Shepherd's Pie

By J. D. Webb

Detective Mike Shepherd chases sadistic Ferlin Husky Lewis, a self-proclaimed survivalist, who escaped from police. Shepherd ruins his only suit, misses an important dinner date, and loses Lewis.

Ferlin, so incensed by Mike chasing him, decides to murder Mike and anyone who gets in the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781597050678

J. D. Webb

I have always written. Mostly short stories until I "retired" in 2002. Then I had three mysteries in trade paperback and eBook published by Wings ePress, Inc. My fourth book was Smudge is published by Wild Rose Press. My new book with Wild Rose is Bayou Chase to be released soon. I'm active in over 20 yahoo groups about writing and I own and moderate the Publishing and Promoting group with over 1000 authors and publishers worldwide providing a free source of tips and information pertaining to writing. I taught an online three-week course titled How to Add Suspense to Your Killer Novel for Savvy Authors in 2010 and 2014.

Book preview

What They Are Saying About Shepherd’s Pie

Shepherd’s Pie Title Page

Dedication

Chapters

Meet J. D. Webb

Works From The Pen Of J. D. Webb

What They Are Saying About Shepherd’s Pie

With Shepherd’s Pie, J.D. Webb dishes up a deliciously enticing concoction. Part cat-and-mouse thriller, part tongue-in-cheek send up of the tough P.I. genre, Webb’s story is chock full of genuine thrills and hilarious tidbits. His tough and terse fiction might easily brand him as the Mickey Spillane of the Midwest. Give him a try. I think you’ll find yourself quickly hooked by this tasty offering.

—William Kent Krueger

Copper River

www.williamkentkrueger

I liked the masculine voice of this Mike Hammer style shoot-um-up. Private Detective, Michael Shepherd has his impressive military background, and past police training to help keep him out of trouble. But then, along comes the most cold-blooded, steel-hearted man he has ever run into.

Ferlin Lewis evilly threatens and intimidates every person Mike has ever loved, and one-by-one vengefully slays his apartment building neighbors. Ferlin even plays cat-n-mouse with Shepherd’s girl friend, Diana, just to watch his enemy squirm. Yet, Mike knows that somehow he can’t allow Ferlin to escape again. He must draw upon his every survival instinct just to survive. He must track down this psychopath who doesn’t deserve to live.

—JoEllen Conger

Cinderella And The Stripper

www.congerbooks.com

Meet Mike Shepherd, Chicago’s pie-loving P. I., whose on-again, off-again relationship with lady-friend Diana rivals that of Spenser and Susan. When former cop Mike’s longtime nemesis, madman Ferlin Husky Lewis, kidnaps Diana with murderous intent, the chase is on—but just who’s chasing whom? The action never lets up in a pulse-pounding game of cat and mouse as Lewis toys with his prey and wreaks havoc with Mike’s colleagues and neighbors.

The gents will savor the rock ‘em, sock ‘em action, and the ladies will relish the romance, as Mike, Diana and their cadre of resourceful friends dish up a story with something for almost every taste.

If you have an appetite for nonstop action with a satisfying dollop of romance, help yourself to Shepherd’s Pie served up J. D. Webb style. I guarantee you won’t go away hungry.

—Judith K. Ivie, Author

Waiting for Armando

www.judithivie.com

Shepherd’s Pie

J. D. Webb

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Cozy Mystery Novel

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Gina Marie Cadorette

Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: mpmann

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2006 by J. D. Webb

ISBN: 978-1-59705-067-8

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

Dreams and goals sometimes take almost an entire lifetime to fulfill. Reaching that point takes your breath away. And yet the realization fosters a need to go farther and do more. The journey could not have been completed without the help and encouragement of several dear people.

Hi mom, I did it. The first person who told me I could do it. Even though she did not survive to witness the result, she knows. My dear Uncle Henry Fisher who financed my early college rampage. I promised him I would thank him publicly. He did not survive my ordeal but I think my mom just told him I did it. Thanks, Uncle Henry.

Without the help of my writer’s groups this journey would have been very lonely indeed. Thank you Angela Myers, Marilyn Gardiner, Dorothy Sanner, Debby Miseles, and Sue Hemp. Your encouragement and suggestions improve my work immensely. And I appreciate the fact that you’re infinitely gentle with your comments.

To the many friends and family who encouraged and listened patiently while I incessantly kept them up-to-date on my progress, thanks. Thank you, Aunt Barbara, for your help and encouragement, and reminding me that mom would know. To my sister Carolyn Spradlen, a really fine editor and an even finer sister, thanks for all your efforts. To my church family who intercedes for me with prayer and faith, thank you.

