One Promise Too Many

By Rick Bylina

Roger Stark, Marshfield's newest detective, is paired with ex-NYPD detective, Ed Jones, "...fresh from a boring retirement...," to investigate the abduction of a volatile CEO's five-year-old daughter. Despite past entanglements with the CEO, Stark promises him that he'll find his little girl by the 42-hour deadline imposed by the kidnapper. However, Stark doesn't count on an elusive schizophrenic suspect or that the kidnapping is a ruse to divert attention from another far-reaching crime by a vengeful person playing by a different set of rules.

Told from Stark's and the schizophrenic's point-of-view, the story explores the collision of styles between Stark and Jones as the stress of the investigation intensifies. It shows the struggles of the schizophrenic as his hold on reality slips away while trying to solve the kidnapping the police suspect him of having committed, and his uncertainty about whether or not he could have done it. "One Promise Too Many" also demonstrates the depths to which someone will go to extract revenge on people once loved, regardless of who gets hurt.

"One Promise Too Many" combines strong elements of a police procedural with the soul of a literary classic that should keep readers turning pages fast enough to create a breeze.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Bylina
• Release date: Jul 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465970244

Rick Bylina

Rick Bylina lives with his wife, Carrie, and their 20-year-old cockatiel, Sydney, near Apex, North Carolina. Ongoing corporate downsizing convinced him to tap into his passion. He scribbled down any crazy idea that crossed his mind. After gaining discipline, he wrote his debut mystery novel, "One Promise Too Many", the first in a series featuring Detective Roger Stark. Writing happens spontaneously between housework, gardening, cooking, fishing, and wrestling alligators. "One Promise Too Many" - available everywhere. "A Matter of Faith" - available everywhere. "All of Our Secrets" - available just about everywhere. "Bathroom Reading" - coming November, 2012

Book preview

Chapter 1

I was eight-years-old when Mother captured Father’s dimpled smile with her camera just as I had reached for his red hair. The next day, someone murdered him. Fused onto a three-inch square memorial magnet, my father’s image from that day is a constant bittersweet memory. Twenty-four years later, I saw his face stare back at me whenever I looked into a mirror. I grew into him with the dimpled smile, familiar blue eyes, and same copper-colored hair. I idolized him. At his funeral, I made a promise only a naïve boy could make. I had promised to find his killer. It was a promise I felt honor-bound to accomplish as a man.

When I was finally in a position to eventually investigate his cold case, my confidence ebbed. Fulfilling that promise weighed heavily against recent events. On the back wall of my locker’s gray interior, the magnet held a weathered three-month old newspaper article from the Memorial Day edition of the Marshfield, Pennsylvania Sentinel. It was a reminder of unfinished business, one of those recent events. In one of the article’s photographs, I stood dripping wet, shrouded in a blanket. Bobby Richardson’s anguished father pointed an accusatory finger at me. The other picture showed Bobby’s cherubic face captured for all eternity over the caption Eight-year-old boy drowns. Stark’s rescue fails. The underwater caverns below the thundering Hidden River Falls at the edge of town still held his body.

I grabbed the article and wadded it up, not needing the reminder that Bobby could bob to the surface at any time. He did it often enough in my nightmares. Three months after Bobby’s drowning, the haunting question remained. What more could I have done to save him? I convinced myself the answer was nothing, but some days it was a hard sell. I needed to focus on the here and now—to move on. The crumpled article thumped the bottom of a trashcan.

I slipped my tie under the collar of my white shirt in the changing room at Marshfield Police Headquarters. Over, under, around, and through, I knotted the black tie into a half-Windsor. The review board cleared me of procedural issues in the drowning, but the process stung anyway. It sucked the enthusiasm out of the job I loved, making me question my actions. Afterwards, Lieutenant Newby warned me, Hesitant cops are dead cops. Newby’s stern message played like a refrain from a dirge. I straightened the narrow tie and slipped on my black suit coat. A lot had happened since Bobby died. Sometimes it seemed like too much, and all of it bad. I had to find a way to put the bad behind me or risk making Newby’s warning prophetic.

