The Worlds Greatest Crime Stories

By Darryl Harrison

In this luminous and pulsating collection of crime stories packed with lots of action, mystery, suspense and criminals more evil and treacherous than before. This time around more chilling and thrilling for the crime reader who’s looking for much more than the usual boring batch of crime stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Harrison
• Release date: Sep 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301148127

Darryl Harrison

About The AuthorI was born Darryl Harrison in Berkeley CA. I was raised in California and Nevada. I went to Reno High School. I studied writing with Author Ardath Mayhar for a while I studied business at a community college. My drinking caused me to miss a lot of classes. I worked at the police Dept. I worked at a number of other odd job-mostly in the food Dept. Once I was injured-several months had pass before I started writing. My first book is The Crimes In File No.9. I now live in Berkeley California.

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The Worlds Greatest Crime Stories

By Darryl Harrison

Copyright 2014, 2015 Darryl Harrison

Smashwords Edition and Wipe Your Booty Publications

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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 recipient. If you’re reading this book 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

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1: The Disappearance of Maya Dunford

Chapter 2: Anzugto’s Graveyard

Chapter 3: The Wife’s Bullet

Chapter 4: The Oversexed Crime stopper

Chapter 5: 17th Century Theft

Chapter 6: The Situation of the Auto Part Bandits

Chapter 7: Exactly Where Is Lubert Benitez?

Chapter 8: The Lethal Adventures Of Don Ivanis

Chapter 9: A View From The Courthouse

Chapter 10: The Self-reliant Pop Star

Chapter 11: The Unforeseen Predator

Chapter 12: A Dagger for Seven

Chapter 13: Problems In P.I. Computer Systems

Chapter 14: What Exactly Happened To Rowena Howard?

Chapter 15: The Toll Booth Shooting

Chapter 16: They Need Heart

Chapter 17: Exactly where is Patrick Vize?

Chapter 18: One Week

Chapter 19: The Ghetto Killer

Chapter 20: Castello’s On The Move

About The Author

Chapter 1: The Disappearance of Maya Dunford

Please...help me, brother! Mrs. Dunford cried out. Please find my baby. Child, I do believe something’s happened to her.

Okay, Mrs. Dunford. Please, try to settle down, Jackson stated strongly with sadness on his face, and tell me what happen.

Mrs. Dunford was approximately forty-seven and five-foot-six. Her hair was in fact lengthy black and eyes were weathered nut-brown. She dressed in an alkanet-looking variegated knit top and Riders 5-pocket jeans. He wore a cerise-looking plaid shirt and dark jeans.

My daughter’s name is Maya Dunford and she’s already been missing for several weeks. She traveled to Penbroke, Nevada to take picture of spooky wax figures. They’re said to be probably the most scariest beast in the world. Bro-bro, I would’ve gone with her however I was required to work, she explained sharply with tears in her eyes.

He poured her some Chivas Regal and himself too.

Did she go alone? Jackson asked firmly.

Yes, she snapped.

Did she phone you? he asked firmly, guzzling his drink.

No, she said.

Has she at any time before called? he asked strongly and took a long drink from his glass.

Hell, yeh. A week ago, she snapped.

How was she? he asked firmly, poring himself another drink.

She sounded fine, she stated strongly and gulped the entire drink.

Did you ever hear from your daughter again? he said.

No, she said strongly, pouring herself another drink.

Did you contact the authorities out there? he asked firmly.

Hell, yeh. Those dudes hadn’t seen her. She never came back to her hotel room, she said firmly, taking sip from the glass.

Right now, they had been hitting the whiskey fairly hard. After that, Jackson lit a crack pipe.

Did you call her friends? he asked strongly, blowing smoke towards her.

Yes, and they also hadn’t seen her, she stated frantically, wiping her eyes with Kleenex.

I’m going to need their names and addresses, he said firmly and took a long sip.

Kimberly Ostomel, Andrew Tarner, Carol Wilkinson and Bonnie Stout, she stated solidly.

What about her enemies? Jackson asked firmly, taking a lengthy drag from the crack-pipe and began coughing.

Her dude was in fact obsessed and neurotic. From time to time, he was very easily aggravated. I caught this scum-bag beating on Maya most of the time and had him arrested. Her face was in fact all bloody and then there were bruises on most of her body. She always had black eyes. Kent swore he’d kill her if he ever caught her, speaking with the mailman ever again, Mrs. Dunford explained strongly, guzzling her drink.

What’s this cat’s full name? Jackson asked harshly before taking another strong hit.

