Loose Canon

By David Benson

Carina Quintana's latest case takes her back to New York City, where someone is leaving bodies, gruesomely stabbed in the heart, on church altars. Now wealthy and celebrated through her true crime books and settled in with the alluring Alice, the former chief of Miami Beach PD is in need of new challenges. She accepts a position with the uber-private investigations firm to which her ex-NYPD partner, Pete Simpson, escaped, and is immediately thrust into what may turn out to be the biggest--and most book-worthy--case of her career. Scouring the city's grandest, as well as its more modest, houses of worship, they hunt clues to a serial killer whose methods reflect a twisted mind, only to uncover what may be another deliverer of death, one whose own motivations can hardly be fathomed. Following up on the intriguing Dead On A Rival, Loose Canon is yet another of the author's (as Kirkus Reviews put it) "tightly plotted crime thrillers...sure to please fans of police procedurals."

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Benson
• Release date: Apr 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780988581531

David Benson

David Benson is a Senior Lecturer based in the Environment and Sustainability Institute (ESI) at the University of Exeter, Penryn, Cornwall. His research encompasses a range of issue areas at the interface between political and environmental sciences, most notably EU environmental and energy policy, comparative environmental governance and public participation in environmental decision-making

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Prologue

October 5, 2003

The use of roadside bombs by the Iraqi insurgency received a great deal of attention early in the second Iraq war, not just for the carnage they occasioned but for the profound level of suffering they continued to inflict long after they had done their nasty job.

About this there was little that Lockwood could do in most instances other than pray for them as the gravely wounded soldiers arrived at the 31st Combat Support Hospital. Borne on stretchers by grimy, solemn men in battle dress who knew all too well that they could be next, from helicopters whose massive blades rarely seemed to stop, they were too shocked or drugged or both to even be aware of their surroundings, let alone their situations. They came and went, following one of two different paths, decided as quickly as the doctors could stabilize them or declare them dead.

It was lonely work, Chaplain James Lockwood thought, as he sat at his small desk in the corner of the temporary building that served as an office of sorts for the team, glancing up at the calligraphic Army Chaplain Corps mission statement that he had carried around for years, its scarred frame hanging from a lone, rusty nail above his desk.

Nurture the living.

Care for the dying.

Honor the dead.

That was his job, distilled to its essence.

Bird in five, Father! shouted his assistant, Sean O’Malley, from across the room.

Reverend or pastor could also have been properly used to address Lockwood, an Episcopal minister, but for the Catholic O’Malley and most of the others, any man who wore the clerical collar, even if only when celebrating the Holy Eucharist or presiding over some special event, was always called Father. His shout had meant that a Black Hawk helicopter carrying more wounded would arrive in five minutes, so as the young O’Malley grabbed his helmet and walkie-talkie and sprinted outside, Lockwood rose slowly to his feet and attempted, once again, to shake off the melancholia that had gradually but assuredly overtaken him, and walk outside to face whatever was coming.

When the Black Hawk landed, his focus, as usual, would more than likely be on honoring the dead or caring for the dying than on nurturing the living. But a surprise awaited as the helo’s wheels smacked the raw ground of the compound’s landing zone. As those grimy, solemn men in battle dress began to hurriedly unload stretchers, the flight medic made a bee-line for the spot where Lockwood stood, halfway between the helo, with its pounding blades, and the field hospital. The name on the medic’s chest said SANTORO and he was a staff sergeant who Lockwood saw all too regularly.

"Doc’ll have to confirm but I think we’ve got one that needs your help this time, Father," Santoro shouted above the din.

Tell me what I can do, Lockwood replied, his tone even, his eyes gazing over Santoro’s shoulder at the men scurrying around the Black Hawk.

Minutes later, while two emergency surgeries proceeded on the other side of a drab partition, Lockwood and Santoro stood a few yards away from the gurney on which E-3 Edgar Hardy now lay, staring up at the ceiling.

