Deadly as Angels

By Linda Weiser Friedman and Harry Friedman

Action. Suspense. Heat in the midst of a frigid New York winter. And fun; lots of fun.

Jessica Horowitz, a tough, attractive, former cop and martial arts expert, has a strong moral code and a tendency towards self righteousness; and she doesn't bend easily. An English literature major and physical fitness buff, Jessica is as tough and sexy as they come. Her work is her life except the part of her that wants to find Mr. Right, get married, settle down, and have kids before that ticking biological clock gets the better of her.

Matt Redman, a tough, smart African-American vet is also a recognized expert in computer security and a wisecracking, cynical, frustrated romantic idealist. If Jessica thinks his taste in women runs to the flighty and brainless, it probably does. Their sardonic repartee thinly masks the considerable sexual tension between them.

They are aided in their exploits by Boris Smolyanskaya, a Soviet emigre and former refusenik, currently residing in Brighton Beach. He looks like a Russian Bear, but his large bulk, thick Ukrainian features, and bushy mustache only hide his true nature: a teddy bear.

When the story opens, Harcourt T. Stoner, a wealthy New York City financial tycoon hires Horowitz and Redman to find the murderer of his 20-year-old daughter, Helene, whom he hadn't seen in two years. Helene, found dead in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, an apparent mugging victim, had apparently had a baby while she was away and Stoner wants them to find his grandchild as well.

Their search for Helene's killer leads them to Carlos, a self-professed former terrorist and munitions expert; to Estella Malkin, a vicious killer with a sordid hobby; to a shelter for reformed hookers and young runaway girls, where Jessica finds herself posing as a homeless streetwalker; and, finally, to a new-age cult in a remote New Hampshire resort where young girls are "enlisted" into a variety of unorthodox activities and an elite private security force is recruited from the nation's maximum-security prisons. The cult and the resort are under the direction of one Samuel Thomas Fowler and the security force, called "Angels," are under the supervision of Fowler's right-hand man, Diego Sanchez, a Marielito who first took up pro boxing and then a life of crime, and who then was miraculously (and suspiciously) reformed by Fowler upon his release from San Quentin.

Meanwhile, Matt Redman has been occupied with a problem of a different and more technical sort. An old buddy now manages one of the IRS's main computer facilities and has contracted Redman, in his capacity as a computer security expert, to rid the system of a destructive computer virus that was running wild throughout the IRS's computer network. Early in the story, he manages to narrow down the possible source of the virus to "somewhere in the eastern region" but it is not until Redman, Horowitz, and Boris Smolyanskaya infiltrate the premises of Fowler's Temple of Human Ascendancy that the mystery of the damaged IRS files can finally be cleared up.

Behind the locked doors on the Temple grounds, they find the twin horrors of hypocrisy and greed, along with a small group of former runaways who discover what it takes to be a genuine "Angel."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Weiser Friedman
• Release date: Mar 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311586315

Linda Weiser Friedman

Linda Weiser Friedman is on the faculty of Baruch College and the Graduate Center of the City University of New York. Her research and teaching interests are varied and include business statistics, object-oriented programming, humor studies, Jewish studies, online education, social media, and all things technology. In addition to the other sites listed, link with me on Goodreads here: http://www.goodreads.com/lwfriedman

Book preview

Deadly as Angels

a novel by

Linda Weiser Friedman and Hershey H. Friedman

Copyright 2015 LW Friedman & HH Friedman

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support

Table of Contents

Copyright Notice

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Authors

Chapter 1

Our client was subdued. His fresh suit, clean shave, and neatly combed hair couldn't lie as well as his red sleepless eyes could tell the truth. His only daughter was dead, brutally murdered.

Harcourt T. Stoner, in his sixties, conservatively dressed, balding in front, hunched forward intently over his massive ebony desk. His face was relatively unlined for a man his age, even for a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Stoner was a financial wizard, a business tycoon and, by all accounts including his own, extremely wealthy. The tabloids covered his expanding financial empire almost as tirelessly as his pursuit of fun and, according to those reports, he approached both with the same enthusiasm and gusto.

