Illusions: I'm Your Man, #1

By blaine kistler

Wounded in the firestorm that resulted in the death of his partner, Bryan McNair leaves the Chicago police to head up the Detective Division of his hometown,  a community of fifty-thousand souls, located eighty miles of backroad from Kansas City. He expects it to be a dull job, but soon learns he’s made a stupid assumption. The white spot of the nation has dirty edges.

Charlie Gray is struggling to keep her dance studio on a paying basis. The two clash when she is brought to police headquarters for questioning in the death of her young assistant. Charlie despises the police. The past investigation into her husband’s death centered on her. Bry McNair is not the happy-go-lucky boy she remembers, He is a hard  and cynical man who assumes her guilty. Why is she drawn to him?

Bry ignores the sexual tension between them. Until he can prove Charlie’s guilt or innocence, she is off-limits. When two more brutal murders occur and point to Charlie as a potential victim, Bry is forced to become her protector. Can he catch a cold-blooded murderer before it’s too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: blaine kistler
• Release date: Jul 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386643982

Book preview

Dedication

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To Cheryl St. John and Lizzie Starr. Without your guidance this book would never have come to fruition. I learn something valuable from you both every time we talk writing.

To my nephew, Dan Levy, who knows a lot about airplanes, and writes pretty darn well, too.

And finally to Leonard Cohen, poet and song writer extraordinaire, whose legacy shines on. We owe you a Halleluiah.

Chapter 1

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It was past midnight in the warehouse district. Rain had settled in for the duration, shrouding the crime scene in fog and mist, promising a cold spring day to come. The corpse lay huddled in a fetal position in the flooded gutter, like an abandoned pile of rags.

Detective Bryan McNair squatted for a closer look, ignoring the weather and his soaked windbreaker. What've we got, Dennis?

Hit and run, Lieutenant. A teenager, maybe fifteen.

Any witnesses?

Anonymous tipster phoned Dispatch. Reported the Vic was dragged down the street by a blue sedan and thrown onto the ditch. Claimed the driver backed up and ran him over deliberately. Believe that?

Bry pulled on latex gloves. Nothing surprises me anymore. No rigor so he's been dead less than eight hours. Any I.D. on him?

We didn't touch anything. The evidence tech took pictures. He's in the mobile lab staying out of the weather. Can't blame him. It's a bastard of a night. The young cop hunched deeper into his uniform coat, ducking his head under the turned-up collar.

Bry nodded, now in total cop mode as he inspected the victim's pockets. Murder wasn't polite, and it didn't wait for the convenience of those investigating it. Soon he'd have to face the boy's family with news that would cause them immeasurable grief. That too, was part of his job, a part that he hated. In the past he'd heard similar news when his sister's husband, Bry's partner, had been killed in the line of duty. Bry still lived with the pain.

Aim your flashlight this way, Dennis. Someone shot out the streetlights. Note it in your report and call Power and Light.

God, look at his face. Half the bones in his body must be broken. Someone should hang for this.

Not our job, Dennis. No I.D., no weapon. Nothing here but some small change. Roust the techie out of his van.

Bry sat back on his heels and surveyed both directions of the rain-slick macadam. The storm was easing. The fog-obscured moon hovered above the horizon, casting a watery glow over the deserted buildings. It was a bleak and hazardous part of the city, not a safe place for a kid even in broad daylight. The boy was well-nourished, wearing expensive athletic shoes and a Kansas City Chiefs jacket that had set someone back a hundred bucks. It made no sense for the kid to be in a part of town inhabited by the homeless, winos and dope peddlers. Bry pushed back the sleeves of the Chiefs jacket. No needle tracks. Not a user. Maybe he was dealing, and something went sour. They'd know more if an I.D. showed he had a record.

Dennis Sagmeyer and his partner Smitty had secured the scene. Their squad car was parked at one end of the block, its flashing red light diverting early morning traffic. Bry's Mazda and a rope of yellow crime tape obstructed the other end.

