Murder in Queens

By C. A. Zellers

Abigail Hart, 28, a supermodel, carries her shocking hidden secrets of abuse and murder from San Francisco to New York. Captain Joe Braddock, 39, is swept into a passionate, deadly affair with Abby and is tormented by her jealous rages as her obsession with him intensifies. Joe’s search for the truth leads him into the midst of deceit and murder where the stakes are deadly. Abby decides that if she can’t have him, no one else will, including her gorgeous younger sister, Courtney.

Disagreements erupt between the sisters over Joe’s love, a missing gun, three hundred thousand dollars, and a blackmailer. Dave Larkin, Joe’s co-pilot and best friend, becomes entangled in a web between Joe and Abby. Will he live to regret it? She’s fearless. She’s deadly. She’s a psychopath.

“Detectives Chuck Gorman and Ray Fox comb through the streets and alleys of Queens, New York, chasing a master of seduction and deceit who has murdered four so far. Can they piece together the facts and catch the predator before she kills again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. A. Zellers
• Release date: May 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310329142

C. A. Zellers

I am definitely a right brainer. I have created and sold many stained glass pieces,dabbled in water color painting, and have taught piano for the past twenty-five years.I decided to write this book about six years ago. I am a member of High Sierra Writers in Reno, NV, and have learned a lot through the many critique groups I have been in. Between teaching piano, writing, and my husband of 15 years, I stay very busy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’ve experienced enough pain and hatred in my life to do what I should have done years ago…kill the bastard.

His auto body shop stood a mile south of town. I turned off my headlights and slowly pulled my vehicle through the gravel and around the side of the old brick building. A dim light glowed through a small grease-smeared window.

Lightening broke through darkness followed by thunder as rain pounded on the windshield. I watched the wipers brush back and forth, pushing the water from the glass. I turned off the ignition and listened to the drops drumming on the roof before reaching for the door handle. Then, taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open.

When I stepped from the car, a blasting gust of wind slammed against me nearly knocking me back into my seat. The rain quickly soaked through my t-shirt and jeans as I carefully and quietly closed the car door. I tucked a dripping tendril of hair behind my ear and trudged through the mud and puddles to the back door of the building. Turning the handle, I opened the door a crack, and stopped to listen. Humming. The son-of-a-bitch was actually humming.

My heart pounded as sweat and rainwater ran down my forehead. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and entered the garage.

The smell of day-old coffee and engine oil penetrated my nostrils. The dim glow of a spot lamp under a jacked-up red Buick drew my attention to his dirty jeans and work boots protruding from a roll cart beneath the car. I crept closer.

Who's there? he called out.

Papa, it's me.

Hey, baby girl. What are you doing here? Haven’t seen you in months. How’s work?

I knelt beside the jack and peered under the car. Two days of stubble covered his chin. Wild brows backlit beneath the engine block framed his yellowed grin. I have news, Papa. I rested my hand on the iron of the jack. I finally have the guts to do what I should have done years ago.

What would that be? he mumbled, wrestling with a wrench over his head.

You're going to die tonight, Papa.

He dropped the wrench and cursed. What the hell are you talking about?

As he started to roll his cart from beneath the car, I spun the handle on the jack and the Buick creaked as it lowered several inches. My father froze.

Everything in my life is fucked up. James left me. I lost my job. And you know what? It’s all your fault. I turned the handle until the Buick just grazed his chest. I hate you. I want you to suffer the way you made me suffer all those years.

Wait! I could hear the panic in his voice. You don’t want to do this, Abigail.

But I do, Papa. I want to be free of you.

I slowly lowered the car letting its weight settle on to his chest. I heard his breathing–fast and shallow.

I’m sorry, he said. All I ever did was love you. Please. He coughed.

That's what I want to hear, you bastard. Beg me to stop, the way I begged you night after night.

I twisted the handle again and his breathing slowed. He moaned and gasped as his legs kicked beside me, pleading.

Sorry, but you aren't in control anymore. I am. Bye, Papa. Enjoy hell.

No, please, his voice cracked.

I stood, lifted my leg, and swung it hard to kick the jack out. The Buick fell its final inches. I heard his ribs crack and watched his legs kick and stiffen before they fell, lifeless. I turned and walked away—smiling.

Chapter 2

Fear comes when you least expect it. After flying for twenty years, Captain Joe Braddock felt that fear grip his gut like a vice.

Near-zero visibility created a blinding snowstorm for East Coast Airlines Flight 1150 heading to New York's LaGuardia airport. In a holding pattern forty miles out at 16,000 feet, Joe sensed that scared-shitless kind of fear after his A330 twin engine wide-body Airbus carrying 175 passengers, abruptly dropped two thousand feet.

Instrument panel lights blinked. Joe noticed instability in engine number two and immediately donned his oxygen mask and communicated the same to his first officer, Dave Larkin.

