Decoys

By A. J. Davidson

A USMC gunnery sergeant is murdered on his last day in the Corps.

A sadistic serial killer is targeting the clients of Miami's fidelity testing agencies. Probationary police officer Kate Shannon is asked to infiltrate the Sirens' agency in a desperate attempt to discover how the killer is targeting his victims. But is Kate chasing one killer or two?

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. J. Davidson
• Release date: Nov 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452340821

A. J. Davidson

AJ Davidson is a traditionally published author and playwright, who, in Spring 2010, made the switch to Indie. He is keen to explore the potential of a rapidly changing publishing world, and is enjoying the closer contact with his readers that e-books afford. AJ has a degree in Social Anthropology. Married for 32 years, he has two children, a Harrier hound and a cat called Dusty. Not one for staying long in the same place, AJ has lived in many countries across several continents. He has worked as a pea washer, crane-driver, restaurateur and scriptwriter. A member of the ITW. Represented by the Jonathan Williams Literary Agency.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Early April

Throughout his thirty years in the US Marine Corps Josh Mitchell had been fully prepared to die for his country, and on a few occasions — rotting in a South American jungle and sweltering under the Kuwait sun — he had even given the manner of his death some thought. Would it be an anonymous sniper’s bullet, the treachery of a hidden landmine, or a whiff of some insidious poison gas? He didn’t much care, as long as it was quick.

Yet he had somehow reached his last day in uniform without as much as a scratch.

Josh checked the time from the clock on the red brick courthouse as he marched briskly through the quiet streets of Jacksonville. It was ten minutes to six. The morning was so still and calm the leaves on the oak trees lining the path were silent. The deserted sidewalks meant he was making good time. His measured pace had the relentlessness of a metronome − never altering, never breaking step at junctions, or slowing to peer in shop windows. Josh had covered five klicks since closing the door of his small two-bedroom on Hansom Drive, yet not a trace of sweat broke on his brow. His breathing came as rhythmically and effortlessly as his stride. The Ford pick-up still parked, as it usually was, in the driveway of his house; a ninety-nine model with 26,000 miles on the odometer. He was fond of taunting the younger men that riding in cars would make you soft. Clean shaven and forty-seven years old, few would have thought of calling him soft; tough, disciplined, uncompromising, hard as steel, but never soft. He picked up the pace for the last few hundred yards to the diner. The pool of bright yellow light thrown from the front windows of Kay’s bore promise of a warm welcome.

Apart from the quality of her home cooking, which was the best Josh had ever tasted, the other attraction of breakfasting at Kay’s was her passion for fine soul music. That morning the sound of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ Heart Attack & Vine spilled from the jukebox and reverberated around the small diner. Monochrome posters of soul legends adorned the red brick walls of the cafe. The music and the smell of fresh coffee cracked a broad smile across Josh’s face as he pushed open the door.

Morning, Gunny. Kay threw him a radiant smile from behind the counter, her voice raised to compete with Screamin’ Jay. She made a point of tending to the early morning regulars herself. It would be close to seven before Antonio, her British/Italian short order cook, would show up. Josh watched her turn to the gas griddle and cracked the shells of two eggs, letting their contents flow neatly onto the hot surface.

The usual? she asked.

Affirmative, Master Gunnery Sergeant Josh Mitchell confirmed. As on most days, he was the first of Kay’s breakfast regulars to make it into the diner.

Sandwiched like a two ounce burger patty in a thick roll between a Woolworth's and Scofields’s department store, the diner was tiny in comparison to the other restaurants in Jacksonville, North Carolina. Strangers passing through town would eat at McDonald’s, or Denny’s, or one of the other franchises that dominated the town’s eateries, before climbing back into their cars and heading on down the Interstate. Locals that appreciated good food, however, knew what a jewel they had in Kay's. Only large enough to accommodate thirty customers, six booths of four and six fixed chrome and leather stools at the counter, it was a place where the regulars could nourish both body and mind while easing themselves into another working day.

Josh watched as Kay wiped her hands on a cloth and placed an extra large white ceramic cup in front of him which she filled from a pot of fresh coffee. Not once had he changed his order in the six years he had been going to her diner. Ham, with two eggs on the side, washed down by three cups of scalding coffee. He called it his eye-opener.

Josh removed his khaki cap, folded it flat and set it on the counter-top next to his coffee cup. He threw a leg over one of the stools and lowered himself down. Even when sitting he still felt like a muscle-bound ape next to the diminutive Kay.

You are looking extra sharp today, she said over her shoulder as she laid a couple of strips of ham on the sizzling griddle next to the eggs.

