Music: Steve Music Mystery Series Vol. 1

By C.M. Albrecht

Detective Steve Music is a disillusioned cop with problems. Shelly Lambert is a woman who lost her son to a predator eight years ago. Continuing to suffer from grief and feelings of guilt, Shelly works with a coalition that helps locate missing childresn. When eleven-year old Jerry Beakey goes missing, Shelly and Steve join forces in their search for Jerry. That is, until Steve begins to unravel lies about Shelly's past, lies that rip them apart. Now, each separately continues to search for Jerry, but Shelly and steve have to overcome their own demons if they hope to find Jerry—and catch a murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Aug 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781594316210

Book preview

Music

Book One: Steve Music Mystery Series

by

C.M. Albrecht

Published by Write Words Inc. at Smashwords

copyright 2008 C.M. Albrecht

Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

WARNING: Making copies or distributing this file, either on disk, CD, or over the Internet is a Federal Offense under the U.S. Copyright Act, and a violation of several International Trade Agreements.

…And Music at the close.

—Shakespeare

Chapter 1

The place was just a storefront between a wig store and a real estate office in a neglected strip mall on Florin Road. Shelly Lambert shaded her eyes in the percolating heat of the parking lot and squinted at the cloth banner stretching across the inside of the show window:

Missing and Exploited Children Coalition

The sign shimmered and danced in the heat and, like shards of broken glass, bits and pieces of stabbing pain flashed brightly into Shelly's inner eye. Cubby. Police.

It all crashed back down on her. Her husband yelling at her. Scenes. Bitter fights. Despair. And flashes of her indecision, anger and defiance-but mostly flashes of her grief and pain, her constant suffering; the panic that even now welled up without warning and engulfed her in helpless anguish.

It had been eight long years, yet to Shelly it was only yesterday. If Cubby were alive today, he would be a nineteen-year old, fresh out of high school, driving a car…Shelly caught herself and shook her head. She took a deep breath and closed the door to her car.

Inside the store the temperature was as hot as the parking lot outside, maybe hotter. Electric fans blew molten air around the dozen busy volunteers who worked at long folding tables piled with documents and ringing telephones. The volunteers wore name tags pinned to their chests.

Most of the workers only had electric typewriters, but one table held a fax machine and a computer. Both looked outdated. A police scanner next to the computer sputtered and crackled at intervals.

The dusty suffocating air smelled of stale powder and perfume with an undertone of burgers and fried chicken. The walls of the former store had been plastered with hundreds of notes, sketches and photographs, mostly photographs of children. Although the staff was almost exclusively composed of women, Shelly noted that there were no plants or flowers, nor had there been any attempt at all to make the place look homey. That did not surprise her; she knew the feeling.

A slender middle-aged woman approached Shelly. Her hair was dark, threaded with strands of white. Behind designer glasses the woman's eyes crinkled with kindness.

Hi, could I help you? Her voice was surprisingly booming and echoed through the room above the hollow murmur of other voices.

Shelly extended a well-groomed hand and introduced herself. I was looking for Mrs. Bloss…

The woman gripped Shelly's hand, Irene. Just call me Irene. Well, as I told you on the phone, Shelly, we can never get enough help. She tossed her head and chuckled. If you come back tomorrow, I'll say, welcome aboard! She paused and slowly appraised Shelly's trim figure, dark straight bob and intelligent gray eyes. She did not miss the diamond solitaire on Shelly's right ring finger or her clothing. That outfit didn't come from Wal-Mart, she observed.

Shelly laughed disarmingly. She made a deprecating gesture. I'm a careful shopper.

Irene Bloss introduced Shelly around to the other volunteers. Their ages ranged from seventeen or so to over sixty. They all wore dedicated and harassed expressions on their faces. Their dedication displayed itself in their body language as well.

There was only one man in the room, a thin bespectacled fellow in his late fifties. Later Shelly would learn that he had lost a grandson the year before.

Phones rang intermittently. Voices, some soft, some shrill, chattered and echoed against the bare walls.

A table bore a small sign that read:

SE HABLA ESPAÑOL.

From behind the table a slab-sided young woman rose to her feet.

I'm Vera Rosaria. She smiled warmly, showing her strong white teeth. She squeezed Shelly's hand. The things that go on—you just wouldn't believe. I could tell you about Thailand—

Oh, I believe you, all right, Shelly said. I believe. That's why I'm here. But inside she quaked. Maybe it had been a big mistake to come here after all. Part of her wanted to turn around and get away from here, run right now, run away from the heat, the dust, the chattering women—she wanted to crawl back into her shell where she belonged. But before Shelly could formulate a plan, an excuse, Irene Bloss had hustled her into the back room that served as a snack room and storage area for the volunteers.