The plane began shaking severely side-to-side, like a kite in high wind. Joe gripped the sidestick, as beads of sweat clung to his brow. His eyes roamed the instrument panel looking for answers. His heart pounded against the pressure of his shoulder harness.

Boom! A jolt ran throughout the aircraft. The body of the plane trembled like a frightened child. The decompression warning rang out.

Something hit the fuselage, pressure’s dropping, Dave yelled.

Joe pushed up the power to maintain airspeed and grabbed the microphone. Mayday! Mayday! This is an emergency. LaGuardia Approach, this is East Coast 1150. We’re losing pressure and requesting an immediate landing clearance. LaGuardia? Are you there?

Dave craned and caught the glow of red-orange flames shooting from beneath the wing of the aircraft. Christ! Joe, we have a fire in engine two.

Joe pulled the emergency lever, which armed the fire bottle and shut off the fuel, the ignition, and the hydraulics to the engine. The roaring from the engine stopped.

Dave stretched to view the blaze. It's still burning. The bottles must not be working.

Forcing air into his lungs, Joe grabbed the microphone again and shouted. Mayday, Mayday, Fire! This is East Coast 1150. Answer me, damn it.

Hysterical screams from the travelers penetrated through the door of the cockpit.

Annie, the head flight attendant—despite her quickened pulse—portrayed calm with her long-since stifled southern accent, when she told passengers to stay in their seats and buckle their seat belts.

The wings dipped right to left and up and down as the blustering wind carried the plane like a glider. Joe’s heart beat faster with every second that passed. Sweat dripped from his brow into his eyes and slithered down his cheeks and neck onto his collar.

Prepare the crew for an emergency landing, Joe said.

Dave quickly relayed the message to Annie.

1150…say your heading.

Finally, Joe muttered, clicking on the mic. Victor 475, forty miles west of LaGuardia. We request immediate emergency landing instructions.

Roger, 1150. You’re cleared to land on runway two, two.

Roger, Joe repeated. We’re taking this baby down, Dave. Notify the attendants. He shoved the sidestick forward with clutched hands, and tilted the nose to begin a rapid decent.

Meanwhile in the fuselage, a rush of icy air blasted through the cabin. Hollow gasps and shrill shrieks ricocheted off the walls and swirled in the chaos.

Help! Someone please. My friend is bleeding! yelled a woman in an aisle seat waving her arms.

I'm coming! Annie shouted over the moan of wind. Patting the shoulders of panicked flyers, she pushed past another attendant. Nodding reassurance at the wide-eyed stares of passengers, she stepped swiftly over strewn bags, jackets, and debris in the aisle, reaching desperately from seat back to seat back, like cruel rungs of monkey bars. She spotted blood splattered on the cabin wall several rows ahead, and noticed a part of the engine shrapnel poking through the plane’s fuselage behind the right wing. A jagged piece of metal had sliced into the thigh of a woman seated by the window.

The injured lady clutched at her bleeding leg, and leaned sideways to avoid the fragment dripping red beside her. The flight attendant reached across the passenger and pulled the middle armrest up, freeing the rider. Slide this way, she said, then turned and searched frantically before snagging a scarf off the floor. Use this and apply pressure. She handed it to her patient. An ambulance will be waiting when we arrive. She exchanged a worried frown with the woman on the aisle, leaned to her ear, and said, What’s your name, Miss?

Abby.

Help her control the bleeding, Abby. We’re almost home.

Oxygen masks had dropped, and compartment doors had burst open throwing contents into the aisle and on the heads of the terrified travelers. Handbags, carry-on luggage, papers and magazines became projectiles throughout the cabin. Overhead lights were blinking on and off. Children and babies cried in their parent's arms. Passengers prayed for their safety.

Over the loud noise, Annie spoke softly to the travelers and tried to smile. The muscles in her stomach were as tightly knotted as a child’s wet shoelaces. Recently married, and now a few months pregnant, images of her future with her husband and unborn child fluttered through her mind.

Oh my God, look! A woman pointed out the window. Fire! she shouted, her fear muffled beneath the oxygen mask that provided no oxygen, only security.

Passengers on the right side of the aircraft saw flames rising from under the wing, creating panic in the cabin. Those unfortunate enough to sit by the window, sat with their faces aglow, the flames illuminating their horrified expressions.

We’re going to die, a woman in the front wept.

Not now, please, not now! said a young woman next to the emergency exit. She reached out to her faith. Our Father, who art in heaven…

Come on, Lady! a deep, angry, voice bellowed.

Mommy, I’m scared, a young child cried, squeezing her mother’s hand.

Annie headed up the center to the PA system. We will be fine! Try to remain calm. Her microphone beeped, and she picked it up. Yes?

We've received clearance to land. Prepare the passengers.