Kent Jattros, she stated strongly with her face a study of desolation.

Where is he now? he asked sharply.

Lord, I don’t know. That man got out of jail two weeks ago, she said sharply, finishing off her whiskey.

Did you give me just about all the folks she knows? he said.

Try a Laura Cleary, Janice Bueoy, Joe Atwell and Heather Deneka, she said strongly.

Mrs. Dunford started to appear just a little tipsy she stumbled in the toilet to pee. Jackson smoked up all of the crack and taken care of the Chivas Regal.

She returned and sat down.

What are her hobbies? he asked firmly.

Maya loves to take photographs and dance. She's assertive and pleasant. She's worldly and informative. She loves to consume pizza and drank wine, she said cheerfully with hunted eyes.

Where did she stay? he asked, looking at her cheap paintings.

Penbroke Hotel, she snapped.

Nice place, he said with a half smile.

Of course. Precisely nothing but the best for my baby, she said, trying to smile.

Does she know anybody in Penbroke? he asked.

No. This has been her first visit to Penbroke, she said firmly.

Did she go alone? he asked.

Yes, she said.

Mrs. Dunford acquired her checkbook and kept dropping it. She was in fact hella bombed. He helped her out. She made the check out for $3,500---her lifesavings and passed it to him.

Baby, you’re filthy drunk, Jackson stated dramatically.

Hell, yeh. Yo, bro-bro, I’m truly sorry, she said sadly with face drawn.

It’s all good. I feel your hurt, baby. I had been only playing. I’m just as bent, he stated clearly.

She took out a picture from her purse. She handed it to him. Maya Dunford had a coco brown skin tone having gray eyes as well as an electrifying smile. She wore a flavin-looking dress.

How old is she? he asked cheerfully, looking at the photo with reverence.

Twenty-two, she said strongly.

Does she go to church? he asked, putting her photo in his pocket.

We’re Baptist, she said firmly with half smile.

I’ll need to find out her medical history and banking account details, he said.

Sure, that would be no trouble, she said strongly.

Well, I’ll get directly on this and keep you posted, he stated firmly. Fine. This is actually the best whiskey that I’ve ever sampled.

It’s some decent stuff, boo, she said firmly, trying to smile.

They staggered into his pimpmobile and back out of his office parking area, practically hitting a moving vehicle with ranting teenagers. He drove out to Mrs. Dunford’s house.

Once they arrived, she'd pasted out and he transported her into her house and layed her down on the bed. He seriously considered pulling that dress up and raping her. At that moment, the phone rang and he jumped. She started out switching but didn’t wake up. The phone kept ringing loudly. By this time, Jackson had been out the door and into his car.

Jackson stopped by the Harrah’s casino and had breakfast. He sat at the blackjack, drinking Crown Royal until he threw up all over the table. He stayed there the majority of the day, slot machines.

Keith took a shower and shaved. He put on a battleship gray plaid shirt and baggy black jeans. He shoved shirts, pants, socks, underwear and T-shirts, a toothbrush, Rite Aid mouthwash, Norelco, toothpaste along with a comb right into a suitcase. He snapped up a big boneblack bag and unzipped it. He placed a CZ TT .45ACP, a Kimber Pro Carry 11 .45ACP and some more firearms like the bum was ready for World War 111. He visited the toilet.

The very next day Jackson put all things in the trunk of his car. He drove towards Penbroke, which had been ten miles from Reno. In route, there he pasted oodles of RVs, big rigs, minivans, trucks U-hauls, motorcycles and cars. Furthermore, he pasted farms, hotels, casinos, motels, restaurants, big companies and gas station. They were also Greyhound and gambling buses.

Once he arrived in Penbroke, he parked in front of the Penbroke Hotel. He snapped up his bag and suitcase from the trunk. The structure was obviously a mahogany-colored with mullioned windows. A pair of black guys, two Indian-looking fellas and a Mexican came up to greet him.

Hey, homeboy, the Indian dude said politely with a smile.

What’s up with ya? Jackson stated happily with a big grin.

Dude, turn around and return to Reno, the Mexican guy said bitterly to him with an evil stare.

I’m afraid I can’t. I’m searching for a young lady, Jackson said sharply.

Don’t they've enough women in Reno? the black guy stated sharply, peering down his nose.

Dog, not the woman I’m looking for, Jackson snapped.

Bruh. Let me show you what I’m talking about, dog, the Indian dude said sourly.

