as his southern draw and cowboy swagger. You’re trying awful hard to be something you’re not.

The prospective john unabashedly ogled the woman’s bosom. Her low-cut blouse didn’t conceal much of the pink lace bra. Based on his smile, the cowboy liked what he was seeing.

Time to hook him before he changes his mind.

Fifty for a blow, a hundred for more.

You like a real man, baby, who knows how to treat women right? Again, he flashed teeth that were so straight and white that they were an orthodontist’s wet dream.

Mmm-hmmm. She popped a bubble and then leaned further into his truck. Whadaya say, Real Man?

With a quick glance she saw a duffle bag in the narrow backseat. Though faint, the distinct smell of kerosene, partially obscured by the cowboy’s Calvin Klein Euphoria cologne, wafted inside the vehicle. A vial of poppers lay on the console between the seats.

I say get in.

We gonna park in there? Her fake red hair bobbed as she nodded over her shoulder at the metro park.

The cowboy wannabe snarled his lip as if he was trying to look suave. Get in, sweetie. I got what you’re looking for.

The woman spit her gum on the sidewalk creating a tiny splash as it hit the puddle. She seductively licked her lips to entice the man. What he couldn’t see was her hand reaching under her skirt, feeling her gun.

Headlights approached and the man grew anxious. Looking in his rearview mirror, he demanded, Get in now or I’m leaving.

What happened to your cowboy cool and that molasses accent?

Okay. Don’t lose your lunch. She opened the passenger door and slid in; then she tugged the door closed as the john pulled back onto the road.

His wicked smile back in place, he headed for the park entrance and guided his truck around a plastic barrier and into a dark wooded area.

Just as he stopped the vehicle, a cell phone in the back began playing Beethoven’s Fifth. Obviously, this man was not what he pretended to be. As he dove between the seats to silence the phone, the buxom woman surreptitiously removed her .22 pistol from the leg holster and, keeping it out of the john’s line of sight, placed it at her side. Easy access for when she made her move.

That’s my brother’s phone. His cowboy bravado was back. Can’t stand that classical shit.

Uh-huh, the prostitute uttered, unimpressed.

You’re lucky tonight. You got a real man to pick you up, and I got something for you. But first, I got to feel that rack. Like a serpent strike, his left hand flew to her breasts and fondled roughly.

Whoa, buddy. She yanked his arm away with her free hand. "I need to know what you want, and I gotta see the money before we do anything. Capisce?"

Dejected, the man fell back in his seat. From the side, the woman could see the tension in his jaw and the hard squint of his eyes. He was pissed. After a deep breath, he regained his composure and turned to her with a smile. Don’tcha wanna see the special present I’ve got for you?

The woman smiled coyly and nodded. Let me see.

Making a production of it, the cowboy reached down and fumbled for something under his seat. He winked as he continued fumbling. Then he sat back in one quick moment and held up an ice pick and a ball gag.

Looking confused, the woman said, What’re those for?

I’m gonna gag you; then I’m gonna fuck you like the slut you are, and after I’ve shot my load inside you, bitch, I’m gonna—

The woman raised her gun and said, Burn me alive?

What the f—

You ain’t gonna do shit, Real Man. You make one fucking move and I’m gonna blow your brains all over this truck.

The would-be john didn’t even get to beg for his life before all hell broke loose.

Suddenly, there were strobe lights and people yelling. He heard Police and Drop your gun and was blinded by a bright beam of light coming through the front windshield.

The prostitute was out of the truck before her Real Man could react. The first thing she did was yank off the ratty red wig and then tug on the bottom of the suede miniskirt before she gave her fellow police officers a free show.

That wig itched like hell, she said to a stocky man whose gun was trained on the john.

Good job, Sheff, he responded. I knew you had him when you spit out your gum.

She shrugged. It had lost its flavor anyway.

You want to book him?

Nah. I’ll give you the pleasure. It’ll be your first arrest since you got back from Europe. Go for it.

You sure. It’d really piss off Mr. Real Man to have a woman arrest him.

I just want to get out of these clothes and clean the stench of that bastard off my skin, Detective Vivienne Sheffield responded as she pulled on a police jacket. You do the honors, Dylan. She tottered on her boots as she tried to walk over woodland debris. A tall, strapping officer politely offered his arm to help her navigate her way toward a squad car. She called back to her partner, And shoot him if he tries to escape. That turd felt me up. His days of torching women are over.