Josh lived alone and had the instilled Marine pride in his appearance. He wasn’t the only widower to eat in her diner, but none of them knew how to get a shine on their shoes or a crease in their pants like he did. Few bothered trying.

Today’s special, Josh grinned, pleased she had noticed his efforts. He picked up a stainless steel knife and used it to beat out the rhythm of Dinah Washington’s Mad About the Boy that had clicked onto the jukebox.

Why’s that?

Today’s this Marine’s last day in the Corps.

You’re retiring? She tossed the ham with a well-practiced flick of her wrist.

Thirty years in and today’s the day. Tomorrow, when you cook my eggs, I’ll be a civilian.

Don’t give me that. You a civilian? You wouldn’t know how. Kay insisted as she reached to refill his coffee cup. What’s that motto y'all so damned proud of?

Semper Fi — Always faithful, that’s what we say. Once a Marine, always a Marine. The sergeant took a long swallow before adding softly, In my case they might make an exception.

Kay missed his last statement as she turned to serve another customer. Josh let it go. Her second breakfast regular placed an order for a BLT to go. Henry Woods ran a news stand just a few yards down from the diner. He nodded amiably at Josh as he waited for Kay to bag his breakfast. Henry, unfortunately, never had the chance to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. He ate as he distributed America’s daily press to the news hungry workforce of Jacksonville

Once Kay had dealt with Henry and he had scuttled back to his news-stand, she started serving-up the Sergeant’s breakfast. She lifted the strips of ham onto a piping-hot plate and completed the order with the rock hard eggs. She set the plate down on the counter and watched as he cut through the ham with a knife and fork that seemed toy-like in his great corded hands.

What are you going to do with yourself when you leave the Marines?

The Sergeant took a few moments to gather his thoughts before answering, I’m thinking of moving to New Orleans. He pronounced it Nawlins. My brother owns a bar on Bourbon Street. One for the tourists  lousy jazz and go-glasses. He’s been at me to help him run the place.

Gunny’s tone only emphasized his apprehension at the prospect of bouncing drunken conventioneers.

What about your daughter? Doesn’t she live in Jacksonville?

Her husband’s just made Captain. He’s being transferred to the Marine training base in San Diego. The Sergeant smiled, his pride in his daughter and her husband clearly evident.

Kay hadn’t known that Gunny’s only child was married to a Marine, but it didn’t come as any surprise. In Jacksonville, the small town outside the massive Camp Lejeune, home to the 2nd Marine Division, few people lived without some connection to the Corps. The twelve thousand civilians often felt that they were being consumed in a sea of green, with over sixty thousand Marines and another thirty thousand associated family members on their doorstep. It was difficult for the town to maintain a clear perspective of itself, as outnumbered as they were. Kay was realistic enough to appreciate that if there was no Camp Lejeune, there wouldn’t be much Jacksonville either. Even so, the Marines had their own way of doing things and that didn’t always sit too well with the townspeople. Most of the time the civilians and the Marines coexisted in an uneasy alliance.

You’ll miss her, she said.

She had witnessed how hard the sergeant took the death of his wife from cancer a few years back and how his daughter had been there for him. There are times when even the Corps isn’t enough, she thought.

One of the joys of being the wife of a Marine, Gunny said without a trace of malice. Kay could tell he meant it.

Kay left Gunny to get on with his breakfast and went to tend to her other customers who were starting to drift in. Most of them were Marines. Within the confines of Camp Lejeune there were plenty of places to eat, both civilian and Marine, but the majority of those who lived off-base preferred to eat at one of the town’s diners or brown-bag it. That way there was less chance of catching a hit from an officer with an early-morning gripe.

As she busied herself taking orders and pouring coffee, she found herself reflecting on the dramatic changes that had transformed the Marine Corps over the past few years. Once, all the off-base Marines would have been wearing uniforms. Gunny was now one of the few who still insisted on wearing his uniform outside the camp’s perimeter. Most of the younger Marines preferred to dress as any youngster would: blue jeans or designer sweats.

But the modern Marines’ liberal dress code off-base wasn’t enough to fool anyone into thinking they were anything hut Marines, not with those haircuts; no mistaking a high-and-tight.

Kay took a turn out front, pouring coffee for her customers in the booths, then pouring Gunny’s third cup as the jukebox switched to Muddy Waters’s Mannish Boy.

Thanks, Kay. Breakfast was outstanding, as always. Gunny arranged his knife and fork symmetrically on the empty plate.

Where did you win those? Kay asked as she nodded to the medal ribbons on Gunny’s chest as she perched on the stool next to him. Vietnam?