Shift change commenced. Cops entered from across the room beyond the row of lockers. It was time to go. I closed the locker door, and Bobby slipped beneath the surface of my thoughts.

The detective’s badge fit snuggly in my shirt pocket, and then I headed for my first shift as a detective to help out over the Labor Day weekend. Entering quietly into this new position three days ahead of my scheduled return to duty seemed like a good idea. I sucked in a cleansing breath before pushing open the door to the catwalk behind the central processing pit. To keep myself grounded and focused, I mumbled my mantra, I’m a cop.

#

The locker room door swung shut behind me and from the other side of central processing, Newby barked, Stark. Jones. My office!

His words boomed over the chest-high Plexiglas partition separating the pit from the offices. A scowl crinkled his face. Pit activity halted as if on cue. Focus shifted from Newby to me. At thirty-two years of age, I blushed like a teenager in front of the dozen cops and pair of bad guys being booked. Any swagger I had dissipated. The opportunity to ease into this new position with a degree of anonymity after three weeks of vacation followed by six weeks of training evaporated. And who was Jones?

Now, Newby growled. His glare swept over the pit. Business returned to normal. Newby limped back to his office. Friday evening on Labor Day weekend started on a sour note.

I walked to my assigned office to get a notepad. As I reached for the door, it opened. A man in a dark brown suit with a matching fedora burst through. I stepped back. He stopped and scanned me faster than a checkout girl scans a can of beans and then extended his hand.

Nice to meet you, Detective Stark. The man grasped my hand and held on to it like a politician sensing an imminent donation. The scent of strong mouthwash filled the gap between us, distracting me from his hat. Brown eyes twinkled beneath long, feminine lashes. A wide, easy grin exposed perfect teeth and deepened his crows-feet. A long, slender scar ran from his jaw to the edge of his light brown hair and disappeared under the hat. Strands of gray had infiltrated the brown where it showed at the edge of the brim. He was around fifty, average build, and my height at about six feet even.

Nice to meet you, too, I replied, finding my voice. The first person at work to address me as a detective was a stranger, and yet, the sound of it straightened my posture with pride. Dad would have hugged me tight at the shoulders, but the image faded.

The man’s vise-like grip lasted too long. I didn’t appreciate the juvenile macho test to size me up. Still, I couldn’t help wonder if I’d passed.

I recognized you from the roster pictures, he said, answering the unspoken question. Edwin Jones, your new partner, fresh from a boring retirement. Call me Ed.

Call me Roger. If my surprise over his presence showed, Ed didn’t let on. And where did his hiring leave me in the pecking order that seemed so clear a few months ago?

I didn’t know they hired another detective.

I met the chief while fishing. We had a few beers and here I am.

Maneuvering past Ed, I grabbed a notepad from the office, worried that Newby would yell for us again. I closed the door, and we headed for Newby’s office. What’s up with the lieutenant?

Ed shrugged. Don’t know. Is he always this cheerful?

He’s been better.

#

About time. Newby swiveled away from his computer and nestled his stomach against his desk. He chewed on a pen. Dozens of pens met the same gnarly fate. They lay stacked in a small box like tiny logs. The nicotine patches he’d started to use months ago must not be working. His desk was clean. Paperwork collected in color-coded and labeled in-boxes. Books lined a shelf ordered alphabetically by title. Posters hung square on the wall. Newby yanked off his glasses, and the born-again nerd look disappeared into a frown generated from deep concern.

I had heard that pressure from the mayor on down to Newby over Janet Timmons’ unsolved murder had darkened his demeanor over the summer. Baines and Cartwell had caught the case that quickly turned cold after the first night. Heat from Newby couldn’t thaw it.

Newby glanced at me, and then furrowed his brow. The veins on his neck rose. Did he regret signing my promotion papers on May 1st? I didn’t know, and he wouldn’t say. Since then, Bobby had drowned inches away from rescue, and I had failed to prevent whoever murdered Janet Timmons from escaping the night of her murder. I suffered through two strange and bewildering internal reviews in one month. Unprecedented. I had gone from hero to goat to exoneration within the force, but not with the parents or the press.