Chapter 2

While Sheffield and Black were catching a serial rapist/killer, Tiffany Webber was laughing with her best friend, John Randolph, over the Van Wilder-esque antics on display before them. The college party wasn’t really their cup of tea—mostly horny frat boys and the women who played dumb to get their attention. Tiffany had begged John to go with her so she could get close to a rugby player from her geography class. John could never refuse Tiffany, so here they were feeling like nerds at the cool kids’ table. Across the room, the object of her obsession was eating a hash brownie and downing a Jell-O shot. At least he looked good doing it.

I know he’s not perfect, Tiffany admitted, but he’s nice to me in class.

Maybe because he wants to cheat off you on tests, John quipped.

Ha ha. Seriously, though, he invited me to this, so he must want to get to know me better.

Okay, that is a good sign. What’s his name again?

Barrett Frederickson.

Sounds like royalty. Is he the duke of something?

Look at him, she said in the voice of a swooning teenager.

I am. He’s built like an Olympian god. Glancing over at Tiffany, he raised a brow as if to say, Girl, he’s fine.

I’m pretty sure he plucks his brow. Maybe he’s gay.

John almost spit his beer out. Uh…no. He just knows a uni-brow is a crime against nature, but that doesn’t make him gay.

A faux-hawked guy walked by and scowled at them.

So which one is? There’ve got to be some gay guys here.

With exaggerated intensity, John scanned left and then right and then left again. None of them are drunk enough yet.

You’re bad. Tiffany took his beer.

Hey, if it wasn’t for drunk straight guys, I’d have no sex at all.

Luckily, Tiffany had not taken a drink because John’s comment made her laugh out loud. Two bottle blondes walking by turned to give them a hateful look.

They thought we were laughing at them, John said out of the side of his mouth.

Well, we easily could have been, Tiffany said out of the side of her mouth. The one on the right has a ridiculous tramp stamp, and the one on the left—

—is wearing a dress that’s two sizes too small. If she can’t get laid in that dress, then Christina can’t sing.

Sluts. She mouthed.

Pretty people are so vain.

Hey we’re pretty people, too.

We’re cute; they’re pretty.

Pretty shallow.

Well, we’re no better than them. You want to fuck Barrett because he’s hot. Hell, I want to fuck Barrett because he’s hot. So what does that say about us?

Tiffany played demure. "Moi. I’m interested in him for his winning personality and incredible mind."

As if on cue, Frederickson bent over to pick up a napkin he’d dropped, giving the two friends a nice view of his derriere. They gasped and giggled, drawing more angry looks from the bottle blondes.

Damn, that’s an ass that could make angels sing, John whispered as he stole another glance at the muscle man’s backside.

This must be hell for you. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I shouldn’t be here either. This isn’t our crowd, so maybe we should go.

Bite your tongue. Barrett’s headed this way.

The rugby player’s walk was confident, just short of cocky. Two dudes high-fived him as he passed by, and one woman slapped his ass. Stopping in front of the red leather Barcalounger that John and Tiffany shared, the tall, buff man offered a sexy, crooked smile.

Tiffany, glad you could make it. He glanced down and noticed she was sitting on a young man’s lap and that the young man had a hand on her leg.

Glad I could make it, too. Barrett, this is my friend John.

Hey. A nod of his chin.

Hey, John responded.

You go to uni, too?

Yeah. I’m an Art History major, sophomore. John smiled for a split second before deciding he didn’t want it to be mistaken for flirtatiousness.

Cool. I can’t do anything artistic. That’s why I’m a Management major.

Before John could respond a blond-haired, blue-eyed jock approached and said, Homo alert! Homo alert! The comment was directed at Frederickson. The two men grabbed hands and did a half hug, half bump with their arms between them. Dude, where’d you get the purple fag shirt? the blue-eyed man asked Frederickson.

Your closet.

Ha ha. Very funny. I’ve got what you want right here. Without a hint of modesty, the loudmouthed jock grabbed his crotch and jiggled his package.

You still dreaming I’m gonna switch teams for you, Jace? Frederickson asked. Give it up, buddy.

Yeah, right, Bare-bare.

Tiffany sensed John’s tension and offered an apologetic look.

Frederickson turned to the Barcolounger and said, Tiffany and John this is my roommate, Jason Holmes.

What’s up? Holmes held up his beer and clanked his bottle to her plastic cup. You’re the one he’s been talking about from geography class.