Look, this is completely FUBAR, Santoro, a veteran of the first Gulf War told Lockwood in hushed tones. The docs’ve never seen anything like it. Kid was running, maybe ten yards away from it when the IED went off and wound up with two big metal fragments in his chest. Echocardiograph showed one in the right ventricle and the other in the left anterior descending coronary artery. And they’re thick, ugly frags. It’s fucking unbelievable that the kid survived the helo ride.

Lockwood stole a glance at Hardy.

He hardly looks sick, let alone badly wounded, Lockwood said.

Santoro smiled.

I told you, it’s fucked up, right? he said. The frags, they’re basically sealing up the wounds. If either one had dislodged in the helo he’d of died. Doc says that when they get him on the table odds are they won’t be able to pump enough blood into him to offset the hemorrhaging when the first frag comes out, but there’s a chance. The second one, though….

Santoro paused and rolled his eyes.

So the odds are pretty bad, is that it? Lockwood asked.

Slim and none, Santoro replied. It’s why they’re taking care of the other two first. They’re bad but they’ll make it for sure. This guy Hardy, though, doc says realistically they shouldn’t even bother trying. The kid needs some kind of major fucking miracle, which is why you’re here with him, Father.

Does he know? Lockwood asked. That he’s probably not going to make it?

Santoro clenched his jaw muscles and nodded.

Doc gave it to him straight, he replied. Kid took it better than you’d think.

Lockwood nodded and thanked Santoro, who handed him a copy of Hardy’s medical work-up and a print-out of his service record. He glanced at the medic’s scribbled notes and the crisp summary of the man’s profile and folded them into his pocket. Then he steeled himself and walked over to stand next to the gurney on which the dying man lay and smiled a gentle smile down at him.

I’m James Lockwood and I’m an Episcopal minister. It looks like you’ve run into a little tough luck, son, he said.

Hardy, who was barely out of his teens, managed to return what passed for a smile but it disappeared almost immediately.

While Santoro had been briefing him, Lockwood had been sure that the young soldier’s dire situation would have nudged him deeper into the melancholia he had been experiencing of late. But to his surprise, as he and Hardy began to talk, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Lockwood kept their conversation simple at first and asked Hardy if he was in pain, although he knew the morphine administered on the helo had probably quelled that well enough.

No big deal, the young soldier answered in the soft voice that was all he could manage.

So Lockwood asked where he was from and about his family. Although he already knew from the print-out that Hardy was from Alexandria, Virginia and had a brother and a sister, both younger than him, that his father worked for the Defense Department and his mother was a nurse, he listened carefully as the young man spoke.

I wish she was here to talk to the docs, you know? Hardy said. She’d know if what they said was right, you know? Although I guess I don’t have any reason to doubt them and all.

As they talked, Lockwood tried to keep his eyes away from the two ugly hunks of twisted metal that protruded from the young man’s muscular chest. The upper portion of his uniform had been cut away and some sort of disinfectant swabbed between and around the frags, as if the risk of infection was his biggest problem.

Lockwood gently steered the conversation away from all things medical, asking Hardy what sports teams he rooted for and such. It was while the young man was talking about the Washington Redskins football team, glibly noting that they would need a miracle to make the Super Bowl the following season, when he suddenly fell silent.

Guess I’m gonna need one, too, he said softly, after a moment, "you know, a miracle I mean, if I’m gonna make it to the Super Bowl."

The statement somehow seemed to lift the last remnants of latent sadness from Lockwood’s shoulders and the priest put his hand gently on Hardy’s arm.

Do you believe in miracles, son? he asked.

Hardy’s expression barely changed but his answer did not come immediately. Rather, he looked away for a moment before fixing his eyes back on Lockwood’s.

We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.

Instead of answering Lockwood’s question, the boy had begun reciting the Nicene Creed, and Lockwood joined in.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, begotten from the Father…

As they recited, Lockwood felt a warm glow spread throughout his body and he could almost see the darkness lift.

"…We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen."

Hardy paused to catch his breath and Lockwood stood silently by, allowing the young man to collect his thoughts. And quite the collection of thoughts it was when they came out, especially for one so young, Lockwood thought, as the battered youth slowly and softly disgorged his deepest beliefs and fears. He chose his words carefully, but there was no doubt they were the true essence of his faith and his convictions. Lockwood asked the occasional question or answered one, and while Hardy seemed pleased with Lockwood’s occasional smile or word of approval, he did not appear to be seeking them.