Hold on there, girl. Gunny choked over his coffee. I may be an old Marine, but I’m not that old. Desert Storm was my war. There’s been others, but Kuwait was my first. Each one earned me a stripe and taught me a little more. The price of my education was high, too high, but it was enough to keep me in the Corps. I saw too many Marines fly home in body-bags, and if more youngsters weren’t to join them, then the Corps needed to hang on to its experienced men. I signed on as a lifer.

Kay longed to hear more. She knew Gunny had seen his share of action, but he had never before showed much inclination to talk about it. Maybe it was because she had never asked. Unfortunately, the diner was almost full now and she had a lot of hungry customers to feed. She was twenty years younger than Gunny, but that didn’t stop her from finding him attractive. Compared to him, her own generation of Marine seemed hollow and insubstantial; too involved with their careers to have time for people. Reluctantly she slid off the stool next to him and crossed back behind the counter to start preparing more breakfast orders. It was a pity, Gunny seemed in a mood to open up and she would have like to have spent more time with him. Perhaps today being his last day in the Corps, he had felt a need to talk.

A customer at the wall end of the counter waved her over.

"Ma'am, could I trouble you for a cappuccino."

Sure, just give me a moment. She smiled at the customer, even though she hated being called Ma'am. It made her feel so old.

Kay was sure she had never seen him in her diner before. She would have remembered. He was a handsome young man and would have stood out in any crowd. Fine bone structure, bright eyes, which were green, skin as pale as buttermilk. He had spoken with care, each word clearly articulated. His black hair seemed to be neatly brushed and his blue plastic hard hat placed carefully over it. Clean hands showcased well-manicured nails. He sported fresh gray overalls with the logo of a cable company stitched across the front. A row of pens protruded from his chest pocket, along with a screwdriver or two. He had brought a silver Thermos in to the diner and had placed it on the counter beside him. Probably wanted a fill of coffee to see him through the day. Pay for one cup of cappuccino and expect to get his flask filled as a freebie. Cheapskate!

Kay poured some milk into a stainless steel jug and popped it under the steam pipe of the espresso machine. As she turned the valve she grimaced. The shriek of the machine’s steamer pierced her ears. Often she wished she had never bothered installing the contraption, but the coffee drinking habits of the great American public had changed and she had to change with them.

She turned to speak to Gunny to wish him the best on his retirement day, but his head was dipped forwards and she couldn’t catch his eye. She turned off the steam and sat the jug of milky froth down next to the griddle. Good-looking or not, the cheapskate could wait. Regulars were more important. Thirty years in the Corps wasn’t easy to walk away from. If Gunny wanted to talk, she would make time to listen.

Kay leaned over the counter top and tapped Gunny’s shoulder. The least she could do for him, today of all days, was to give him a good luck peck on the cheek.

Gunny, I wish you ---

Gunny’s head dropped lower with a snap, until his forehead was only inches from the shiny zinc countertop.

Kay’s first thought was that he was weeping, and keeping his head bowed so she wouldn’t notice his tears. His head dropped lower and with a dull thud connected with the counter.

Gunny, stop your fooling. She gave his shoulder a shake, but got no response. His torso started to tilt slowly to one side and collided against the customer sitting beside him. The burly sergeant took on the appearance of a rag doll that had lost its stuffing and had started to collapse in on itself.

Bert Green, a bookstore proprietor, caught the sergeant by the armpit before he could slip any further.

What’s up, big man? Too much falling-down juice last night? he asked.

Kay ran around the counter to help support Gunny. Bert was the wrong side of sixty and Gunny was no lightweight. She waved over three young Marines sitting in the nearest booth, nursing cups of coffee, still oblivious to the drama at the counter.

Quick, Gunny’s having an attack! Help me lay him down.

The three leapt up and relieved Bert of his burden. They gently eased the unconscious sergeant onto the floor and loosened his tie and top shirt button. Kay knelt down to support his head with her hands. His breath was strong enough for Kay to see the rise and fall of his chest, but he was unconscious. Other customers gathered around, anxious to see what they could do to help.

Looking up at the wall of curious faces above her, Kay called, Phone 911! Get some paramedics here fast!

Several of the onlookers scrambled for their cell-phones. Bert Green, belying his advancing years, reached his first.

Kay looked down at Gunny again. His labored breathing seemed to be weakening. Her throat tightened and her eyes burned. She shuddered. Surely this powerhouse of a man couldn’t give up his life on the floor of her diner like any... like any ordinary man.

Someone passed over a rolled-up jacket to use for a pillow and she withdrew one hand to grab it. As she clutched the jacket, she noticed a smear of blood on her hand. Tenderly she inspected the rear of Gunny’s head. Barely visible against his black skin, just behind his ear and below the hairline, was a small round red hole. Kay watched the wound as an occasional drop appeared on his skin’s surface grow larger and more bulbous, and finally splashed onto the diner’s linoleum. There was no mistaking it for what it was.