Thank you to Tom and Jerri Branson, Dee Dee Michelson and Karen England for reading, offering suggestions and helping clarify important parts of this effort, and withstanding my unsolicited updates on THE BOOK.

To my original editor, Debbie Cox. For someone who is punctuationally-challenged, an editor is a writer’s best friend. I’m very lucky to have an editor who’s not only competent, but one of the nicest people I know. (I think I need that comma there.)

Today, I proudly stand on some wonderful shoulders. My wife Judi must be tired of holding me up on those shoulders. How fortunate to find a soul mate who so lovingly gives and gives and never stops sacrificing so I can follow wherever word processing allows. She’s the one who brings me out of doldrums by informing me that even a rejection slip acknowledges I’ve successfully completed a project. Thank you, my precious angel on earth.

To anyone still reading to this point, I dedicate this book to you as well. Without readers, words just sit astride the page. You’re the ones who bring them to life and I thank you. I hope my words do not offend or upset. I pledge to forever keep vulgarity and gratuitous sex out of my offerings. It’s my intent to provide humor, some mystery, and pleasant thoughts before you finish my book. Please enjoy.

J D Webb

One

The bullet whizzed by Mike Shepherd’s left ear and he threw his six-foot, two-inch frame to the ground. He drew his Smith and Wesson in the middle of his leap to safety.

Well, relative safety, considering someone’s taking potshots at me.

The shot came from behind barrels stacked just inside a South Cicero warehouse. That warehouse, earmarked for destruction to make way for a high-rise, was not supposed to be used for target practice. Mike rolled for cover behind the rusting, black ’95 Olds 98 he had been tailing for half an hour, which now blocked the alley next to the warehouse.

Mike Shepherd, sweating profusely in the sultry August evening, looked down at the knee that took the brunt of his dive into the gutter. Hell! He cursed the jagged hole in the pants of his only suit and the smudge of blood around the edge of the tear.

The Olds belonged to Ferlin Lewis, a nasty lowlife who had spent more time behind bars than in them in the past twenty years. Assault, grand theft, bank robbery, larceny and the current record in the Chicago Motor Vehicles files for delinquent parking violations populated his rap sheet. Ferlin had crammed a nearly unbelievable 422 traffic citations in the glove box of that Olds.

For five minutes Mike huddled behind the car waiting for some sign of movement or noise. The silence in this part of Cicero was eerie considering it was usually bustling with gang bangers, prostitutes, drug dealers, or all of the above. Perspiration dripped onto the dial of his Desert Storm military watch. He raised himself to a crouch and peered around the fender of the Olds. Another bullet ricocheted off the concrete inches away from his hand and fragments of the pavement peppered the right side of his face.

Shepherd, you got yourself pinned down good here.

Twenty minutes ago he should have been sitting down in a restaurant with Diana Barton. She wasn’t going to be happy waiting there all alone. On top of everything else Mike had neglected to recharge his cell phone and had no way to call Diana. By now she’d be royally pissed and had probably informed everyone in the restaurant what a bum Mike Shepherd was and made a not-so-subtle exit.

Nuts! Bad timing. Horrible timing! But he’d spotted his nemesis tooling down the Dan Ryan Expressway and couldn’t afford to pass up the two thousand dollar reward a bail bondsman offered for Ferlin’s capture.

A door slammed somewhere deep inside the warehouse. Was Ferlin trying to get away or was he just wanting Mike to give him a target? Mike brushed off his clothes and ran the back of his hand across his forehead to swab away as much perspiration as he could. He waited beside the car for the next bullet to imbed itself, hopefully somewhere other than in his body. Nothing happened.

He took a deep breath. Now or never. Up and running.

Moving quickly past the open double doors of the warehouse, he paused long enough for his eyes to acclimate to the darkness. The only noise coming from inside was the click of his leather heels echoing off the walls as he began to creep across the concrete floor. Then, just outside, a car started up and screeched away.

Mike reached the other side of the building and hit the crash bar at a dead run. The clank of the door reverberated in the vastness of the building, but no alarm announced his exit. A lone streetlight brightened a large section of the alley, empty except for a dumpster buried in overflow against one wall of the warehouse. No Olds. Mike held his gun pointed toward the ground as he checked up and down the alley. No one was around. Ferlin and the Olds had disappeared.

Mike shoved his pistol into the shoulder holster, and then he noticed the untorn knee of his suit pants sported an oil stain, so big not even one of those fast-talking television spokespersons could claim to be able to remove.

Drat! Well, there goes my two thousand bucks and the date with Diana. Ferlin, when you take a shot at me, ruin both my only suit and my night out, you’re in for it.