We need to check the gutters and sidewalks, Dennis.

What're we looking for, Lieutenant?

If I knew that, we wouldn't be looking.

The lab technician splashed across the rivulets flowing down the thoroughfare, and Bry gave him a hard stare. Cover him with a tarp. Bag his hands and you're not to leave the body unattended. You get wet like the rest of us. Understood?

The techie shrugged and grimaced, indicating he understood, but didn't like it much.

I'll take this side, Dennis. You cover the other. Bry snapped on his flashlight and both men started down the street at a steady pace, sweeping the surrounding area. Fast food cartons, broken bottles, discarded dope needles and gaping potholes marred the street. Bry guessed the maintenance crews had given up on this particular stretch of the city. His flashlight passed over a wet bundle lying in the gutter. A battered purse was lodged beside a pile of trash. He nudged it with his foot.

The purse was badly damaged and had a broken shoulder strap, but it was made of quality leather, not something a street person would own. He picked it up in one gloved hand, rummaged and pulled out a lady's billfold. Flashing the light on the name on the driver's license, his eyes narrowed. Bry didn't believe much in coincidence, and it was a name he'd been briefed on recently, a name from his past. He shouted at Sagmeyer and headed for his car.

What've you got, lieutenant?

This, Dennis. The billfold's empty but the driver's license is still here. It's made out to a Charlotte Gray. She lives at the Carriage Apartments on Elm. Does her face look familiar?

Don't think so, lieutenant. She's a looker, though.

Our Vic must have been carrying the purse while he was dragged. See how scuffed the leather is? And the shoulder strap is broken.

That fits. Probably he was thrown in the gutter when the strap gave way. But why run him down?

Yeah, and was this Charlotte Gray driving the car? When the coroner gets here, see that the body gets to the morgue.

He looked at the picture of the woman again. Charlotte Gray. Up to now, she'd played a peripheral role in the case he was working, but he'd known he'd have to deal with her sooner or later. If she was responsible for the boy's death, Bry would see her dressed in prison orange.

Chapter 2

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Is this where you hold the Inquisition?

Bry kept his face impassive and eyed the woman in his office doorway, her resentment rolling off of him. If Charlotte Gray were guilty of what he suspected, carrying attitude would only get her in deeper. Officer Sagmeyer had reported that she'd been antagonistic, refusing to accompany him in the patrol car. He'd sounded regretful about that.

Playing the cops' game, Bry glanced at the papers on his desk before lifting an eyebrow. Charlotte Gray?

She shrugged. Charlie. Charlie Gray. No one calls me Charlotte. Why am I here, Lieutenant McNair? There better be a good reason for pulling me out of an important rehearsal.

She was wearing bizarre stage makeup. Black and white greasepaint bisected her face from the forehead down to the hollow of her throat. The right half was painted black, the cheekbone centered with a white teardrop; the left half was stark white with a black diamond etched over her left eye. The makeup heightened her cheekbones giving her a catlike appearance, and coupled with the leotard-clad body it created an image so erotic that his pulse hammered. No wonder his officer's tongue was on the floor.

Okay, Charlie Gray, he said, keeping the tone easy. Sorry for the inconvenience. I'll make this as painless as possible. He forgave himself the lie. He wasn't sure enough of his case to arrest her, but she was his only lead in the Diedrichsen kid's hit and run.

She didn't move from the doorway. I was told that my stolen purse was recovered. Hardly a crime on my part, and I resent your Gestapo flunky slapping cuffs on me.

His mouth twisted up. Officer Sagmeyer put you in cuffs, Ms. Gray? Personally I wouldn't have the nerve.

Given the right circumstances it would be fun. Sixteen years had passed, and Charlie Gray was no longer the coltish teenager he remembered. He reviewed the facts on her printout. Age thirty, five-foot-six, auburn hair, green eyes. Divorced from James Sommelier, deceased. Owns the Let's Dance studio. Presently the hair was pulled back in a dancer's bun, and her eyes were shooting emerald sparks.

