Ominous Obsession

By Robert Joseph

Raff Rafferty, to escape the furor of an officer-involved shooting scandal in California, moves to Manhattan and joins the New York City Police Department. Can he restore his life and reputation in the Big Apple or is his investigation of the baffling murder of a gorgeous model and his brush with the colorful, bizarre—and sometimes dangerous—world of high fashion destined to destroy him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Joseph
• Release date: Aug 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310291258

Robert Joseph

After selling more than a million print books published by Ballantine, Berkley, Fawcett, Pinnacle, W. H. Allen (UK) and Landemann (Scandinavia), author Robert Joseph is currently working on the Raff Rafferty detective/thriller mystery series, the first seven of which are now available. In addition, Robert has written many screenplays, including the film THE DIVINE LOVERS as well as works for the stage. He currently lives in rural southern Nevada.

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Ominous Obsession

Raff Rafferty Mystery Series #2

Robert Joseph

Ominous Obsession

Robert Joseph

Copyright © 2010 Robert Joseph

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-10: 150557438

ISBN-13: 978-1508557438

Cover art: Copyright 2010 by SelfPubBookCovers.com/toxiclight

Other Books in the Raff Rafferty Mystery Series

Deadly Desire

Dangerous Deception

To my good friend of many years

Sheila Lowe

of the Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery Series

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter One

The four teenaged boys raced across Eighty-eighth Street to a grassy knoll at the northern boundary of Yorkville’s Carl Schurz Park, tearing off their T-shirts and tank tops, as they ran. At Gracie Mansion, a magnificent example of Federalist architecture with its wooden trellis roof rails and extensive porches, Lalo, the leader of the four, stopped, yanked down his cutoff jeans and red jockey shorts to moon the official residence of New York City’s mayor.

Kiss my brown Puerto Rican ass, Mister Mayor! he hollered. His impulsive gesture produced a round of raucous laughter from his companions.

The mayor don’t live there, his buddy Paco reminded him. He’s got a fancier place somewhere else.

The four continued through the park to the riverfront esplanade, dodging roller bladers, joggers and dog walkers. As they ran, they could feel the vibrations from the heavy traffic on FDR Drive, which tunneled beneath this part of the park. When they reached the section of the East River known as Hell Gate, where the Long Island Sound clashed in a turbulence of crosscurrents with the Hudson River, they tore off the rest of their clothes, except for undershorts, and tossed the garments onto one of the many benches lining the riverfront walkway. Climbing over the stone wall, they slipped through the row of sharply pointed, curved metal rods on its top, designed to keep people out of the river, and plunged in.

The four buddies reveled in the blissful relief the cool water provided on a hot, steamy summer day, splashing around, floating on their backs, diving beneath the surface into the river’s murky, but cooler, depths, ignored by the blasé passers-by on the esplanade above them.

Lalo, the strongest swimmer in the group, ventured out further than his three companions into deeper and swifter moving water. After some early hesitation, because of the powerful and intimidating current, they eventually followed him.

In the middle of the river, Lalo collided with what at first seemed to be a log floating just beneath the water’s surface. Attempting to shove it out of the way, he was startled by the unexpected soft, spongy feel of the object.

Holy shit! he gasped, his eyes wide with surprise.

Curious at his reaction, his companions forgot about their fear of the river and its currents and swam quickly to where he was treading water.

What’s the matter? asked Pepe, the youngest of the group, his name tattooed across his shaved head in lurid blue letters.

Wordlessly Lalo pointed to the object.

I don’t see nothing, Paco, painfully skinny with a silver ring piercing the septum of his nose and the poorest swimmer of the group, replied with a puzzled frown.

Aw, there’s all kinds of shit in this river, Guizo, as plump and doughy as Paco was skinny, said dismissively.

This ain’t no ordinary river shit, Lalo snapped, his face still frozen with shock. It’s a fucking body, for chrissake! A dead body.

Squinting against the blazing overhead sun, the three stared hard at the object of Lalo’s anguish, as they also tread water and struggled against the force of the strong current.

Lalo had indeed collided with a body, naked and floating face down, the flesh bloated. Long, black hair fanned out from the head forming an almost perfect, dark halo.

Stunned, the four stared at one another. Despite their many excursions to this favorite summer swimming spot, they had never encountered a corpse before. As barrio kids, they were too well acquainted with violence and death, to confuse it with anything else.