Ed and I sat in front of Newby’s desk.

He spoke without looking up from a single sheet of paper he took from his printer. Glad to see you’ve met. Let’s hope your training is worth it, Roger. Mary pop that kid out yet?

Not yet. She’s fine, but big for eight months along.

Uh huh.

Ed opened a PDA without commenting on the details of my wife’s pregnancy.

Since I had broken Newby’s leg during a home plate collision at a softball game two days after he signed my promotion papers, our relationship had dissolved into quiet tolerance. He had six inches and a hundred pounds on me. I knew from friends that he tired of explaining that his injury happened during a game and not in the line of duty. It strapped him to a desk before his time, but he seemed to have adjusted to it despite having to give up a life-long smoking habit to work in the building. He never let on where the pain in his leg ended and the work pressure began, but a subtle cloud of gray hung between us nonetheless.

Newby glanced at me. Nice funeral attire.

The black suit didn’t impress him.

Then he said to Ed, Welcome aboard.

I’m itching to get started, Ed replied.

Well, you’ve got your wish. We were going to have you pick up a miscreant, but I have something fresh. Newby moved the mouse and his computer screen lit up. He blurted out the details in one long breath. It’s 7:03. The 9-1-1 call came in about ten minutes ago. McClusky was the first responder. He’s in charge until you get there. It’s a missing person until we know more. A five-year-old girl wandered away from her nanny at Bryant Park. He paused. The nanny’s a Brit, not a south of the border illegal. I want something quick, because the father has connections. My phone will be ringing off the hook. Should be four units combing the scene by now and more on the way. She’s skinny, long blonde hair, blue eyes, blue sweat suit, and about three feet tall. McClusky has a pic. According to Dan, the nanny’s twenty-something and a blubbering idiot.

Newby ran his hand over his bald pate wiping away a few beads of sweat that formed despite the cool breeze coming through the window. A nervousness born of self-doubt from recent events grew in my gut. Ed seemed calm.

Jones, you’re point man until we find out what’s going on. I paired you two for a reason. Jones had twenty-seven years with the N_Y_P_D before gracing us with his presence. He’s seen it all. Stark, you’re a native and know Marshfield better than anyone. You two coming together at this time was serendipitous. Newby flashed a grin at his word choice. I expect the pairing to make me look real smart. He grabbed the car keys and flipped them to Ed.

The dark brown Crown Vic is new, so treat it kindly. The color matches your hat. Screw the vehicle checklist. It should be geared-up and ready to go. Questions?

What’s the kid’s name? Ed asked.

Newby hesitated. Don’t know.

Ed looked up from note taking and gave Newby a hard stare.

Newby continued, Check with McClusky about what he’s got when you get to the park. Anything else, Newby snapped.

My mind filled with a thousand questions and just as many doubts. The ache in my stomach became a little man with a pitchfork. I wanted something less ominous than a missing kid for my first case. Why not just send me to get the miscreant? I have a knack for finding the bad guys. I capped my pen, but didn’t stand. Thoughts whirled. The guilty burden of not apprehending Janet’s murderer crashed into the image of Bobby’s face. It was a one-two punch of failure hard to take when success had seemed so easy all along in my career. But I stayed mute about my new found anxiety. Hopefully the apprehension didn’t show. I prayed that this first case didn’t turn out to be my last.

Ed stood.

Newby tapped a final note into the computer then grumbled, Let’s make sure this kid makes it to her sixth birthday on Sunday. Then, as though he could read me after all the years we’ve worked together, he glared in my direction.