Stoner's fists clenched tightly and repeatedly as he spoke, the only outward sign that this interview was not business as usual. Or, maybe he clenched his fists like that every day.

I identified her. ‘This is my daughter,' I said. But it wasn't her. Helene had always been, well – alive. Sure, she had her problems and we could never agree on anything but – she was so alive. That girl I said was Helene, she was somebody else, somebody dead. Am I making any sense?

Stoner made perfect sense. To me, anyhow, and to my partner Matthew Redman. But, then, we had seen dead bodies before. They never looked real somehow. The coloring was off, they lacked expression, sometimes they seemed barely human.

Helene Stoner's pale blue eyes, her father's eyes, stared vacantly at me from the high school graduation picture at the corner of her father’s cluttered desk. Her mortarboard and gown were a bright royal blue. It was a good picture. You could almost feel the texture of her long, silky blond hair. She had been quite pretty, really, in an overweight kind of way.

Helene Stoner, Harcourt T. Stoner’s daughter from his first marriage, had been away from home for two years, which would make her about 20 years old today, if she were alive. Which she wasn’t.

He showed us the picture the cops had taken at the morgue. It was Helene all right. The blonde hair, the wide space between her eyes. A front tooth was missing. And she had clearly taken off at least fifty pounds since high school.

Stoner was having difficulty speaking. The body was found yesterday afternoon in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. In a stall in one of the ladies' rooms – shot, they said – the police won't tell me much – they claim they don't know much – they assume it was a mugger – she had no money on her. He took a breath, let it out. And sat very still, eyes shut tight.

I didn’t think he even noticed the cards strewn across his desk. Christmas, Father’s Day, birthday cards that he’d taken out to show to us. Two years’ worth of one-way communications from his daughter, postmarked in various large cities.

When he opened his eyes again, the pain was still there, but so was the purposefulness of the business tycoon the tabloids knew so well.

He unclenched his fists, examined his well manicured fingernails, then clenched them again, as tightly as before. He looked up at me. Ms. Horowitz. Turned his gaze on Matt. Mr. Redman. He took a breath. I want you on this case. My friend Lieutenant Baker recommended you highly as the best private detective talent in the city.

I tried hard not to look at Matt. Who was trying hard not to snicker out loud. Floyd Baker had been my partner on the force. Matthew Redman is not exactly on his most popular private eye list.

Stoner looked us over with a single unwavering glance. I want you to find whoever is responsible for killing my little girl.

Aren't the police working on that? I asked.

Yeah, Matt said. In my experience they are not generally thrilled to pieces when I step into one of their active cases. Not an understatement.

I'm a father, by heaven. Stoner pounded on the edge of his desk for emphasis. They have to grant me that. Certainly, I wasn't a very good father when Helene was alive but I'll be damned if I'll let anyone stop me from doing right by her now that she's dead.

We'll have to inform the police that we're involved, of course.

Certainly. The thing is, how likely is it that they'll find the one responsible for a mugging in the Port Authority Bus Terminal? If, indeed, it really was a mugging.

Matt, ever the optimist, interjected, How likely is it that we can find him?

Stoner stared at a point somewhere between us. Her, he said.

Excuse me?

His gaze shifted to me. The police said – given the time of day – how busy it was – and she was shot in a ladies' room – nobody remembers seeing anything – it had to be a female – or someone dressed as a female – probably acting alone. He took a breath, and looked over at the cards strewn across his desk, then at me. I just don’t believe it happened that way. One day the cards just stopped. I think if you could just find out where she’s been the last two years, you could find the person who murdered her.

A lone female mugger?

That little voice that kicks in sometimes, call it instinct, told me to stay the hell away from this case. Could a Black computer specialist and a Jewish former cop find the murderer of a rich white girl? I should have listened to that little annoying voice, of course, but I never do.

A lone female mugger? This didn’t look good.