For his part, Lockwood could feel the Holy Spirit start to burn inside him, and as he listened and from time-to-time interjected a thought, he knew it was because he was sharing something remarkable, something that he had never before experienced in all his years in the priesthood. He had sat with the dying before but he had never before sat with one so sentient, so vividly aware of his fate, who could somehow still articulate how that knowledge intersected with his thoughts and his faith.

Lockwood began to feel dizzy, almost as if he might pass out at any moment. His knees were weak and he gripped the side of the gurney for support. By the time an orderly came to let them know it was time for Hardy’s surgery, he felt almost totally depleted of energy and yet enormously energized.

I’ll be praying for you son, he managed as Hardy was wheeled away.

Lockwood walked out of the hospital, crossed the compound and returned to his makeshift office. Standing there, he thought about Hardy and murmured, Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Slowly he became aware of the release and the warm stickiness that soaked his crotch, and he dropped to his knees and prayed, with a great deal more passion than before, that another chance at such a communion would someday present itself to him.

Chapter 1

Carina Quintana walked out the glass-paned back doors of the Ritz-Carlton Grand Cayman, past the swimming pool and Barjack, where the laid-back pool lounge’s patrons were languidly sipping their lunches, and onto the white sands of Seven Mile Beach to the cabana where Alice lay peacefully on a chaise, reading.

She kicked off her Haviana flip-flops as she stepped onto the cabana’s planked floor and leaned over to kiss Alice firmly and fully on the mouth.

Mission accomplished? the smiling Alice asked as Carina straightened up. But more importantly, where did you get that suit, and when? she added, gazing admiringly at the very high cut black one-piece that Carina wore.

At home, a couple of months ago at that little shop at the W Hotel, Carina replied, turning around slowly to show off the skimpy suit to full effect, while you were in the ladies room after dinner at The Dutch. I’ve been saving it. I take it you approve.

"Approve doesn’t begin to describe the feelings inspired by that suit," Alice replied.

Carina smiled.

We do it all for you, she said. And, yes, mission accomplished, it’s all gone, split the way we agreed.

Carina had spent much of the morning at CaymaNext Bank arranging for the money in her offshore account, the account that her ex-partner on the NYPD had ceded to her when he went to jail for selling drugs several years earlier, to be transferred to several charities in the United States. That mission, as Alice had put it, was the reason for choosing Grand Cayman as their vacation destination, not that Carina minded a few more days at what over the past few years had become her most regular getaway.

How did your banker guy take it, losing such a sizable account? Alice asked.

He managed to maintain his composure, Carina replied. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure it would take small arms fire in the lobby to faze Gavin Carpenter, she added, stretching out on the adjacent chaise.

Or seeing you in that bathing suit, Alice said.

Or you in that two-Band-Aids-and-a-hockey-puck thing that allegedly passes for a bathing suit, Carina retorted.

Alice laughed.

Two Band Aids and a hockey puck? she asked.

You get the idea.

You don’t like it?

Carina smiled.

"I didn’t say that."

Alice put down her book and sat up, sliding to the edge of the chaise.

It’s actually more like two nicotine patches and one of those fancy little round bars of soap they put in the shower here, she said.

Carina sat up to face her. Alice’s hair had grown to shoulder length and been returned to near its natural chestnut hue, but it was pulled tightly back now, revealing the gaggle of good-sized diamond studs that lined each of her ears. Then there was the tiny gold hoop she wore in her left nostril. Her extensive tattoos were beautifully designed and inked, and the ridiculously small bikini she wore showed off more of them than Carina had ever before seen in public, although the two so-called nicotine patches did still manage to hide her more private piercings.

Carina cleared her throat.

I think it may be time to order lunch, she said, either that or to go up to the room and jump you.

That’s why God invented room service, Alice said, getting up and gently pulling Carina, who offered little resistance, off her chaise, to her feet.

Two hours later, after showering and slipping back into their bathing suits, the two women sat at the small table on the balcony of their suite eating fruit salads and drinking sparkling water.