It’s a woman, Guizo said. Look at the hips and ass.

Visually appraising the body from head to toe, Lalo observed, For a woman, she’s one tall bitch.

Over six feet, Paco estimated.

Taller than any of us, Pepe noted with a nervous laugh.

We got no business messing with a dead body, Pepe said. This is one for the cops, not us. Let’s get out of here and get one of the joggers on the Esplanade to call nine one one. They all got fucking cell phones.

Yeah, let’s get out of here, Lalo agreed and started to swim back to shore.

His three companions followed his lead, relieved to leave the macabre scene behind.

Chapter Two

After ten years as the lead homicide detective for the Monterey County, California, Sheriff’s Department, Gabriel Rafferty had felt humiliated when Captain Steve Olsen, the NYPD Precinct Commander, assigned him to the station’s front desk. Raff, as he was known to nearly everybody, had left his West Coast post because of the controversial killing of a crime suspect in which he was the shooter. He had been barely absolved by the equally controversial testimony of a Buddhist monk.

Olsen, an affable, reasonable man, explained Raff’s initial assignment by saying, It’ll help you get to know the city and the people in it. New Yorkers aren’t like people anywhere else. They’re unique. After you work the front desk for a while, you’ll see what I mean.

After the relatively quiet atmosphere of semi-rural Monterey County, Manhattan seemed like a teeming cauldron of frenetic chaos to Raff. The twenty-four hour, high decibel noise level, streets clogged with honking cabs and trucks, sidewalks packed with pedestrians, all of whom seemed to be in a hurry, contributed to the easy-going, native Californian’s feeling of dismay.

Raff did, however, bring one vestige of the Golden State with him: his classic war surplus jeep, ‘Ike’, which he personally restored to ‘parade ready’ condition. He and his daughter Fati drove the seventy year old light, four wheel drive, Willys MB, rumored to have transported General Dwight Eisenhower around Europe during World War II—thus its name: ‘Ike’—and had a bullet hole through the grille—a supposed Nazi assassination attempt on the famous general and president—to prove it.

My God, what have I gotten myself into? he asked himself on an almost daily basis in Manhattan.

Everyday at the mid-town precinct station front desk he was forced to listen to indignant, often angry, complaints about the New York Police Department as well as a barrage of questions, the answers to which Raff was usually forced to obtain from his equally stressed and over worked fellow officers. After a few months, Raff began to question the wisdom of his decision to move east, starting to wonder if he had gone from the frying pan into the fire.

Eventually, Olsen began to sense his discontent and tried to counteract it by adding Missing Persons duties to his front desk assignment.

That’s not Homicide, Raff objected, reluctant to hide his disappointment with the commander’s decision.

Unruffled by his response, Olsen merely grinned. A lot of missing persons turn out to be homicides, he remarked. Who knows? If things start popping, you might even think you’re back in your old California job.

Not very likely, Raff muttered.

Raff’s first Missing Persons case was filed by an attractive, no-nonsense type brunette business-woman in her late forties. After their brief, perfunctory exchange, she gazed at him curiously, her brow furrowing above her glasses with their stylish designer frames. You’re not from here, are you? she said.

No, ma’am.

"Well, don’t worry about it. Nobody’s from New York. New York is a place people come to, not go from," she said with a wry smile as she smoothed her dark hair which was casually held in place by a butterfly clip at the nape of her neck.

You wanted to report somebody missing? Raff persisted, his tone brusque. He was determined to stick to business and not waste time with trivial conversation, knowing that a bunch of impatient people were in the waiting area, all eager to consult him. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that there was no such thing as ‘downtime’ at a mid-Manhattan precinct station.

Right, she replied.

Have a seat. He motioned to a fiberglass chair beside the battered desk at which he was seated.

Thank you. She sat down, smoothing the skirt of her green, sleeveless summer silk dress as she crossed her bare, shapely legs, allowing one high-heeled sandal to dangle from the end of her neatly pedicured foot.

And who is the missing person? he asked.

A girl who works for me.

An employee? he repeated, unconsciously raising his eyebrows in surprise. In his experience, missing persons were usually reported by people close to them such as spouses, lovers and family members.

Why is that so strange?

Most employers don’t usually come in here to report missing employees.

Mine aren’t ordinary employees. They’re models. I run a modeling agency. The woman continued, I’m close to all of my girls. I have to be to keep them in line. Models can be an unruly bunch. She opened her large Moroccan leather handbag, fished out a business card and passed it across the desk to Raff.