Kay looked up, white-faced. He’s been shot. Gunny’s been shot.

The jukebox dropped on a new record, Percy Sledge’s Try a Little Tendernes.

CHAPTER TWO

Ten months later.

The telephone call that Joe Cicero had been anticipating with mounting trepidation came shortly after nine-fifteen on Super Sunday evening. For the first time in over a month he was enjoying the indulgence of spending an evening at home, relaxing in front of the television and watching the Chicago Bears take a beating from the San Francisco 49ers in the Super Bowl. He had an ice cold beer in one hand and a bag of nacho chips within easy reach of the other. The Bowl, he had thought, would bring a welcome eye of calm in Miami’s storm of bloodletting. Traditionally, violent crime took a break during major sporting events such as the Super Bowl or the World Series, only to resume with increased fervor moments after the final action, as sports fans all over the city hammered home their post game analysis with beer glasses, bats and fists. He was prepared for the call, knowing all along that it would come, but had never stopped hoping that this time his instincts would play him false, that this time it was over, this time there would be no more bodies. The persistent nausea that had been burning up his insides since the last homicide was a taunting reminder that it took more than silent prayer to stop a determined killer.

As Miami Metro’s Chief of Detectives, Cicero was never officially off-duty. Standing orders stated that he was to be kept informed of all homicides in the Metropolitan Miami area.

The rapid rise of drug-related crime in Florida, Miami in particular, over the previous two decades, meant that Cicero rarely had time to relax. That had been his decision and he was prepared to stand by it. Experience had conditioned Lieutenants to make the call between homicides that wouldn’t warrant a line of newsprint on page twenty-two of the Miami Herald and those that would demand the Chief of Detectives to be present, regardless of the hour. Miami’s citizens wanted to see their Chief of Detectives appear in person at every major crime scene. They expected to watch on their TV screens an efficient and confident senior police officer reassuring them with platitudes about imminent arrests and safe streets. Cicero’s distant predecessors grudgingly learned to perform for the cameras. The more recent Chiefs, aspiring to political greatness, had welcomed them as a stepping stone to new careers.

Cicero was different. He refused to allow himself to be manipulated like some butt-kissing, genuflecting puppet, who materialized only at those homicides which the media deemed newsworthy. Shortly after becoming Chief of Detectives, he reminded the Lieutenants of their lapses in implementing their standing orders, and insisted that he be kept informed of all homicides in his precinct, night or day. As long as he was in charge of the department, there was to be no differentiation made by them between a murdered prostitute, bludgeoned to a bloody pulp by her pimp for skimming on him, or the homosexual related homicide of a millionaire property developer, whose death would send a shudder through Wall Street.

So after Lt. Price had set the wheels in motion in response to a 911 call: sent a paramedic team and a radio car to the location, alerted the homicide detective unit at his North Miami station, and informed the Medical Examiner’s office, he tapped in the number for Joe Cicero’s cell-phone.

Cicero.

Lieutenant Price, sir. We had a 911 to the North Miami precinct. Looks like a ten-seven.

Cicero spent the first few years of his career as a uniformed officer in North Miami and knew the district well. Homicides were not uncommon there, but they weren’t an everyday event either.

Price continued, Husband of the victim made the call, reported the crime, then asked the dispatcher to connect him to homicide. Coolest caller I’ve ever dealt with. Andrew Worthing. Doctor Andrew Worthing, medical doctor. Probably explains why he was so calm — being used to blood and whatever. I bet —

Did he tell you it was a homicide?

Yeah, he was positive. That’s why I called you straight away without waiting for a preliminary report from the patrol officers. Ain’t no way this one was an accident or a suicide. Not if Worthing is right, and he should know. His wife’s eyeballs had been gouged out.

Cicero felt burning acid spill into his gut. How was she killed?

Shot in the back of the head. Just like the other two.

The bitter taste of bile carried to his throat. He had seen both the other bodies, and the sadistic element of their mutilation had shocked him to the core.

Give me the address... and meet me there.

211 Hallandale Beach Boulevard, Apartment 43.

Cicero sat staring at the glowing green and yellow lights on the handset. Hallandale Beach. He lived in an apartment block near there shortly after he married Emma. He guessed all couples remember their first home with fondness, especially if it had been a pleasant place to live. Their old apartment had been built before architects realized that people could exist in not much more space than it took to kennel a dog.