Now, get your ass out there and find that kid.

~~~~~

Chapter 2

Ed crossed the police garage to the Ford Crown Victoria with a rookie’s quick step. I followed and wondered what brought an ex-NYPD cop out of retirement to work in a city of just over one hundred thousand in central Pennsylvania? How did his career compare to my ten years on the force? Despite Ed’s experience, I never imagined my first detective partner would be an outlander. I thought I’d be partnered with Arnie or Frank. Marshfield was my city; however, my relief at not being the point man for my first case offset my tepid indignation.

You drive. Ed tossed me the keys. And treat it kindly. He echoed Newby’s command and shook his head while laughing softly.

He seemed comfortable giving orders. Playing second banana suited me fine for now. We slipped into the car, and I grabbed the portable flashing light for the dash.

No light, and don’t kill us driving there.

Newby said to hurry, but I didn’t question Ed’s direction. We left the garage, weaving through the congestion at shift-change. We listened to the chatter on the radio. McClusky had fanned out patrol cars near the park. No one reported seeing her.

Dan’s a good cop, I said. The car bounced over the parking lot speed bump onto the city streets.

After his brisk walk through the garage, I figured Ed would be pumped up, but he slumped in his seat and sighed. You know, I’ve passed through Marshfield for almost twenty years while driving to the up-valley trout streams, but I never stopped in town once. Not at a gas station, tackle store, restaurant, or hotel. I was always in too much of a hurry. Right now, that feels like a big mistake.

Where’d you stay all those times?

I have a cabin in the hills along Tamarack Creek. I know every trout stream feeding the Hidden and Susquehanna rivers. Neither wife was getting the cabin in the divorces. Nice women. I still love them both in my own way, but the cabin is mine.

If Dan’s contacted the parents already, they must be going crazy. How stressed I would be if I had a child and she was lost. You have any kids?

I blasted the siren for a second at a red light and cruised through the intersection onto the boulevard.

No siren. It kills the logic of traveling in an unmarked car. Ed adjusted his seat. The lamenting quality to his voice vanished. How long before we reach the park?

Six minutes. A straight shot from here. Ed ignored my question about having kids. I let it slide. We had time.

If there’s a back way to the park, take it. If someone snatched the kid, they’re not hanging around the park. If the kid is taking a joy walk, she’s out of earshot already. Maybe she’s just lost. Who knows how long the kid’s been out of the nanny’s sight.

In quick succession, I exited onto Second Avenue, and then took Creekside. We both opened our windows. After a blistering summer, yesterday’s rain and push of cool air scrubbed clean Marshfield’s lingering city smells. Even under the funeral suit, goose bumps rose on my arm to greet the change in weather.

Creekside meanders, crosses a few side streets, but still parallels the boulevard, I said. The area’s more industrial than residential. It dead-ends into the park’s rear entrance.

Bryant Park. That’s the old park, right?

Right. Named for Theodore Bryant, the abolitionist. After the Civil War, Bryant donated the land to the city. A few buildings across the street and the park’s maintenance shed are the only original ones left. The shed was his carriage house. And—

Nice history lesson. Ed cut me off and smirked.

What? My face flushed.

Nothing. I guess you do know this town. If they open a city tour, you can always find a part-time job as a guide. He turned away and gazed out the window.

I stewed in silence. Intimate knowledge of the town had proved a great advantage for me over the bad guys, most of whom had figured out the crime but rarely the escape. I didn’t care if my encyclopedic knowledge made me seem geeky to others. At least I didn’t wear glasses; however, my red hair and slender frame didn’t help dispel the image most days.

The park’s less than a mile around that bend, I said.

Good.

We took the curve. Three boys on bikes pedaled towards us.

Stop those kids, Ed blurted.

I hit the brakes. The startled boys, maybe nine or ten years old, stopped. Once corralled, they stood astride their bikes. Ed leaned against the Crown Vic’s fender.

Have any of you seen a little blond-haired girl in a blue sweat suit? Ed asked.

They hesitated, and then mumbled they hadn’t.

Then tell me what you’ve seen in the past twenty minutes that will interest me. Ed waved a ten dollar bill between his fingers like a small flag.

They exchanged glances. I looked at Ed. What information could these kids have?

Twenty dollars. He wedged another ten between his fingers.

I hooked my collar with a finger and rolled my neck to loosen it. We should be at the park by now not playing guessing games with pint-sized informants.

Some guy ran that way. The biggest boy with a BMX racer pointed excitedly down a short cul-de-sac. A semi-circle of squat buildings on an empty street betrayed nothing.

A big bald black guy with a limp? Ed described Newby.

Yeah. Give me the money?

Get outta here, wise guy. Ed waved his arm in disgust at the kid. A New York accent betrayed his roots.

The kid pedaled away. He looked back. Come on, guys. They stayed put. Their friend had been outed as a liar by a cop. Based on the expressions on their faces, their loyalties seemed divided out of fear of the bigger kid and the authority the cops represented.

Let’s go, Ed. He ignored me.

Thirty dollars. The two remaining kids exchanged glances.

My eyebrows rose. At this rate, these kids would want hundred dollar bills before nightfall.

I saw a lady in a black sweat suit on inline skates going down 15th Street, one boy said.

She was motoring, the second boy chimed in.

When?

About fifteen minutes ago, the second boy answered.

Ed looked at me, palms up at his side, as if we’d been partners for years and I could read his mind. I assumed he wanted to know the location. About two blocks from the park.

Bingo. He displayed a wide toothy grin. Get these kid’s names and addresses.

He gave ten dollars to the first kid.

You’ll have to do better than that for the rest.

They huddled together after I got the information. Ed waited a beat then said, Let’s go. They have nothing else.

Ed hesitated at the car door, his eyes following me. Let’s get over to 15th and find the skater.

And if the skater knows something?

I owe that kid some money, Ed said, slipping into the car.

I gunned the engine. Ed snapped his seatbelt around him while scanning the street ahead. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. It’s a cliché, but it’s also spot on. That skater’s in the right place at the right time. Maybe she saw something, or more.

Maybe she saw nothing and we should head to the park.

Ed grunted. Just drive.

Fifteenth Street intersected with Main nearly three miles from the park. We stopped. No kid. No skater. Two elderly people on a bus stop bench said they hadn’t seen either the skater or little girl. Ed thanked them and sank into his seat while gazing out the window.

Radio chatter had continued throughout our drive. I stated what Ed probably already heard. The patrols still have squat.

I thought maybe we’d catch a break, casting a wider net then pulling it tight. He lightly punched the dash. Go to the park.

Seven-twenty-five. For a big city cop, Ed had an odd sense of what hurry meant.

Newby’s not going to like this delay. He’s probably chewed his way through several pens by now.

Ed continued his stare out the window. He’ll get over it.

I said quietly, But will the kid?