/ * / * / * /

The first thing I noticed when we got to the office was that a certain personal and long awaited piece of mail had arrived. The mail was on the floor and I had to step over it to get to my desk. The first thing Matt noticed was a little green spot blinking on the bottom of his computer screen. With one swift motion, he swept the mail up off the floor, dumped it on his desk, and sat down to play with his computer, all before I had time to unzip my parka. Oh boy, he said. Lots of email.

The steam pipes clanged in their vain attempt to make us believe they were working. It was an admirable effort. I opened the window an inch just to let the room breathe. The blast of cool air was refreshing.

While Matt occupied himself with his email - twitter, whatever - I very unobtrusively turned my attention to the mail, the paper kind. It would make my life a whole lot easier if I got to this particular item before Matt did. There was a bill. And a letter from a former client. And there was a large envelope addressed to me, from the Happy Future Service, marked Personal and Confidential. Matt's left elbow rested idly on one side of that envelope.

The telephone rang.

Matt put it on speaker, a remnant of his days as a big time executive, and continued at the keyboard. He seldom used the speakerphone, and I never did.

Don't you ever check your email? That was Stan Turner's voice blaring through the static. My fingers pinched a corner of the envelope and tried to slide it unobtrusively across the desk. The envelope didn't budge.

Hi, Turner. Matt eyed the envelope imprisoned beneath his elbow. Old buddy. He lifted the envelope idly by two fingers, then hefted it from his right hand to his left.

It's personal, I whispered.

Matt nodded, and whispered back to me. Confidential too. He fiddled with the flap. Well, Turner, I haven't heard from you in – let's see now it's been at least – he consulted his wristwatch. fourteen hours. The flap was sealed shut from end to end. He passed the envelope in front of the desk lamp. It was too thick to see through. Must be a record.

I grasped the envelope firmly with one hand and applied pressure to his wrist just as firmly with the other. Five seconds and he let it slip. It was mine. Matt grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

Redman. Turner's voice was louder. So was the static. Am I not talking to the best computer security specialist in the States, by his own admission?

Yes, Turner.

And did not this said specialist contract to rid my system of a certain pesky problem?

Yup. Virusbuster, that's me.

Shhh. Not over the phone.

I glanced at the speakerphone then looked at Matt. He shrugged. Who ya gonna call?

Listen buddy, you can carry friendship just so far. When are we going to see some results around here?

I'm working on it, Turner, I told you that. I'm getting closer to the source. I told you that. And when I have something to tell you that I haven't yet told you, I'll tell you that too.

Shee. Talk about temper. Can you understand that while you're there taking your sweet time, I'm here sitting on my hands? Do you know what December means around here?

I know my Uncle's palms get all hot and sweaty with anticipation. Matt was becoming impatient. I dropped the envelope into the top drawer of my desk. I'll let you know when I have something. Matt shut the speakerphone off and rested his chin on his hands. Stanley Turner. Heaven protect us from old army buddies who give us work. Turner managed one of the computer facilities of the country's most feared and hated institution – the Internal Revenue Service. The industry papers ran rumors about some sort of malware in the IRS computer system for weeks before Turner called and asked me for help.

Virus? I started my stretching exercises.

He wanted me to locate the source, clean it out, reclaim the data. And plan a security program to keep it from happening again.

I did another set of stretches.

He also wanted me to keep my mouth shut about it.

So, how is it going?

Like I told him, I'm getting close. I have the field narrowed down to, oh, somewhere in the eastern half of mainland United States.

That close. I closed my eyes and executed a back stretch. Are you going to be able to do the job?

Humph. I opened my eyes again. Matt looked hurt. He straightened up in his seat. And sniffed. Am I not the best computer security specialist in the States?

By your own admission.

So, he said, staring straight into my eyes, what was in that envelope?

I picked up the ten pound dumbbells from behind my desk and started doing curls. Five on the right. Then five on the left. You have to concentrate very hard when you do curls. Makes it almost impossible to carry on a conversation.