It read:

GRUNWALD MODELING AGENCY

Faye Grunwald, Owner

and included contact information.

Looking up from the card, he asked, You’re Faye Grunwald?

Correct, she answered. And one of my top models is missing.

Raff brought up a Missing Persons form on the computer and prepared to fill in the blank spaces. Name of the missing? he asked.

Maricarmen Mora, she replied. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Her picture has been in hundreds of magazines."

Raff pondered the question a moment and then shook his head. Can’t say that I have.

No, I don’t suppose you have, not being from New York, she said with a faintly disdainful tone in her voice. You probably don’t read ELLE or VOGUE or HARPER’S BAZAAR.

Right. I’m more of a SPORTS ILLUSTRATED or MOTOR TRENDS kind of guy, Raff replied. Returning his attention to the monitor screen before him, he said, Address?

Hers?

Yes, ma’am.

She lives in a building on East Seventy-ninth Street between Lexington and Third—ordinary, not one of the posh ones with a doorman. I’ll have to look up the exact number in my Rolodex at the office and get back to you.

Okay. Raff nodded. Age?

Faye twisted her mouth and gave a little laugh. That’s a matter of conjecture. She claims to be thirty-two, but I’d add a few years—at least ten. But put down thirty-two. She can easily pass for that age, even without make-up.

Raff typed in ‘thirty-two’. Marital status? he continued.

She said she was divorced when she came to the agency. She didn’t offer any details, and I didn’t ask for any.

Kids?

What—and ruin her figure? Faye sneered. No. No children.

Nationality.

Faye laughed. That’s problematic—like a lot of things about Maricarmen. She says she was born in Spain, but came to the U.S. as a baby. She has no accent in English. Other Hispanics tell me that when she speaks Spanish—which she rarely does and only when she’s forced to—she has a slight Caribbean accent—Puerto Rican or Cuban or Dominican. Nobody can say for sure. But who cares anyway? With her look, it doesn’t matter. She still gets plenty of work, although she doesn’t command the fees she used to.

Height?

She’s six-foot-one.

Tall lady.

I won’t take on a girl under five-foot-eleven.

Weight?

Around one twenty-five.

Hair color?

Black. Jet black. So black it has blue highlights. Believe me, real black hair is as rare as real platinum blonde. And this girl’s is the real thing. I checked the roots.

Eyes?

Also unusual. Amber, almost gold.

Complexion?

Flawless. Faye reached for a blank piece of white paper on Raff’s desk. She’s as white as this piece of paper—avoids the sun like the plague. The contrast of the hair and skin is striking. What can I say? Faye shrugged. The woman is absolutely gorgeous.

Any scars, tattoos, moles, birthmarks or other identifying marks?

Faye chuckled once more. No. Believe me, Maricarmen was well aware that you don’t do anything that might spoil perfection.

What about her family?

She never talks about her family, but I think she has a mother in the city somewhere. A woman identifying herself as Maricarmen’s mother called the office once looking for her. I don’t think they’re very close, however. Maricarmen never mentioned her mother that I can recall.

How long has she been missing?

A couple of weeks.

Raff frowned and scanned the list of persons reported missing during the past few weeks. Nobody had reported a six-foot-one model missing. Maybe she took a trip? Ever think of that? he said.

No. She would have told me well in advance if she wasn’t going to be available for bookings, Faye said. "She’s very dependable, very reliable, not like some of the other airheads at the agency. In addition, she hasn’t stopped by the office to pick up some checks I have for her. I’ve called her several times and left messages about them. That’s not at all like her. Money is very important to Maricarmen. Very important."

Anything else that makes you think she’s missing?

Faye considered the question a moment. "One of my other models, Sayyida, left some top-of-the-line designer dresses for her at the office. She’s never picked them up either. And Maricarmen loves haute couture clothes. Any time she can get her hands on any freebies, she scoops them up right away."

Raff looked away from the monitor screen. Is that it?

No. She also failed to show up for an important fashion show that I booked her for. She always shows. If something unexpected comes up and she can’t, she phones me and lets me know right away.

Got any photos of her with you?

Faye sighed and opened her handbag, pulling out an eight by ten glossy. This is the only one I brought with me today. She passed the photo to Raff. If you need more, let me know. There are hundreds at the office.