Yes, Sir. After she hung up, she pushed the microphone button again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, First Officer Larkin has just advised us that we've been cleared for landing. Check your seat belts and prepare to lean forward as far as you can and brace yourself when I tell you.

She surveyed the main cabin. Passengers clung to armrests and each other. Now at a lower altitude, the pressure had stabilized, but still the ghostly howls of the wind ripped its way through the torn fuselage, and delivered an eerie soundtrack to the hushed whispers and whimpers of the travelers. The aircraft itself provided the percussion. The floor rumbled. The walls shuddered. The doors, compartments, and seats, rattled and clanged. And the overhead lights flickered in beat, as the plane buffeted about in the turbulence, dipping and swaying.

Now seated, she picked up the blinking handset and pushed the button for the cockpit. Yes, Sir?

Touchdown in three minutes, Dave said.

She pushed another button and with the voice of a drill sergeant announced: Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re ready to land and should touch down in a couple minutes. Tighten your belts, remove your eyeglasses, and keep your heads down or braced against the chair back in front of you. Stay seated until we come to a complete stop.

Joe’s voice came over the PA system. Folks, this is Captain Braddock. I’ll have us all on the ground soon. I need you to brace for a bumpy landing. Flight attendants take your seats." Beth Ann and the others strapped themselves in.

They descended with full power on glide path to 2,000 feet as blowing flames streamed from the engine, painting the night sky in various shades of orange and gold. Joe tightly held the sidestick, fighting the yaw and drag due to power loss of engine number two.

Six miles from LaGuardia, Joe lowered the landing gear. Images of his two sons flashed before his eyes. God, please protect us and bring us home safely, he silently prayed. We’re coming in blind, Joe shouted to Dave. Let me know when you see the runway lights. He extended the flaps, his eyes on the instrument panel.

Dave leaned forward squinting through the icy mist, scanning the snowy white night. There! Dave pointed to the right. Runway two, two.

Joe dipped the wings, and then leveled the plane again. As they approached, emergency vehicles were lined up on both sides. The snow swept in circles of white smoke above the lights.

Brace position. Joe heard Annie yell.

The aircraft’s nose was up as the main gear hit hard with a loud yowl of rubber followed by black vapor. Veering right, crushing runway lights and flattening tires, Joe pressed the brakes and pulled back on the reverse thrust control. They slid to the left as the brakes bellowed a screech, squashing lights on the opposite side, now flattening all the tires. The plane skidded at 120 mph towards the barricade and the Long Island Expressway. Joe rapidly decelerated the plane, and then eased off the reverse thrust to keep the aircraft from spinning out. Joe took a deep breath and felt the weight of fear press against his chest when they slid to a stop in the dirt before the end of the runway. Screams from sirens, along with flashing lights, followed them.

The attendants broke from their seatbelts. Ladies and Gentlemen, we must evacuate immediately using the over-wing exit or the front passenger exit on the left side of the aircraft. Unfasten your seat belts and come this way. Don’t bring anything with you.

Although a few panicked passengers pushed each other as they scrambled toward the exits, most filed down the aisles rather orderly and in stunned silence. Babies and young children clung to their parents as the attendants directed everyone onto the slides. Jump! Annie instructed, like a schoolteacher directing her young students.

One at a time, the passengers stepped onto the inflatable slide, sat, and glided on their bottoms to the tarmac below. Flight attendants assisted the older, slower couples. Annie supported the injured woman, the blood–soaked scarf tied tightly around the wound. They sat side-by-side at the top and together slid to safety. Paramedics waited at the bottom.

Dave exhaled a breath he’d held since they hit the runway. You did it, you son of a bitch. You’re a hero, he said, teasing his longtime colleague.

Joe rolled his steel blue eyes, pushed back his thick blonde hair, and smiled. Let’s get the hell out of here. I need a drink.

They removed their seat belts, took a final check of the cockpit, flipped the off switches, powered down the lights and checked the cabin before sliding to safety.

Chapter 3

Outside in the cold night air, the snow and ice pelted Joe's rugged face. His breath fogged in front of him. He tucked his chin into his jacket and squinted against the wind. Throngs of travelers, a few nursing minor injuries, huddled not far from the smoking plane. EMTs worked triage, deciding who needed medical attention. Most passengers were already loaded aboard shuttles, heading for the terminal. Joe stopped and noticed the EMTs carrying a female on a gurney. He realized she must be the passenger who was injured from the shrapnel. Walking beside them he saw a tall, beautiful woman with long hair, who, for a second, glanced up and met his eyes just before she stepped into the ambulance.

Beyond the flashing red lights of the fire trucks and emergency vehicles, news vans held their distance. Joe and Dave quickened their steps. Heading to a waiting car, sent by the airline, they passed by the crowds. A few passengers recognized Joe’s uniform and applauded. Others joined and within moments hundreds of thankful travelers clapped. Joe blushed, gave a nod, and waved.