I was working up a comfortable sweat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt type something into his browser’s address bar. Hit enter. Type again in a search field. I replaced the dumbbells and tried running in place. I heard him dial. A sweet young female voice sing songed over the speakerphone. Happy Future Dating Service. How may I help you? Umm. I continued running in place.

Matt was talking to the voice on the phone. Let me get this straight. His usual finesse. Is this like, if I want to get a date, I get to fill out a questionnaire –

Yes, sir. And you can come in and make a video.

– and, like, you get all these losers who can't get dates on their own, the over fifty crowd desperately seeking the under thirty crowd? Like that? Click.

My workout ruined, I settled in behind my desk. I put my feet up. You know, like, I mimicked, a thirty year old Jewish female private detective ex cop who works out two hours a day and five on weekends and frequently packs a pistol in her purse?

Jess –

who knows eight hundred ways to kill a guy but not how to get a lousy date?

That's not fair, Jessica, he grinned. You know I'm always ready to date you.

I couldn't stay mad. I burst out laughing. Yeah, but your dates all end up in the same place.

Oh?

Under the covers. I grinned back.

Sometimes they start there too.

You simply have no imagination.

It's monotonous, he agreed. But one must serve the greater good, each according to his ability.

I finally opened the envelope. It contained three sheets of paper. Data sheets on three prospective suitors. I spread them out on my desk.

I wouldn't trust those agencies, if I were you.

Oh, I don't know.

C'mon, Jess. Read it. He waved at me impatiently. I'll translate for you.

Translate?

Oh, he said airily, you know. These places always talk in euphemisms. For instance, if someone calls himself a good catch, that means he looks like a 400 pound carp.

I ignored him. This one is fluent in seven languages –

He was thrown out of six countries.

– and he says he has a green thumb.

Oh.

I waited.

I hope he takes his penicillin every day.

Okay. I tossed the sheet up in the air. It landed on the floor. Let's look at this guy.

I'm all ears, said Matt.

You're all mouth.

The better to –

Umm, this guy says he likes the real old fashioned kind of values. That sounds good.

Sure. If you like someone who hits his women with a club and drags them by the hair to his cave. Is that what he wrote under hobbies and other interests?

No. I checked. He lists studying the Bible and building moral character.

Ah. He nodded. My soul brother.

He wants somebody interested in spiritual growth.

Growth? Benign or malignant?

I tossed the second data sheet over next to the other one on the floor. Then the third one. I looked at my partner. You're not helping, you know.

He eyed the three pieces of paper on the floor. I'm certainly not hurting.

Chapter 2

The drive out to the Island ushered me past the sort of landscape that confirmed, once again, for this long time New York City resident, that the world contains more varieties of color than there are highways. Much of it was brown now, settling into the earth, awaiting the renewal of Spring.

I could not imagine Matt Redman ever settling down, but then, he could afford to play around, remain unsettled, even to a ripe old age – or whenever the surety of mortality would hit him. My biological clock would determine for me how long I had to make the big decision. The Big Decision. Whether or not to reproduce. Continue the line. Have a kid. I could hear that clock ticking away.

For me, the decision to have a child had always carried with it marriage, and a husband. One thing I knew for certain – I didn't want my child to be raised by a single parent. Well, I was almost certain. Well, maybe I just didn't want to be that single parent.

The Stoners' neighborhood – if these massive, sprawling grounds and stately mansions could be said to constitute a neighborhood – was one of the wealthiest in the New York City area. So exclusive was it that even the streets, as they circled around and about, seemed to be constructed so as to encourage occasional strangers to turn around and go back where they came from.

I wondered about the dead girl I was trailing, this waif, this child of circumstance. How had Helene Stoner managed to deal with the evident abundance of riches, along with a workaholic father, a mother who had died young and, for some three years before she left home, a stepmother quite a bit younger than her father?

I parked in the driveway. It was circular, of course.