Cardboard file boxes covered one wall, stacked together in jumbled piles. Suspended from the ceiling, a fan slowly stirred the hot air.

Sometimes it overwhelms me. It overwhelms all of us, Irene said. She smiled. Expect that. Like poor Vera there. Just don't get her started. Irene poured coffee. Sorry, we haven't got the money so far to get the air conditioning fixed.

The two women sat down at a 50's dinette table. A pink box, still half full of doughnuts, sat on the table.

Okay, so tell me, what made you decide to become a volunteer, Shelly? I mean, forgive me for being so blunt, but you'd be surprised how many volunteers come in here all gung ho only to disappear after a day or two, people who just can't deal with the pain and depression this place brings with it…or the work.

Shelly shrugged, faintly hurt that Irene had struck so close to home. Then she stiffened. No, not hurt. She was angry. What does she think I am, some sort of society girl out slumming?

I think I can stick it out, she said, making a decision. I've been thinking about volunteering for some time, actually. She bit her lip and looked closely at Irene. You probably wouldn't remember, but eight years ago my son— Her voice caught and she had to stop for a moment. She regained control of the wash of emotion that nearly overcame her, and then went on as it came suddenly gushing out. My little boy was playing just outside our apartment. I mean—I was right there. I hardly took my eye off him for a minute. And suddenly he was just—gone. The tears she had held back abruptly filled her eyes and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief. He was gone, she finished, just like that. Gone…

Irene Bloss's expression had changed, softened. She reached across the table and patted Shelly's free hand. Of course—Lambert. I should've connected the name. She remained silent for a moment, and then said, They found him…

Yes, they found him—what was left of his little body. The glass shards of memory stabbed into her mind again. Brief, violent glittering flashes. Shelly took a sip of her coffee and winced at its bitterness. She leaned forward. Well, we had to go back to square one. We not only lost our baby; we lost our marriage. I don't know. Things just began to build up. Resentments. We began to blame each other. My husband always acted as if the whole thing was my fault. That I was somehow solely responsible. In fact for a long long time, I did believe it was all my fault. I even had to go into analysis. It's been eight years now. The pain…I began to think I'd never recover. I guess I won't really, but I suddenly realized that I can't help Cubby or myself, or anyone else by spending the rest of my life in mourning. She sighed. "In the end the marriage broke up. It didn't really break up; it just died. Maybe it would've happened anyway.

I tried going back to school. That helped. I'm a paralegal now. That's what I do. I—well, finally, after all this time I got tired of feeling sorry for myself and decided to do something. I know nothing I can do will ever bring Cubby back, but I thought maybe I could do something…I thought it might give me a chance to sort of redeem myself…

Irene patted her hand. "I don't think you have to redeem yourself, Shelly, but there certainly is something you can do. You can do a lot.

Everyone in here has lost a loved one, including me, but I'm tired of telling my story. I'll tell you about it some other time. She leaned back. "Personally, I believe this is the best kind of therapy in the world, my dear. You're right about one thing. We can't bring back our loved ones, and we really don't bring back but a fraction of the people who go missing. But at least by being here we can show people that somebody cares—that they're not alone, that someone shares their pain and suffering.

You know— she went on, —sometimes I think the scariest thing of all is having that feeling that nobody cares. Most people don't really pay attention to those pictures on milk cartons and flyers. I know that. I know that in the public mind, it's not—

One of the women, a dark eighteen-year old with the name tag, LaVonna, stuck her head through the door.

We just got the word on another missing child, she announced, and not far from here, either.

Irene Bloss frowned and stood up. She went into the front and came back a moment later.

This could make an interesting start for you, Shelly. Come on. Let's get out there. You can get a first-hand look at what goes on when something like this happens.

They got into Irene's cranberry Pontiac. The searing heat inside the car closed in on them.

When did this happen, Shelly yelled over the whine of the air-conditioning fan.

The report just came in. We may get there before the police. Irene smiled, casting a sidelong glance at Shelly. It wouldn't be the first time.

Shelly's eyes widened. How on earth do you do that? But even as she spoke, her mind flashed to the police scanner she had seen back in the office.

Irene's smile revealed her satisfaction.