~~~~~

Chapter 3

Bryant Park’s bell tower chimed once as we exited the car, signaling a gentle rebuke for our tardy arrival after chasing a phantom skater. Under the growing shadows of tall oaks and twisted maples, we crunched pea gravel in the parking lot, making our way to the park’s back entrance. Two uniforms combed the thick undergrowth near a normally dry creek bed flush with yesterday’s runoff. Their presence there forecasted a long, cold night for us and the kid.

Know them? Ed pointed at the cops.

Carl Wilson and Angie Rodriquez. Angie is a friend and back-up in case I can’t take Mary to the hospital for delivery.

Ed nodded. Well, someone was smart enough to set up an exterior perimeter and direct them here to look for the kid or anything suspicious in the undergrowth.

I pulled out my badge and clipped it onto my coat pocket.

Find anything? I asked Angie.

Not a thing. She poked and dragged a long stick through the shallow brown water near a hedge row. At training over the summer, we talked about our fears and hopes. During the initial search, nearly every cop commented on the dread of finding something that proved a crime had been committed laced with the hope that the victim would be found unharmed. I tried to stay centered between the hope and the dread.

Where’s McClusky? Ed asked.

Across the park at Command and Control. Wilson pointed to the squad cars and an ambulance. Flashing lights illuminated the graffiti-strewn side of the grocery store. Radios crackled unintelligible chatter. The breeze had tapered off, and the words of urgent voices fell meaningless to the ground before reaching us.