He gazed at the photo a moment and was immediately struck by the woman’s beauty, realizing that Faye Grunwald wasn’t exaggerating when she described Maricarmen Mora as ‘gorgeous’.

This one will do, he said.

Faye grinned. I can tell by your face, Officer Rafferty, that you’re impressed.

Who wouldn’t be? Raff struggled to maintain a business-like tone of voice and keep his eyes from staring in wonder and delight at the beautiful woman in the photo before him. What was her personal life like?

I stay out of my girls’ personal lives. Some of them can get pretty messy. You’re better off if you don’t know much.

Does she have any enemies? Jealous boyfriends? Stalkers? I mean, a woman this attractive….

Not that I’m aware of. She didn’t talk about her private life, and I didn’t ask, Faye replied. My job is to keep my models working and my clients happy. I’ve got my hands full just doing that.

As far as you know, Ms Grunwald, she didn’t meet some great guy and just run off with him?

She would have told me something like that. Faye answered. Besides, that’s not her style anyway.

What about drugs? Was she a user? Raff wondered what Faye would have thought of him if she knew he had a history of addiction himself.

No. She never used drugs that I’m aware of. She felt they ruin a girl’s looks. Modeling is a tough, highly competitive business. Maricarmen was determined to have her career last as long as possible.

In spite of himself, Raff’s eyes kept returning again and again to the photo in his hand. He was fascinated by the woman’s extraordinary beauty. Let me scan this picture into the computer. Raff scanned the photo and then returned it to her.

Faye glanced at her Rolex wristwatch and rose. Is there anything else, officer? I should be getting back to the office.

I think that’s about it, Raff said.

What do you think the chances are of finding her? she asked.

Raff shrugged. I couldn’t say right now.

An anxious expression clouded her eyes as she reached out and gripped Raff’s arm, a move which took him by surprise. You don’t think something bad might have happened to her, do you?

Like what?

I don’t know… There are a lot of weird people walking around out there. She motioned toward the street.

Is there something you’re not telling me?

Faye shook her head. No. I’ve told you all I know. I just have a strange feeling, that’s all.

What kind of ‘strange feeling’?

Her voice shaky, Faye replied, That something bad might have happened to her.

Like what?

I don’t know…bad.

Raff turned away from the computer and stood up. I’ll run the information through our database and see what turns up. I’ll be in touch with you, Ms Grunwald.

Thank you, officer, Faye said as she left, her high-heeled sandals clacking on the short flight of stairs to the street, but Raff didn’t hear them. He was too busy staring at the photo of Maricarmen, wondering and hoping that Faye’s ‘bad feeling’ was wrong.

Chapter Three

Raff and Steve Olsen followed the medical examiner down the hallway, their footsteps reverberating against the marble floor. Raff mused at how similar all morgues were, no matter where they happened to be located. And they all smelled the same, as if the overzealous maintenance crew tried to conceal the odor of death by dousing everything with pungent, pine-scented cleaning solutions.

The Medical Examiner, Dr. Vikram Ahluwalia, a short man with a sallow complexion, which under the overhead florescent lights was imbued with a tinge of green, stopped before a door whose frosted glass window was labeled ‘AUTOPSY ROOM’. He motioned the two police officers inside.

Lined with stainless steel refrigerated lockers, the place reminded Raff of a mausoleum, although it served a far more temporary function. A body, covered by a white sheet, lay on the stainless steel table.

Olsen glanced at the tag around the corpse’s big toe, which poked out from under the edge of the sheet. Its carefully pedicured nail was painted a deep red. ‘Jane Doe’? he read, looking at the Medical Examiner questioningly.

She’s unidentified as yet, Ahluwalia explained.

Olsen observed the whole body with a second, more encompassing glance.

Whoever she is, she’s a tall gal.

Yes. Six feet, one inch, Ahluwalia replied, raising his eye lids behind the extremely thick lenses of his glasses which diminished his eyes so that they seemed tiny and rodent-like. He grabbed the edge of the sheet, about to uncover the body. I must warn you, gentlemen, that it is not a pretty sight.

What corpse is? Olsen said.

Ah, yes, but this one is worse, Alhuwalia warned in his sing-song Indian accent as he whipped off the sheet. I can assure you of that.

Despite their many years of experience in police work, during which they had viewed lots of corpses, both Raff and Olsen were severely jolted by what they saw. Raff was glad that he had dabbed a little oil of cloves under his