The Native Indian threw a right cross at him and Jackson moved aside to avoid the fist. Jackson jammed his black bag into the mans gut and he flung backwards, falling on his back. Keith kicked the Mexican in the side of the ribs and quickly swung the tote hard into the other black guy’s face not giving them any chance to recover and the man went down. Another Indian snuck up behind slugged him in the back twice before he could react and Jackson winced. While Jackson was worried, about his back, the black man punched him in the stomach, he fell over forward, and eyes brim with tears. The Mexican snapped up him right arm and black guy his left. Jackson was obviously a little shook up and felt sick. They held him. The Indian started out beating on him just like a slimeing crazed boxer on speed. Twenty or so minutes later on the Squaw finally stopped because he was getting so tired. Jackson face was a bloody mess beginning to swell and his ribs had been broken. He fell right down to his knees, vomiting and coughing.

Hey, booty-breath. Stop that or I’ll call the cops, a woman in the hotel window shouted harshly.

Later, dude. This ain’t over homey, the Indian guy said strongly as he kicked Keith in the face. The black man had pissed just about all over him. Next, they ran off.

The hotel clerk rushed up to him to help him up.

Are you all right? he said franticly.

Hell no, but I’ll live, Jackson explained weakly with a half smile.

Those idiots enjoy playing just a little rough, the clerk said firmly, helping Jackson up to his feet.

Hell, yeh. Aimed to eliminate me, Jackson said bitterly, trying to walk.

If they wanted to kill you they would’ve, the desk clerk said strongly. They’re a bad bunch and you should stay clear of them.

Well, thanks to that fly lady in that hotel they didn’t have the opportunity, Jackson said cheerfully and spit blood.

Jackson checked in room 4. He sat his tote in the sorrel-looking chair. He left his suitcase by the door. The clerk had dark thinning hair and a gnome-like face. He was approximately fifty-two and also over six feet. He wore a luteous-looking marled polo shirt and white cargo pants. He was a easygoing fella.

I’ll have to have a week in advance, the clerk stated firmly.

Jackson got four crispy hundred-dollar bills along with a fifty-dollar from his wallet and handed it over to him.

Dude, I hope you appreciate your room, the desk clerk said cheerfully.

Dude, I do. It’s nice and clean, Jackson said, trying to smile.

Great if you need me, I’ll be at the front desk, he said smiling.

I’m trying to find a girl, Jackson said firmly.

Aren’t we all? the clerk said firmly with a smile.

Naw. I’m serious, baby, Jackson said strongly, showing him the picture.

He looked at the photo for a moment, nodding as he brought on a smile.

Oh, yes. Miss Dunford’s residing in room 7, the clerk stated calmly.

Was Miss Dunford alone? Jackson said strongly.

No. She was in fact with Mr. Bill Nabong and so they had been dancing together while listening to loud rap music, he said strongly.

Okay, thanks, Jackson said firmly.

I’ll be at the front desk, he stated cheerfully, wandering out.

Jackson went up to Miss Dunford room and knocked. Not anyone answered. He utilized his lock picks to get inside and seemed like another person did the same thing. The lock grooves had been messed up. He stepped in and closed the door softly. The room was obviously a chaos: clothing was all over the place. The stuffing was ripped out of mattresses and pieces of furniture broken. He didn’t find Miss Dunford or Mr. Nabong. What were these folks searching for? He ended up being struck on the head.

Keith took two flexeril pills for the body aches. He snatched up a DW Patriot .45ACP on the way to the Penbroke Police department. Once he stepped beyond the hotel, he heard a deafening explosion. He crouched down behind some vehicles. A sniper had been shooting a rifle. The bullets blow out a vehicle window. Much more explosion type sounds came from a cheesy looking motel called Low Motel. He got in a ferocious gun battle against this bum. Folks in the way ran for cover in the hotel, bar, and store. Once the shooting stopped, Jackson ran into the motel. The clerk was reading a newspaper.

Excuse me, Jackson shouted sharply.

Yeah. What’s up, brother? the clerk said calmly.

Did you listen to the shooting? Jackson said franticly.

Yeh, I did, the clerk said relaxed.

Aren’t you planning to make a move? Jackson asked hotly.

Like What? the clerk snapped.

Call the cops, punk! Jackson said harshly.

That thing was simply a car backfiring, the clerk snapped hotly.

That wasn't any car, baby. A rifle, Jackson said firmly.

Rifle? the clerk snapped.

Did you actually see anybody come out of the motel having a rifle? Jackson asked sharply with eyes seething.

Hell, no, the clerk snarled.