The woman who answered the door wore a black and white crisply starched dress that was obviously a maid's uniform, so I would have known she was a maid even if her coffee colored skin and the Islands lilt to her voice hadn't given her away. It was just that kind of neighborhood.

She gave me a firm handshake and with it managed to generate a warmth that was personal, not part of the uniform.

I'm Jessica Horowitz, I offered.

She smiled. I know. I've been expecting you, she said. My name's Lily. Her crepe soled shoes made no sound on the smooth surface of the granite floor as she led the way down the main hallway. I followed her in my running shoes, which were just as silent. At the foot of the stairs she stopped and turned to me.

You would like to see Helene's room, is that right?

Her tone caught me by surprise. You say that just as if she were still living here.

A troubled look came into her eyes. I suppose I simply haven’t been willing to think of her not coming back. And now ... Her voice trailed off.

Have you been working for the Stoners long?

Since Helene was a baby. And the first Mrs. Stoner was with us. How I loved that baby. But, she sighed, I'm not her mother. I tried to be, but it's not the same thing. Do you know what I mean?

I nodded, not speaking.

She continued up the stairs.

How did Helene handle it? I asked when I could speak easily.

Losing her Momma you mean? She hated it.

Yes, that. And the stepmother later on.

She hated all of it. And most of all – bless me, I don't know why – she hated herself.

How do you mean?

Well, as soon as she was big enough to know that she was a woman, she began to eat. She ate everything, that child did. Sweets especially. Like, some other child might hide a pint of liquor in his room, with her it was chocolates and pastries. I always found them, but she always bought more.

Self destructive behavior, I said unnecessarily.

That's it exactly. Well – The room she stopped at wore a large plastic H on its door. – here it is.

I went in.

To enter the bedroom of a teenager always seems something of a violation. An adult's room, regardless of the nasty secrets it might contain, seems, somehow, considerably less vulnerable, even complicit. My fingers rested uneasily on the smooth desktop. I looked at my fingers, then at Lily.

No dust, I said.

She smiled. Sort of. I kept thinking she'd be back. Then she turned, in one crisp movement that matched her uniform, and padded silently down the hall. I'll be in the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, preparing dinner.

Helene's room was a personality in transition. The furnishings – the four poster bed with ruffled canopy, the small writing desk at the window, the built in shelves – were straight out of little girl land, tastefully decorated in pink and white and accented with a dainty and adorable pink floral pattern.

On the shelves, books were held upright by stuffed toys and a family of Barbie and Ken dolls flanked a black lacquer jewelry box. The books were mostly high school textbooks and New York State Regents examination review books. There were some Gothic romance novels, a pile of Seventeen and Glamour magazines, and a well thumbed volume of The Penguin Book of Love Poetry. I examined the flyleaf: it had belonged to her mother.

Posters of Paris Hilton and Justin Bieber and some rock group I didn't recognize blared in brazen colors from the otherwise sedate walls. They didn't go with the color scheme. The rock group appeared to consist of barely pubescent boys who should have been playing baseball for free in a corner lot rather than playing music for a lot of money.

Some two hours later, I still had not earned my fee in any significant way. I had discovered some costume jewelry (in the black lacquer box), some over the counter diet pills (desk, left side bottom drawer, back), a very stale, moldy item that had once been a jelly doughnut (same place, Lily obviously didn't find everything), a signed publicity photograph (next to the poetry book) of a darkly handsome actor who had starred in a popular television detective series. I sighed. Television made it look like so much fun.

There was a photo album, which mostly contained pictures of Helene herself. In some of them, she was joined by another chubby young girl who seemed to be about the same age.

There was no diary, no letters, no indication at all of where she might have gone. I slid one of the photos of Helene and her friend from its protective cellophane holder.

I found Lily in the kitchen, just as she had promised. She was chopping carrots, presumably for soup, and tossing the pieces into the large saucepan to her right.

Pretty soon, she spotted me. What can I do for you, Ms. Horowitz?

I held up the photograph. Was this girl a special friend of Helene's?

Yes, certainly.