Anger boiled over as he settled behind the wheel of his ‘92 Buick Riviera. Even the stuffy August heat was no match for his internal thermometer. He’d been looking forward to a quiet night with Diana, which they had not had for some time, and a great steak dinner. Shepherd, well-known in Chicago as a private investigator, hated the term private investigator because it sounded so old fashioned. He called himself a researcher. His latest jobs had demanded much fast-food and little sleep while delivering paltry paydays.

In the past three months Mike hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of Ferlin until tonight. Ferlin, arrested for a daring daylight bank robbery, had escaped from jail where he was being held until his trial and disappeared, avoiding his old familiar haunts. The robbery had netted two hundred thousand dollars, and his capture would result in a two thousand dollar reward from the bank. While collecting his booty, Ferlin had looked up at the bank’s video camera and thumbed his nose. Ferlin’s reputation had never included the word ‘smart.’ But he was daring.

What am I going to say to Diana? That’s assuming she would ever listen to another explanation. The truth sounds too hokey and nothing else sounds reasonable.

Diana lately had insisted if they were ever to have a more meaningful relationship Mike would have to be in a different job. She scolded him for wasting his mind and talents on such a dangerous and stupid occupation. She often said, I would rather you drive a truck than to be out trying to get yourself killed. Mike always made the same mistake, replying, I’m not trying to get killed. I happen to like what I do. Someone has to do it, and I’m good at it. Those arguments regularly surfaced, and occasionally Mike and Diana vowed never to see each other again. But neither one of them would ever let that happen.

Stopping by Diana’s apartment seemed like a good idea, until he discovered she refused to answer her buzzer. Mike pushed the button next to the name D. Barton at least twenty times. The building was one of the newer brick structures housing condos in Naperville, and Diana’s three bedroom apartment occupied almost half of the second story. Mike always wondered if the architect only had one set of plans or if he was just in love with a single design. The neighborhood included almost 100 identical units.

Diana was one of Chicago’s top decorators and Mike was proud that her condo had been featured in the May 2003 issue of Architectural Digest. Mike hesitated to touch anything in the apartment because he didn’t want to break something expensive. Diana always tried to calm his fears, telling him she didn’t care about things as she called them. But he knew she did because why else would she have them? Some of those things were worth more than his annual earnings.

Mike jabbed the buzzer another ten times in rapid succession.

Come on, Diana, let me in. I want to apologize. It couldn’t be helped. He hoped Diana was listening to the intercom. Just let me in, please.

I never want to see you again. This is the last straw. The words spit out of the speaker in a sputtering crackle.

Di, I’m really sorry. Please let me explain. I finally spotted this guy I’ve been looking for for the last three months. Please? Groveling was good. Groveling sometimes worked.

Why didn’t you call me? I sat in that restaurant for almost an hour.

Honey, my cell phone was dead, and in the chase I couldn’t stop to find a phone booth. Please. I feel terrible. I thought I finally had everything in place to have a nice quiet evening with you. I even wore my suit, which is now ruined. I got shot at, and when I hit the ground I got oil or something on my pants.

You were shot at? Are you hurt? You didn’t wear jeans?

I’m okay. He missed. And no, I didn’t wear jeans. I was taking you to dinner! The subject of jeans was a real sore spot with Diana. Every time they went anywhere Mike wore jeans. Sometimes he wore a sport coat to dress them up, but the jeans were always present. She had gotten to the point of not commenting on them, but she would roll those big, brown eyes at him in disgust. Maybe he had found a weakness with the admission he had worn his suit. After a few seconds of silence the familiar click of the door lock confirmed that she had granted him an audience.

His knock on her door was barely audible. The dead bolt lock clanked its release, but the door remained closed. There was no way to gauge the reception he would receive.

Diana? His voice was just a whisper.

Come on in, Mike. The door’s open. Her voice said she was just tired of the whole mess. That’s often how she described their relationship, a mess. She had changed into some jeans, which made the point about Mike always wearing jeans, and her favorite old, blue Yale T-shirt. Diana was jabbing a spoon into a recently opened carton of chocolate chip ice cream that occupied the center of one of her wooden TV trays. The container was new because a golf ball size hole had been carved in the center and the tear-open strip lay on the arm of Diana’s chair.

Honey, I’m so sorry. I ran into this guy I’ve been looking for and when I tried to call to let you know, my cell phone was dead and I was doing 90 on the Dan Ryan. Please, I wanted this to be a special evening. All this spewed out in one breath, before Mike stepped back and swallowed. His throat felt as if someone had shoved a hair dryer down there and turned it on max.

Mike, do you like me? I mean really like me? She showed him the tablespoon she was using to pick out the chocolate chips.