Jackson ran upstairs in the motel. He stepped over a few drunk folks passed out in the hallway. The spot smelled just like piss and burnt Hamburger Helper. As soon as he arrived at the top of the motel the gunman vanished, yet he left the rifle a Mauser Model 66 SP Match .308 Winchester. There were clearly used rubbers, empty Coke and beer cans almost everywhere along with cigarette butts, drug needles, and potato chips bags. He grabbed the rifle using a handkerchief. He strolled down the motel stairs and came out lugging the rifle, moving for the police station.

It had been late October and the trees had been bare with orange leaves everywhere. There had been Halloween decorations on many of the homes and businesses. A K-9 barked at him from a black and white unit as he passed by. The police facility was built with a cadmin yellow finish and square tinted windows. He carried the rifle inside.

Officer’s leaped directly into action aiming their 38’s at his confused face.

Drop the damn rifle, sir, they stated bluntly with eyes blazing murderously.

Don’t shoot, baby. I’m not really planning to harm anybody, Jackson explained clearly.

Put the weapon down now! Or you’re dead, dude! the police said sharply.

Keith sat the rifle straight down gradually and put his hands on top of his head. One police officer snapped up the rifle and backed away. Four officers rushed Jackson and began whipping the crap out of him like he was dog meat.

Take it easy, bruh. Are you crazy? This is definitely police brutality, Jackson said gruffly, panting.

Hey! What exactly in the hells taking place here? the sergeant said sharply.

This dirt-bag entered right here, pointing a rifle at us, one policeman stated firmly as he stopped punching Jackson.

Stop! Don’t beat up on the man anymore, the sergeant said strongly with his arm out.

The police officers halted and moved away from the bloody and battered Jackson.

Say, man. Exactly why did you bring this rifle in here? the sergeant asked strongly.

Well, Lieutenant. It’s evidence. Some crazy butt worm made an effort to kill me, Jackson said maliciously, panting.

I’m a sergeant. Furthermore where did you get it? the sergeant asked firmly to the riffle.

On the roof of the Low Motel, Jackson said strongly with his face contorted in agony.

You poop-breath. You destroyed our crime scene, one officer said candidly.

I’m sorry, dog. Even so the man’s fingerprints are on the weapon, Jackson said weakly.

Thanks for making an effort to assist homeboy, the sergeant said sharply with a half smile.

No problem, Jackson said firmly with a weak smile.

Tell everything in my office, he stated firmly, motioning him inside. I’m Sgt. Eric Sinko.

Sgt. Sinko dressed in a saffron-looking suit, most likely from the Men’s Warehouse. His hair had been caramel looking and slimy. He'd a bulldog face having larkspur eyes. He was husky and six feet tall. He sat in a teal-looking desk chair. His office was filled with third-rate furniture. There had been thousands of photos of missing children on the walls. There were ugly family photos on his desk.

So. Let’s focus on who you are? Sinko asked firmly.

I’m Keith Jackson. Baby, I’m a private investigator, he stated with a street thug tone, showing his ID.

From Reno, huh? Sinko asked sharply.

Hell, yeh. My license is good in Nevada and California, Jackson said firmly.

Well, just what is a PI doing in Penbroke? Sgt. Sinko inquired sharply picking a slimy green bugger out of his nose.

You’re not really likely to eat that? Jackson asked snugly.

You want it? Sinko snapped.

Hell, no. Sick fart-brain, Jackson said bitterly his eyes narrow with disgust.

Sinko stuck it in his mouth and Jackson looked away.

Yummy, Sinko said cheerfully, licking his lips.

Dude, I’m looking for Miss Maya Dunford, Jackson stated strongly, displaying the picture.

Yes, a really sexy black broad. Miss Dunford is right here in the city. Yet I don’t know where. Her mother’s already been swamping us with calls, Sgt. Sinko said sharply, chewing on more buggers.

Jackson almost threw up.

Dog, I was in fact in her room. It appeared as if a tornado attacked it. She wasn’t there, Jackson stated firmly to him.

Brother, I’m going to send out a team of crime folks to go over the place, Sinko stated strongly.

I choose to file a complaint against a couple of buttholes who beat me real good, Jackson said vociferously.

What do they look like? Sinko asked firmly.

One was a Indian, a black man, china man and Mexican, Jackson said sourly.

Sounds just like the Vien’s Gang. We’ll have these punks gathered up for questioning, Sinko said ruthlessly.

Can I go bruh? Jackson snapped.

Let’s go to Miss Dunford’s room, Sinko said strongly.