Reporters approached for a quick interview but Joe brushed them off.

I told you. You’re a hero, Dave said, sliding into the car.

Captain? A young man in a suit ran toward them just before Joe stepped in and closed the door.

Yes? He frowned. I’m Captain Braddock.

Jack Milton with the National Transportation Safety Board. Congratulations on getting her safely on the ground, he said.

Joe nodded. This is my First Officer, Dave Larkin. Dave gave a brief wave from the back seat. What can I do for you, Milton?"

Investigator Sam Warren in the New York office would like to see you tomorrow, Milton said. He’ll need a review of what took place in the cockpit.

I’ll tell you what happened, the damn engine caught fire and we couldn’t put it out! Joe answered.

We’ll go over everything tomorrow, Captain. Get some rest and we’ll talk then.

As Milton walked away, Joe dropped into the rear seat next to Dave and slammed the door. I better call the Airline Pilots Association early and have a representative meet me at Warren’s office. I've heard how these things go. Before it's over, this whole thing will be our fucking fault.

I believe that, Dave said.

In the morning, I'm going to the hospital to check on that injured passenger, do you want to tag along?

No, thanks. I'm sleeping in until they call me for the meeting.

Can you take us to Boys Town? Joe asked the driver, referring to a nearby neighborhood of red brick apartments, popular among pilots.

Twenty minutes later, the cab dropped Dave off, and then several blocks further the cabbie pulled up to the curb for Joe. He climbed out slowly, surprised at how emotionally drained he felt. He plodded up the steps to the second floor and down the hall to number ten. Pushing the door open, he reached around the door jam, flipped on the lights, stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned back against the wall. He took a few slow, deep, breaths, and then covered his face with his hands.

Several years ago, after his divorce, He had rented the apartment unsure if he would like the decor. It was modern compared to the rustic, cozy home he shared with his former wife. But this place, with its tile counter tops, stainless sink, hardwood floors, and leather furnishings, grew on him. He crossed the room to the built-in bar and grabbed a glass for an ounce of Glenfiddich, the single malt that Dave gave him last Christmas. He carried the drink into the living room and dropped into his favorite lounge chair.

Savoring his first sip, he swished the liquid inside his mouth before allowing it to warm his throat. He reached for the remote—more out of habit—and turned on the TV, wincing as images of his plane sliding sideways down the runway with the engine burning, flashed on the screen. Turning up the volume, Joe heard a male passenger saying, Holy crap. I thought we were all going to die. The pilot did a hell of a job and saved our lives.

Joe shook his head, turned off the television, took another slug of scotch and reached for the phone. He had to call his sons to reassure them he was all right, but more important he needed to hear their voices.

He dialed Claire's number. Hullo? said a low voice with an annoying British accent.

Joe rolled his eyes. Shit! Ted, it’s Claire's husband. They had married two years after the divorce. He was an architect, home every night by six.

Hey, Ted, it's Joe, are my boys around? He asked curtly, and then heard Claire mumbling in the background, asking if he was all right.

Yeah, he's fine, Claire. Hold on, here's Russell.

Hi, Dad. Are you okay?

I'm fine, son, Joe said. At fifteen, Russell was almost a man. How are you? Are you taking good care of your mom and Marc for me?

Sure am.

You understand those reporters make things appear much worse than they really are.

I do, Dad, but you were awesome. Have you seen YouTube yet? Someone videoed the landing—the whole thing with flames shooting out of the engine and the plane swerving down the runway.

Terrific. Don’t show your mother, she never did think I could drive, he said, laughing.

Well, I'm glad you’re all right. I’ll email you the video. Here's Marc.

Hey, Dad. We saw the news. Pretty scary stuff.

Not nearly as scary as it probably looked. How are you doing?

Marc, thirteen in a few weeks, seemed quiet for a moment. I’m fine. I'm just glad you’re okay.

I'm fine. Don’t worry. I’m not going to let anything bad happen. Not to me, not to you. I love you. And I miss you. Tears welled up in Joe's eyes.

Me too, Dad. Love you. His voice cracked with emotion.

Remember, I'll be in California for your birthday. I can't believe you’ll be a teenager! Wow! Joe tried to sound upbeat. It's getting late here. I better get some sleep. We'll talk soon. Love you.

Night, Dad.

Joe hung up and gulped the rest of his scotch like cheap tequila, and clanked the glass on a nearby table. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and headed to the bedroom. Exhausted, he fell back on his bed, tucked his hands behind his head—his biceps tight—then stared at the ceiling. His thoughts again went to the accident as he wondered why the fire bottles didn't work and why the tower hadn't responded immediately to his call. Questions gathered in his head for his meeting with Warren the next day. He lay on his bed for several minutes, and then looked over at the bedside clock. Ten o'clock. He decided to head to