Room service was a good plan, Carina said, reaching across the table and taking Alice’s hand. The salad’s not bad, either.

I was just thinking that, Alice said. She stared out over the sparkling ocean for a moment and then added, You destroyed the list, right, the one with where the donations were going and how much?

Shit! Carina said, bolting out of her chair and going inside.

A moment later she came back outside with a hand-written list and a pack of matches.

One last time, for the record, she said, reading aloud from the list. "Our alma maters, to, and I quote, establish scholarships for top high school graduates from lower income families, unquote, the University of Miami, $2 million, Bryn Mawr College,$2 million. Then there’s the National Gay & Lesbian Task Force, $2 million, plus Centerforce, that group that helps families and kids of prisoners, $1 million, Alvin Ailey Dance Company, $500,000, Miami City Ballet, $500,000 and, last but not least, the National Association of Police Organizations, $500,000."

That’s all in U.S. dollars, right, not Cayman? Alice asked.

Carina nodded.

God, it’s so much money! Alice said.

As she said, it, Carina struck a match and held it up to a corner of the paper. They both watched in silence as the list started to burn, then Carina, when it was fully aflame, dropped it onto the concrete floor, her eyes remaining on it until there was only ash, which blew away on a soft breeze seconds later.

Yup, so much money, gone with the wind, Carina said, her tone reflecting both sorrow and relief.

Did it really come to an even number like that? Alice asked. Was it exactly eight-and-a-half million?

Carina averted her eyes for a moment.

Not exactly, she replied.

How not exactly?

Well, first there are going to be some attorney’s fees to pay, for drawing up the donation documents and all, and then some bank fees for arranging the funds transfers.

Leaving?

Carina cleared her throat.

Twenty-three thousand-two-hundred-twelve dollars and a few pennies, she said. Most of it’s in the room safe

Alice’s eyes widened.

If I remember right, she said, each person can only bring up to ten thousand in cash into the U.S. without declaring it, so twenty grand, max, for the two of us.

Very good, counselor.

Alice smiled.

I ran a business, remember, I pay attention to things, she said. Anyway, that means we’ve got to spend a little over thirty-two hundred dollars by Sunday. I suppose they freak out here at the Ritz if you try to pay for stuff with cash?

Carina laughed.

"Trust me, they’d be disappointed if their regular guest, Laura Garcia, didn’t spend some cash while she was here, she replied. Besides, there’s an LV scarf in that little shop off the lobby with your name on it."

Really? Alice asked, smiling.

I’ll show you later.

By the way, Alice said, "you’re going to have to tell me where that name came from and about that fake passport of yours, Laura."

I prefer to think of it as a highly artistic counterfeit rendering, Carina said. "Fake sounds so cheap, and believe me it wasn’t cheap."

Okay, so who was Laura Garcia anyway? Alice asked.

Long story.

I’ll bet.

Fifteen minutes later they were back on the beach, relaxing in their cabana, and ten minutes after that Carina’s regular beach waiter, the always smiling William, had expertly uncorked a bottle of Roederer Cristal champagne, poured a flute for each of them and graciously accepted cash for the bill before walking away.

Halfway through their second glass, Carina’s iPhone, which had been sitting on a small table that also held the ice bucket and champagne bottle, buzzed.

If we’re on the beach on vacation and your phone’s ringing, it’s got to be Pete Simpson, Alice said.

Safe bet, Carina said, glancing over at the screen. Yup, it’s Pete.

Does this mean you have a new employer? Alice asked.

Could be, Carina replied, her eyes glued to the phone.

Maybe you should answer it, Alice said, but they’d better not be planning something that’s going to interrupt this, I mean it’s our six-month anniversary celebration.

Carina smiled.

Not happening, she said, grabbing the phone and tapping the green icon. Is this someone with good news or money? she asked when she answered the call.

I’ll be damned, Simpson said. "Last time I heard that was when Jason Robards’ character said it when he answered his phone in A Thousand Clowns, but you’re not old enough to remember that film, Quintana."

It was on Turner Classic Movies a few weeks ago, Carina told him. Now which is it, Pete, good news or money?