Once they checked inside her room, everything was in fact ideal.

How would you explain this, homeboy? Sinko asked with eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The house maid. Dog, I don’t know, Jackson said sharply.

Officer Jones---get the house maid, Sgt. Sinko requested sharply.

After they found the house cleaner, she said excitedly she never went in the room. Sgt. Sinko was upset. He believed Jackson made up the hold thing.

What are you, Jackson? Are you some kinda crackpot? Sinko asked bluntly with bunch fists.

I’m on the level, baby. Maybe I should’ve taken a photograph of the room, Jackson said firmly to him.

I ought to lock your crazy butt up, homey, Sgt. Sinko stated harshly, strolling out of the room. I’m keeping my eye on you, Jackson. If you slip up I’ll be there. He picked his nose, shoved his finger down his mouth, and walked off.

Jackson came by Penbroke casino and enjoyed blackjack. He flirted with all the cocktail waitresses and drank plenty of Crown Royal. He travelled upstairs for the Belcher’s Coffee shop. He ate Steak Medici having fries and drank shots of Wild Turkey. Why would some person clean the room? Is somebody making an effort to drive me crazy? He was thinking. After his meal, he went back right down to enjoy much more blackjack, and search for Miss Dunford, yet she wasn’t in the casino.

Jackson met a girl in the casino. They went along to her motel and began smoking crack cocaine for some time. Next, they drank Chivas Regal and experienced wild sex, she got much more hotter if he beat on her some...and he did that. They smoked more crack cocaine and did some Meth. They made love some more for a while. He took a lengthy doo-doo. She pissed. He pissed. She pooped, showered. He showered. They watched TV. They made love again and did much more Meth. They finished a second bottle of Chivas Regal and went to sleep.

For Sunday morning, Jackson had been hangover and sexed out. But he was able to arrive at a Baptist church service. The place was huge and white. A big white cross set on top. He shuffle up to the door and pulled it back. He stepped inside and shut the door. A minister having short brown hair stood at a fancy oak wood pulpit. He looked black with Mexican-Indian. He appeared to be six-foot-six, wearing cudbear-looking suit. He preached in relation to the ugliness of gambling and drug-use in our communities. Every word this dude stated, the huge crowd nodded. Some said, That’s right, too. Or Amen. Each of them kept their eyes on him the hold time and didn’t even know Jackson came inside. Once the preaching was over women and men---white, black, yellow and brown approached the pulpit having instruments, dressed up just as if these folks were picking up diplomas. They started playing good gospel music. Everybody was bouncing about, and some folks foaming at the mouth just like crazed animals. Some lady’s wigs fell off. They sung about twenty songs and quit. They all prayed. He advised everybody to attend the next service and promise it would be far better. There were goodies in the back---like Nut brownie cake and ice cream. Everybody stood up and headed for the back. The pastor had been there shaking everyone’s hand. He shook Jackson’s hand and began chatting at him.

Hey, brother. I saw ya come inside here, the preacher said cheerfully.

I try to make it to church every Sunday, Jackson stated politely.

Good to hear that my brother, the pastor said cheerfully.

Dog, I appreciated the service, Jackson stated happily.

Will you come to the following? the pastor asked.

I’ll try, baby, Jackson said firmly.

I’ve never seen you before, brother, the preacher said firmly.

I’m from Reno, Jackson said strongly.

I’ve been there too. And Carson City. They need the Lord bad in that territory, the pastor said strongly, grinning.

Brother, did you like it there? Jackson said strongly.

I’ll go anywhere the Lord sends me, the pastor said firmly with a grin.

Hey, old-blood. I’m trying to find a Miss Maya Dunford, Jackson said firmly, showing him the photo.

The pastor analyzed it for quite a while and his chocolate eyes moistened with joy.

Oh yes. I recall this sweet little thing. She came in here with a bald headed young man. His name was Jack Cassio. I’ve known him since he was a child. She wore a Pentax IQZoom EZY-R camera around her neck taking pictures at every service. She seemed to be inquisitive and her face always flushed with happiness. She told me that she would definitely check out the Wax Museum. I told her not to because it’s the devil’s home. But I don’t believe she heard a word I said, the pastor explained sadly, strolling towards the back.

When did you last see her? Jackson asked firmly.

Wednesday, the pastor said strongly.

All right, Jackson said, nodding.

Do you want some cake? the pastor asked nicely.

For sure, Jackson snapped with a smile.

He ate some cake and ice cream. He had taken a runny doo-doo and looked down at it. Next, he