She couldn’t help but smile. If Barrett had told his roommate about her, maybe this wasn’t a waste of time after all.

A walking Barbie doll approached, curled her hands around Holmes’s bicep, and slurred, Come get me a drink.

You can’t get your own drink?

Noooo. She puckered her lips like a two-year-old pouting over a broken toy.

Holmes slapped her ass hard and she squealed. Rather than slap him back, she flipped her long, straight locks, batted her eyes, and implored, Cooommeee oonnnn.

Okay.

As the Barbie doll walked away, Holmes turned to Frederickson and said, Sorry, dude, but it looks like I’ve got someone else to suck my dick tonight so you’ll just have to cry yourself to sleep. Later. He made a feeble peace sign and flicked his tongue between his fingers before retreating.

Horrified and feeling entirely out of place, Tiffany stood and said, We’ve got to go, Barrett.

No, no. You can stay a little longer. I’ll get you a drink. We can talk on the balcony.

She looked in the distance and saw Barrett’s roommate French kissing the drunken woman.

Ignore Jason. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just obnoxious.

She looked back at John who was frozen like a porcelain figurine. Frederickson said to him, Can I borrow her for a little while? We’ll just be on the balcony talking.

Though he would rather be giving blood than sitting amongst the unfriendly party crowd, John wanted to be supportive of his friend. After all, Tiffany deserved a knight in shining armor. Most likely Frederickson was not him, but he just might be a fun distraction until the real Sir Galahad arrived.

Sure. Go. I’ll wait here.

And off the couple went, leaving him alone and vulnerable.

# # #

Blond and tanned, Trevor McDaniel upended a suitcase full of dirty laundry and then began to sort the clothes into piles. A pop song by a Scandinavian group played in the background as the 27-year-old bopped his hips along with the beat. A yellow t-shirt with the words Italy is for lovers flew onto the pile of colored clothes. It was one of the purchases he and Black had made on their European vacation.

Flying Aer Lingus to Dublin, the couple spent two days exploring the Irish capital before traveling on to Rome, where they spent five days in the Eternal City and saw half of what was on their list. Reluctant to leave Rome, they nonetheless followed their itinerary, catching a train to Venice for three days in northern Italy. Finally, the couple traveled around the heel of the boot to the Amalfi Coast for another three days before returning home to Normandy, Ohio.

Never much of a history buff, Black was unexpectedly enthralled by the age and beauty of everything—castles, cathedrals, sculptures, ruins. It was unlike anything in America. His boyfriend’s enthusiasm was infectious, and the two were lost in another world, an ancient world, so different from the one they’d left behind. It was a world with a distinctly European live-and-let-live attitude, too.

The trip helped them put the events of the past year behind them. Trevor had recovered physically from the wounds inflicted three months prior by the serial killer known as Fenrir the Wolf. There was a large scar on his thigh, a crescent scar on his upper back, and remnants of a dozen gashes on various places of his body. The psychological trauma was much more prevalent, including the not infrequent nightmares, during which he usually woke Black with his violent thrashing.

During the hunt for Fenrir, the two men had started a secret relationship, which became public when Black and Sheffield saved Trevor from the madman. Three months later, Black was still adjusting to the idea that everyone knew he was in a relationship with a man. Some days were better than others, and some moments were horrifyingly awkward. He had never wanted to come out, and he still grappled with it internally and externally.

Since Trevor’s rescue, the two men had grown closer. They were doing all the things new couples do— meeting family and friends, spending nights together, learning the other’s habits and idiosyncrasies, and sharing hopes and dreams for the future. Before the trip, they had already fallen in love.

Once they’d boarded the plane, their gruesome encounter with the psychopath known as Fenrir was tucked in the dark corners of their minds. This was the first overseas trip either had made, and they planned to let go, be themselves, and enjoy their time together out of the spotlight. This vacation gave them the opportunity to be a couple publicly, in a way they never could in Normandy, Ohio. Even though their story had made headlines—after all, grisly murders and kidnapping by a serial killer were big news in any city—Black never was one for openness and sharing. Anyone meeting the stocky detective who didn’t know the story behind the Myth Murders would most likely never infer that he was gay. Seeing him in public with Trevor, one might never suspect they were more than just good friends.

In Italy, however, they had celebrated being an unrecognized couple—walking hand-in-hand, kissing in piazzas, napping together on the beach. For the first time in his 35 years, Dylan Black was unselfconscious about his attraction to another man. Well, mostly unselfconscious.

