The Purest Treasure - The Homicide Files (A Lincoln Munroe Novella, #2)

By Harrison Drake

When the body of a murdered man washes up on shore near a popular beach town, it isn't the cause of death that catches the attention of Detective Lincoln Munroe, it's something the victim had in his pocket: a British gold coin dated 1798. In Lincoln's mind, there is only one possible source: a barrel of gold lost to the waters of Lake Erie during the War of 1812.

Based around a true tale of sunken treasure, 'The Purest Treasure' is the second installment in 'The Homicide Files', a series of novellas featuring Detective Lincoln Munroe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harrison Drake
• Release date: Sep 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987948878

Harrison Drake

Harrison Drake is the pseudonym of a Canadian writer and career police officer who has chosen anonymity in order to protect a safe, secure and quiet lifestyle for his family. The author’s next crime novel will focus heavily on police corruption and the author wishes to be able to write freely and without fear of reprisal. The author is hard at work on numerous other writing projects in numerous other genres. If he can’t be found at home, playing with his children or sitting in his lonely writer’s garret, he’ll be outside, gazing up at the night sky and searching for answers.

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The Purest Treasure

The Homicide Files:

A Lincoln Munroe Novella

Harrison Drake

Website: HarrisonDrake.com

Twitter: @HDrakeTheWriter

The Purest Treasure: The Homicide Files: A Lincoln Munroe Novella

Copyright © 2013 by Harrison Drake. All rights reserved.

First Smashwords Edition: August 2013

Cover: Harrison Drake

Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com 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 either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

The Purest Treasure

The sun burned down from its place high in the cloudless sky. It was the middle of July and, according to the radio, one of the hottest days on record. The thermometer was ready to burst, red exploding from the top like in some old cartoon, making it a day to be thankful for air conditioning—even if I wasn’t allowed to use it.

I’d long ago removed my t-shirt, the sweat having soaked through it as I worked, toiled, slaved away under the hot sun. A plastic kiddie pool sat in the middle of the yard filled to the brim with cool, refreshing water. Why the kids would want to be outside on the hottest day of the year was beyond me, but I sat dutifully, a deck chair hiding in the shade of the elm. The deck wasn’t shaded anymore, not since I’d been forced to drag the umbrella down and put it over the pool. That’s where the sweat had come from—pulling the umbrella from the patio table and bringing the solid metal, heavier-than-me base down onto the grass.

The kids had shade now as well, their delicate skin would not be harmed under my watch. I would’ve put the pool under the tree but ever since a bug dropped from the tree into the pool, it had to be moved. They splashed and laughed in the shallow water, spraying each other with water guns and playing with toys.

Here, honey, Kat said, handing me a glass of rye and ginger; the ice cubes were already melting. She turned away as soon as the drink had changed hands and began walking back toward the house.

Where do you think you’re going?

Inside, where it’s cool. She never even looked back as she made her way into the house, sticking to whatever shadows she could find.

Must be nice, I said, the words muffled by the glass making its way to my lips.

The loud, obnoxious ring of my phone startled me, the slightest jump had still been enough to send some of my drink onto my lap. My ringtone was a necessity. It was the only thing that could wake me up in the middle of the night when murder came a-calling.

And of course, I already knew it was a-calling again. As much as I didn’t want to be outside today for any reason, watching the kids was much better than trying to solve a crime while sweating through a three-piece suit.

Munroe, I said, answering it just before the fourth ring.

Sir? Constable Eun Park, Port Stanley. We’ve got a homicide here.

Of course you do.

Address?

We’re on the beach, about a kilometre west of Iona Road. Probably easiest for you to take Talbot Line to Iona and then head south to the beach.

The beach. Lake Erie. I thought about the recent news stories, trying to recall if any swimmers or boaters had been lost and remained missing. I couldn’t recall any, meaning murder was the most likely answer. Odds were that the body had been dumped in the water and made its way to shore. If that were the case, it probably wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

Be there in about an hour, I said, then hung up and dialed Kara.

Seriously?

She wasn’t happy, that much I could tell—even with my limited ability to read women.

Please tell me you’re sober, I said, both hoping she was and, at the same time, giving her an out if she wanted to have the day off. With a couple of drinks under her belt she wouldn’t be allowed to be called in. And since we were on call twenty-four-seven, it occasionally happened. The call would just move down the list to the next detective.

Can you call back in fifteen?

I laughed picturing her with a pitcher of daiquiris or a six-pack of beer in her hand.

Where are we going today, Lincoln?

The beach.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Already there, aren’t you?

Yeah, she said. I just laid down. This is ridiculous. Now I need to go back into town and get dressed.

Bikini won’t cut it?

Which beach? Please don’t say Grand Bend.

West of Port Stanley. Near Iona. I’m guessing you’re not at the Bend.

No, too busy. Much prefer Port Stanley. Think you can make a stop on the way out of town? I’ve got a suit at the drycleaners. I’ll call them, let them know you’re coming.

Gun?

Brought that. It’s in the trunk. I had a feeling we’d get called out, just to ruin my beach day. Forgot to stop at the drycleaners though.

Alright, Mackie’s in just under an hour.

Fine, she said. Gives me some time to work on my tan.

I really hoped she’d slathered on the sunscreen. The Irish in her wouldn’t take well to sunbathing.

Large fries, large Orangeade… and don’t forget the sauce. Mackie’s was famous in Port Stanley, and well known for miles around. It was a large old-fashioned diner right on the beach that served some of the best fries I’d ever had. And whatever was in their secret fry sauce made them even better. It was the only time I’d opt for something other than ketchup. And the Orangeade—sickly sweet and radioactive in colour—was one of the most refreshing drinks I’d found.