Actually, both, he replied.

Keating and the board approved my proposal? she asked excitedly.

That’s the rumor.

Carina jumped to her feet and Alice got up and stood behind her, her hands on Carina’s shoulders, leaning in to try to hear what Simpson was saying. Carina put the phone on speaker.

So I can look for office space and start talking to people?

Like I said, I just heard a rumor, you know, Simpson replied, something about Prime Investigations opening an office in Miami to serve the Latin American market, with some former big deal police chief-slash-famous-crime-writer being in charge.

Carina smiled.

Sounds like the rumors get pretty detailed around that place, she said.

Hey, that’s what we’re all about here, Quintana, details. Anyway, I’m sure Keating’ll be sending you a package with all the actual details, probably later today. He’s big on packages by the way. Watch your e-mail. Oh, and, unofficially at least, welcome to Prime Investigations.

Alice had heard every word and was jumping up and down, clapping, a huge smile on her face.

I knew it! she yelled out and hugged Carina tightly.

Lemme guess, Simpson said. Alice is there listening.

You must be a detective, Carina replied, putting her arm around Alice’s waist.

Still the wise-ass, I see, Simpson said. Look, as long as I’ve got you on the phone, there’s one other thing.

What’s that?

Keating’s also gonna tell you that you need to be up here in New York next Tuesday, Simpson replied. You’re back from Cayman Sunday, right?

Right, but I was hoping for another week of R and R in Miami Beach.

Yeah, well, best laid plans and all that shit, Simpson said. Besides, March in New York’s marginally better than February.

I hope so, Carina said. It snowed when I was up there for interviews in February.

I remember, Simpson said, and you didn’t dress warm enough, as always.

Whatever. So, what’s happening on Tuesday? Carina asked.

Apparently we’ve been asked to meet with some people from the Episcopal Church and they--

Whoa, what does the Episcopal Church need private investigators for?

Much as I’d like to say I can’t talk about it with anyone outside the firm and you’re not quite inside yet, Simpson replied, the sad fact is I haven’t got a fucking clue. Anyway, just a heads-up, Keating wants you here for the meeting.

He knows I’m Catholic, right?

Simpson laughed.

Yes, Quintana, he knows you’re Catholic, he said. Maybe he found out you’ve got that tattoo of Saint Michael. It was in one of your books, remember? Maybe he thinks that’ll impress the Catholic-lite guys, too, along with your resume, of course. Or maybe he just thinks he needs to start getting his moneys-worth out of you, who knows.

Alice had heard Simpson’s comment and ran her index finger gently over the tattoo of Saint Michael, the patron saint of police officers and soldiers, on Carina’s shoulder.

Carina sighed.

All right, she told Simpson. You’ll have someone send me the meeting information?

Yup.

Okay, and thanks for letting me know about the, ah, rumor, Pete.

"De nada, Quintana, de nada," Simpson said, signing off.

Good thing we already have champagne, Alice said brightly when Carina put down the phone.

William, who along with everyone else nearby had seen the happy commotion in their cabana hurried over, snatched their half-finished bottle of Cristal from the ice bucket and quickly refilled Carina and Alice’s glasses.

It appears that one of you ladies has had good news, he said, a polite smile on his handsome face.

Yes, very good news, Carina said.

Well, whatever it is, congratulations, and cheers, he said without much enthusiasm before walking off.

Poor William, Alice said. All this time he thought he had a chance with you and now he’s bummed that you’re married, and to a woman no less, isn’t he?

Carina nodded.

I suppose, she said. Deep down, I think he always realized it wasn’t going to happen, she said, although I don’t think he ever wanted to believe the reason.

Still.

Carina shrugged.

He’ll get over it, she said.

Alice smiled and kissed Carina on the cheek.

I wouldn’t, she said.

Chapter 2

Carina stepped off an American Airlines flight from Miami at LaGuardia Airport the following Tuesday at eleven in the morning. Fifteen minutes later she was comfortably seated in the back of a black Cadillac sedan whose driver patiently wended his way out of the airport, threaded west through surprisingly heavy traffic for