Our spies are everywhere. The police have always been slow getting started on these things, but they're getting better. I understand their problem. The old story: too few police and too much crime to handle. She shrugged. Besides, in a case like this, it's hard for them to drop everything when, nine times out of ten, the child just stopped to visit a friend on the way home from school or something. She drove in silence for a moment, then took a breath and started talking again.

A few years ago, a girl disappeared while she was washing the family car. Right here in Sacramento. Her mother came out to call her in for dinner and there was the wet car, the bucket of water, the soapy sponge on the ground—but no daughter. Well that definitely looked serious and everybody swung into action: us, the FBI—everybody. And then a couple of days later we found out the girl had run off with her boy friend. Dropped her sponge and hopped in his car with him. Just like that. Irene Bloss sighed, braking for a traffic light. "No wonder the police are cautious.

But for every case like that, how many abductions are the real thing? So to me the important thing is, if that girl had been abducted, somebody was doing something about it. The first few hours can be so critical. Memories are fresh. Witnesses are still around. If we can get a good description of the abductor—or his car—we're halfway home, because most sex offenders aren't new to the game. They're already known to the police. We don't often get that lucky…

But offenders have to be registered now, don't they?

Sure, they're supposed to be.

The car was much cooler now and Shelly leaned forward and enjoyed the frosty air that blew across her face. Irene turned down the air conditioning fan so that she might lower her voice.

Anyway, that's where we come in. We try to get out to the scene as quickly as possible and gather what information we can. And get pictures of the missing subject. That way, while the police are trying to decide whether this is a legitimate kidnapping or just a runaway, we start getting the message out.

But if it does turn out to be a false alarm?

Irene smiled. We start the wheels rolling anyway, Shelly. Sure, we just spin them sometimes, lots of times in fact, but that one time when it counts— her eyes darkened, —that one time, Shelly, we could make the difference between life and death.

Chapter 2

At 4 p.m. the temperature in Sacramento registered 105 degrees. People stood wilting in the blazing heat and stared at the crumpled body on a street corner in Alkali Flat, while uniformed officers stretched yellow tape around the crime scene.

At that moment, dragging a scruffy young man in cuffs between them, two men in plain clothes came from around the corner on 15th Street.

Here come the Mounties, said one of the uniformed officers. "They always get their man.

Damn right we do—sometimes, Detective Music said to nobody in particular. Steve Music was a burly man with a hard, square face. His hair, fighting its way out from beneath his baseball cap, was thick and black, streaked with white—and although he tried to shave twice a day, his broad cleft chin would always be blue. A light blue polo shirt stretched across his shoulders and faded jeans hugged his hips. Beads of sweat stood out on his face and arms.

Here's the shooter, he said. He gave the young man a distasteful glance. He was bragging about his little exploit in the bar around the corner. They thought he was bull-shitting them. He looked at the youth again. But he's real tough, aren't you, kid.

The other detective, Lester Dolph, dressed the same as Music; his polo shirt though, was white with a red collar. Dolph stood tall and ramrod stiff and looked more awkward than he actually was. He pushed the prisoner into the arms of uniformed officers and held out a plastic bag. It contained a revolver with a short barrel.

Old Charter Arms thirty-eight special, he said in a reedy voice. And get this: You know why Billy the Kid here whacked the victim? Because the poor sap asked him for a cigarette. Then our boy went to the bar to get a beer and brag about how bad he is. Says he told the stiff that smoking was unhealthy for him, and then he whipped out his piece and gave him a double tap. Great joke, hey?

Hilarious, muttered one of the officers. He shook his head. Maybe it's the heat.

Another officer, tall and square, shook his head. My wife thinks it's a virus or something, from all that atomic testing they used to do. Makes people get crazy. Sometimes I think she's right.

The prisoner's pale face glowed with sweat. He sagged weakly between the two officers who held him by the armpits. He smelled of beer and the lost look in his eyes made him appear miles away.

Hey Music, you've got a call, someone yelled.

Music went to the Crown Victoria at the curb and listened to the calm, almost bored dispatcher voice on his radio. He beckoned to Dolph.

Possible two-o-seven J, he said.

Jesus, Dolph muttered, I hope it's a false alarm. I don't know what this world's coming to. Seems like we get a kid snatched every other day lately. He climbed in behind the wheel and started the car. Maybe it is a virus at that. I'll tell you the truth, Music Man. You want to know what I think? I think the three strikes law was too lenient. Those guys shouldn't be allowed three strikes; not even two strikes—not for those pedophile creeps. The first time one of those bastards gets caught, they should turn him into a soprano. That's it. No fuss, no muss. And I'm not talking about using chemicals, either. I mean surgical work, preferably using a pair of dull shears with maybe a little rust on them.