That was almost thirty years ago. He worked as a patrol officer then, Emma a teacher at the local high school. They started their family in that apartment: a daughter, then a son. His son married a girl from Virginia and they recently welcomed their first child. Two week ago, Emma flew to Memphis to help their daughter-in-law cope with the new arrival after a difficult birth. She expected to stay for a month.

Their house felt empty and soulless without her. For the first time since they married they found themselves separated a substantial length of time. Cicero missed his wife, but he felt relieved she could not see him tormented over the latest killing. He grew more and more tired of it: thirty years of looking at bodies, three decades of blood and brains and pain. Time to retire, she had said. Time to let someone else shoulder the burden. Only she knew how emotionally involved Cicero became with any investigation that touched him. She loved him all the more for it. How it was something he had never been able to avoid.

He had always been that way, even after leaving the academy when as a rookie dispatched to his first homicide scene. The gore of that eviscerated young hooker lying in an alley reeking of urine failed to exasperate him as he expected. The futility of her death sickened him. A woman’s life had been bloodily ended, and yet only yards from the crime scene daily existence continued as normal. After the body had been removed and the blood stains washed away, it was as if the woman never existed. Cicero hadn’t expected the world to change just because of the death of one woman, but its indifference shocked him. Who, other than the primary detective, would remember her in a week’s time?

The picture of that dead woman remained fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. He remembered the choking lump that had blocked his throat, rendering him almost speechless as he radioed for assistance. The frustration, that turned to anger, when no ambulance arrived. The outrage burning inside him at the callousness of the homicide detectives. He experienced a deep rage towards the killer, and at a world that could allow something like this to happen. Fellow patrol officers on his shift treated his naive humanity with ridicule, but the way he felt about murder remained unchanged.

He learned to control his anger and frustration. He learned not to communicate them. The constant killings had recently come dangerously close to breaking through his mental defenses, however. Like a lump of weathered rock, layer after layer of his compassion eroded away over the years by the brutality of the crimes he helped to investigate. Few layers survived unscathed. Only those closest to him could sense the anguish that some investigations unleashed within him. He lost his appetite, pushing aside meals that Emma made an extra effort with. His temper flared easily.

It was good that Emma was away. At least she wouldn’t be forced to endure yet another bout of his choler. Three killers tracked down, tried, and sent to Raiford's death row motel. This made his fourth serial killer investigation since he took over as Chief. The homicide of Dr Worthing’s wife — if it was indeed attributed to the same killer — made it official. It took three linked homicides before the MPD could classify the murders as the work of a serial killer. Not three homicides all at once, as too often happened in the vicious drug-related gang slayings that has been sweeping through Miami like a plague. When someone goes on a killing spree with an AK-47, it would be classified as a mass murder. Serial killers take their victims one at a time and are usually much more cold-blooded in their homicides, and a lot harder to catch.

Cicero picked his car keys off the coffee table and left his house and the Super Bowl behind. A few plump raindrops splashed on the concrete drive, the first harbingers of a storm, though there had been no thunder yet. 211 Hallandale Beach Boulevard, Apartment 43. He wondered if the killer knew that tonight, with his third victim, he had 'graduated'.

The storm had unleashed its full vigor by the time Cicero reached North Miami. Swathe after swathe of driving rain, interspersed with gusts of hurricane strength, broke across his high-sided Trooper, making driving difficult. Above him the wind whipped the palm trees and more than once Cicero had reason to be thankful for the vehicle’s 4X4 traction as it plowed through the sheets of water gathering around over-loaded storm drains. The volume of traffic lightened dramatically as he headed north and the driving conditions had progressively become more hazardous. With any luck it would keep the television news teams away from the crime scene.

The Worthing’s apartment building lay near the junction of Second Avenue. Cicero examined it as best he could through the Trooper’s flashing wipers. A five-storey building with a grim exterior of grubby redbrick and arched windows. Recent attempts at remodeling did little to relieve its inherent ugliness, the building’s gloomy facade on the stormy night served as an appropriate dark backdrop for what lay inside. Several squad cars had parked at the entrance, their flashing strobes throwing revolving pools of ghostly blue against the sodden brick. One lone officer, dressed in a rain coat, manned the front entrance. He recognized Cicero’s Trooper and waved him towards the residents’ parking. Cicero drove into the underground garage, found an empty bay, and cut his engine. Three radio cars and a box-van from the Medical Examiner’s office were already there. Water dripping from their bodywork had gathered in pools on the rubber and oil-coated concrete floor beneath them. A group of three uniforms and two detectives stood next to the elevator doors. One of them, a tall youngish man in faded Levi 501s, wearing a golfing jacket over a cotton polo shirt, detached himself from the group and approached the Trooper. His hair