We walked diagonally across the park’s five acres. This was the first time I displayed my detective’s badge and a renewed sense of pride tamped down my anxiety. Despite a criminal justice degree when I started out, my boy scout’s enthusiasm and naivety made me easy prey for veteran cops and their shenanigans. I’ve tried to acquire an edge, grown and shaved a cheesy moustache several times, but I couldn’t pull off the hard stare or the bad cop persona. It’s a difficult act to establish at six-foot even, one-hundred-seventy pounds, and an Opie Taylor face. And I’m more prone to be the arbitrator in times of distress instead of Rambo or a wild-west gunslinger. It’s a curse and a badge of honor. I seem ineffectual to some and ooze integrity to others. It just depends upon who’s doing the assessing.

I’d never fired my weapon in the line of duty, and now, two months after Janet’s murder, I wondered if I choked that night by not shooting the fleeing suspect. What would I do in a similar situation? I stole a quick glance at Ed. Would I fail my partner in the clutch? Would I fail myself?

Ed quickened the pace, and I matched it.

The low-hanging sun blinded us, and I shielded my eyes with my hand. We entered the parking lot. Dan McClusky, I yelled. A tall figure emerged from near the ambulance and approached us.

Roger Stark, he said. We embraced momentarily and exchanged several slaps on the back. He was the older brother I’d never had, and I hadn’t seen him in weeks. I had missed his counsel and thought what a lousy reason to see each other again.

I turned to Ed. This is Ed Jones, my new partner. Newby’s made him point. Ed grasped Dan’s outstretched hand with a surprisingly quick shake.

I faced Ed. Dan was my partner for three years when we patrolled the south side. He’s now the south side day shift supervisor.

Ed nodded. Lieutenant’s given us the skinny, Sergeant. Anything new?

Unfortunately, not much. Dan hesitated.

Ed filled the awkward pause. Well, run us through the short version. I want to speak to the nanny.

Dan motioned for us to walk with him on a worn brick path toward a bench thirty yards inside the park.

He cleared his throat and started his report as we walked. "The nanny’s shook up. The paramedic got permission to give her something to settle her. She’ll be ready to talk without the histrionics in a few minutes. I didn’t get much out of her, but here’s the essence of her story.

She was sitting on this bench reading a book while the kid played on the swings. When she looked up, the kid was gone. She checked the maintenance shed, barreled through the bushes to the boulevard, and then ran to the store. She sprinted through the store screaming for the kid, thinking she’d gone there for a drink. The nanny came out and collapsed, realizing the kid was gone. Stock boy called 9-1-1.

Dan fingered the yellow police tape. I cordoned off an interior perimeter encompassing the bench, swings, and shed up to the bushes figuring something might be there if this turned bad. The park and this side of the boulevard are the exterior perimeter. We taped off the parked cars and didn’t let the owners leave or have access.

Good work. Ed said, nodding. The book, coat, purse, and a carryall bag waited for their owner on the bench and revealed nothing.

Newby may still want to call this a missing child case, but somebody’s got that kid. I arrived within a minute of the call, and we had four units here in less than five minutes. Plenty of daylight left. We searched the park and several blocks in every direction. If the kid was joy walking, we would have seen her.

Does the Nanny’s story hold water? I asked.

My gut tells me she’s legit. If she’s involved, she needs to be performing on Broadway.

Any note or phone call to the parents? Ed asked.

No note here. I sent a unit to the parent’s house, but only the maid was home. She didn’t know anything. The unit’s on the way to the father’s office. He stole a quick glance in my direction. Mother’s deceased.

Scratching under his hat, Ed hesitated. Was anyone else in the park when you arrived?

No, McClusky said. He flipped through his notes. Prior to the kid disappearing, the nanny babbled something about a guy tying his sneakers and ‘some bitch on skates’.

Ed and I exchanged glances. He tilted his head down and raised his hat a notch. Luck be a lady tonight, he said in a sing-song fashion. I thought I heard an echo of Sinatra in his voice. Guess that’s experience for you. Or luck.

Ed pointed a finger at