Well, I like your incisive thinking, Music said, smiling grimly. But you know: cruel and unusual punishment. Like that. He reached out and turned the air conditioning fan on high. Hot air blasted at the men and both their faces contorted in objection. Music turned the fan back down.

Listen, it might be cruel, Dolph agreed, but if I had anything to say about it, it sure wouldn't be unusual. We're supposed to be working for the public, damn it. Well it's not fair to the public to let these freaks get a second chance, much less a third and a fourth and a fifth. You know as well as I do that most of these perps are recidivists. Out on parole or on bail. Their idea of another chance is another chance to go back and finish what they got caught for in the first place, only they plan to do it right this time. This time they have all the more reason to kill their victim: they're thinking, man, this is my third offense. No way am I going to get caught again. Dolph cocked his head as though he had just got a great idea and, imitating the perp, gave Music a twisted smirk. Wait! I know what I'll do, I'll kill the witness! Dolph's shoulders sagged and his expression saddened; he shook his head. No, Music Man, it's not just a question of punishment. It's a matter of protection for all the other little kids out there. He tooled the big Crown Vic into Folsom and headed east. We're supposed to protect, but you know well as I do that we don't get to do that very often. We just come along after the fact and try to catch the offender. Naw, these guys are like mad dogs or rogue bears: we can't afford to give them a second chance.

After a minute of staring at the broiling street ahead, Dolph sighed. Anyway, that's my philosophy, and I'm sticking to it. And that's exactly why I'm all for the death penalty. His dour face remained pensive and he hit the accelerator. The Ford lunged forward as the light ahead turned yellow.

I have to agree with your philosophy all right, Dolph, but I don't think most of these creeps kill because they're afraid of getting caught. I think it's a power trip. For instance, a guy who chokes his victims—he likes to make them wriggle and squirm, you know? He likes to see the fear in their eyes when they know they're about to breathe their last. He released his breath in a disgusted huff. Anyway, let's not get ourselves worked up. After all, odds are the kid's back home by now. You know how these things go.

Music frowned suddenly. What if the kid isn't home? A vision of his own kids flashed before his mind's eye. How would he feel if one of them disappeared? Maybe it is the weather, the madness…the virus, he thought. Regardless, a bad feeling was beginning to roil in his stomach.

* * *

The Crown Victoria pulled up before a pale rose stucco house a few minutes later. A red tile roof topped the dwelling, and a balcony ran the entire length of the second floor. A graceful weeping willow drooped wearily, casting a heavy shadow over the entire left side of a manicured front lawn. A police cruiser and a cranberry colored Pontiac already sat at the curb. Music and Dolph exited their vehicle and entered the house, basking in the cooler temperature that proved to be a pleasant seventy-eight degrees.

Officers Kanietha Gertz and Jerry Harrison were waiting for the detectives. Also present were two women from the Missing and Exploited Children Coalition.

The living room was nicely furnished in what a decorator might call faux Spanish. Music's gaze strayed immediately to the grand piano that sat next to the bay window, while his nose picked up on the faint but appetizing scent of fresh-baked bread in the air. A thin man stood by the piano chewing on a thumbnail: Harold Beakey, Jerry Harrison informed them; the missing boy's father. The slightly built man boasted thinning hair and glasses, though he appeared to be only about thirty-five.

The blonde, thirty-two year old Miriam Beakey, though a little wide in the hips, would probably have been considered good looking if not for her red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. She sat trembling on a gold velvet couch and nervously dabbed at her eyes with a damp hanky.

The other family member, Kelsie, a slender girl of nine, sat close by her mother, her young face shadowed with worry and bewilderment.

When all introductions had been made, it was the woman named Shelly Lambert though, who piqued Music's interest. It took only a fleeting moment for him to realize that he liked her efficient, intelligent, no-nonsense attitude—but there was something else. Something about her. Suddenly it came to him: She looked…wholesome. Her dark blonde hair barely brushed her shoulders, and her long, graceful neck supported her head in such a way that her posture alone signified pride.

Officer Kanietha Gertz, an athletic young black woman, laid out the situation for the detectives.

Jerry is eleven. According to his parents, he's a good kid—not prone to run off or go anywhere without permission. He left here about four, for his singing lesson—the location is only three blocks away. His teacher— She paused to check her notes "—is a man by the name of Stuyvesant