Trevor picked up Black’s Kenneth Cole shirt and slipped it on. Comforted by thoughts of his boyfriend, he finished sorting laundry and then started a load of whites. Next, he booted Black’s computer so he could log into his school account and catch up in his online classes, which he’d basically ignored while on vacation. Before making much progress, though, he abandoned his schoolwork to unabashedly dance around the living room. In the middle of the song, Trevor whirled around and spotted his boyfriend in the doorway, and his dance ground to an abrupt halt.

Dylan! Humiliated, Trevor rushed to the stereo and turned off the CD.

Don’t stop on my account. Black threw his jacket on the arm of the chair. You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.

I’ll never dance again.

That my shirt?

Trevor looked down and realized he was still wearing Black’s shirt. It made me feel close to you.

Pulling him into an embrace, Black said, Now you are close to me. They kissed. You can wear my clothes any time you want, but I’d rather get you out of them right now. He draped his thick arms over his boyfriend’s shoulders.

So you caught your man?

Sheff caught our man. She played it perfectly.

I wish I’d seen her dressed like a hooker. I bet her boobs looked great.

They did. Black reached up and pushed the Kenneth Cole shirt off Trevor’s shoulders.

I’m doing laundry.

Uh-huh.

I bet you’re exhausted.

Jet lag’s a bitch. He pulled Trevor’s t-shirt over his head with one insistent motion. Seeing you here in my place when I come home is nice. How about we make this permanent?

Trevor was startled. Are you asking me to move in with you?

Mm-hmm. So whatta you say?

Are you sure about this?

He unsnapped Trevor’s button flies. Mm-hmm. Hey, the washer may be on the spin cycle.

Trevor grinned. You’re naughty, Detective Black.

# # #

Based on Tiffany’s giggle, John had a pretty good idea about how she and Barrett were getting along. In the twenty minutes since she’d left him, no one had even given John a second glance, which was probably for the better. Usually he wasn’t shy, but this just wasn’t his scene and he didn’t want to tempt fate by trying to interact with anyone. Having watched the boisterous crowd long enough, he thought he’d figured out where the restroom was located. Unfortunately, getting there would require him to traverse a dangerous path of inebriated college students. Seeing Frederickson lean in and kiss Tiffany, John decided he couldn’t wait; he’d have to brave the shark-infested waters.

As he crossed the living room, the faux-hawked jock heading his way smiled mischievously. John wondered if he might actually be flirting. But as he passed, Faux-hawk bumped John hard, sending him toppling onto Jason Holmes’s lap.

What the hell! Holmes exclaimed as beer spilled down his front.

Sorry. In order to stand, John had to place his hand on the man’s thigh and shove himself upright. Sorry. That guy bumped me.

What the fuck was that? the blond, scruffy rugby player demanded.

I said sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.

Holmes jumped to his feet. You fucking homo. Trying to cop a feel?

No. John held up his hands as if to surrender. Behind him Faux-hawk laughed.

I think you were trying to get a feel of my junk. He grabbed John’s blue shirt in a fist, causing two buttons to come undone.

Chill, dude. That guy pushed me. I swear.

Faux-hawk cocked his head and blew a kiss. With a pleading look, John implored the guy to confess he’d pushed him.

Look, homo, Holmes yelled, you’d better never touch me again, or I’m gonna lay you out. You got it?

John could smell a mixture of beer and shrimp on the rugby player’s breath, and he wanted to hurl. Actually, he wanted to disappear into thin air. While the music continued to thump loudly, the chatter among the partiers died down as they watched the scene unfold.

I’m not queer. Got it? The blond jock let go of John’s shirt and poked him in the chest to drive home the point.

Sure you are, John thought. That’s why you doth protest too much. Now have another drink.

Yeah. Got it. It was an accident. I swear.

A familiar voice called out, What’s going on? Tiffany arrived by his side as if she’d teleported. John, did this asshole threaten you?

The homo sat in my lap.

’Homo?’ What are you—ten?

John all but whispered, Somebody pushed me and I fell in his lap.

Hey, Jace, calm down. Frederickson, bigger by about 2 inches and 20 pounds, placed a hand on his roommate’s shoulder and squeezed. He said he didn’t mean to do it. Just chill out, man.

You didn’t see. He fucking sat right in my lap, dude. Made me spill my beer. He pulled out his wet shirt as proof. "You didn’t