Her sheet omitted the interesting details, like the lithe body and lush mouth, and he was responding to her sensuality in typical male fashion. Come to think of it, handcuffs were optional, he'd rather have her cooperation. Hot and naked sex. Her supple body under his, begging for more. He shook away the erotic fantasy. He'd been on duty fifteen hours straight and his thinking was fogged, but he didn't often have this visceral reaction at the first sight of a woman. Careful. She's a suspect.

I don't allow Gestapo tactics in my department, Ms. Gray. Officer Sagmeyer was told to treat you with courtesy. Do you have a complaint about your treatment?

Spare me, Lieutenant. I was being satirical. Satire is—

I know what satire is, Ms. Gray. But I'd put the Gestapo and handcuffs crack down as hostility. She smirked and he clenched his teeth. He knew better. She was taking charge and he was letting her. He motioned her in.

Please, have a seat. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.

She sank into the chair, throwing one slim leg over the other. She had dancer's legs and a dancer's moves. She was wearing ballet slippers, her legs clad in silver tights, her body concealed under a bulky sweater, and he was as aroused as if she'd been buck-naked. He didn't dare stand up given the shape he was in, so he shifted in his chair and leaned forward to offer his hand. Her eyes drilled him from behind the harlequin mask, not saying a word. He pulled his hand back. He'd soon find out how tough she really was.

I see you're in costume. I thought the cast for the Spring Fling was made up of high school students.

"It is. This is the mime costume for the Send in the Clowns scene I choreographed. Nothing sinister, I assure you."

He spread his hands in defeat. Nothing implied. Since small talk annoys you, let's get to it, Ms. Gray. You own the Let's Dance studio here in town and your work at the high school is volunteer?

Yes. The director, Kerry Wilson, is a friend. Cut to the bottom line, lieutenant. Why am I here?

We'll get to that. A poor payback, having your purse stolen by a student during rehearsal.

Anyone could have walked in. Where did you find it?

He ignored the question. I understand you're a widow?

She lifted a lazy hand, as if the question bored her. The nails were bitten to the quick. Despite the cool exterior, this woman seethed inside. James and I were divorced long before he died. It was a two-month marriage that was over two years ago. And this has to do with the theft of my purse, how?

Not a happy marriage, then?

If she'd been cool before, now she turned frostbitten.

What it was is none of your business, lieutenant.

I'm afraid it is. James Sommelier died under unusual circumstances, and the Blue River police department still lists your husband's death as unsolved.

She grimaced. Please. Ex-husband and not unsolved. The police named it suicide. Are you saying that you're reopening the case?

The case was never closed. We're not a big city police force, Ms. Gray. Sometimes we're spread a little thin.

"How flattering, getting the attention of the big man himself, the Chicago cop returned to his hometown to head up the detective division. Disability retired, right? Let me see—I think I can recall your quote from the Blue River Banner. 'I don't intend to ride a desk. I'll be in the field with my men.' Very macho stuff."

It wasn't something he talked about. He'd been working undercover vice in Chicago when a drug bust went sour. The resulting firefight put Bry in the hospital, and he'd come out of a fog of drugs to find his partner dead and his sister a widow. They'd put him on medical leave and when he learned his hometown was searching for someone with his expertise to lead the Criminal Investigations Unit, he'd thought why not? How much serious crime could there be in a college town of fifty-thousand located a hundred-miles of backroad from Kansas City? He'd found that assumption to be premature. The white spot of the nation had some dirty edges.

Shall we get back to the subject, Ms. Gray? As to why you're here, it's to answer a few questions.

I see. Then you're able to discharge your duties despite the disability, Lieutenant McNair? I ask as a concerned citizen.

He didn't flicker an eyelash. I manage my duties— His eyes swept over her body. —just fine, thank you.

Gray eyes dueled with green. He was good at sizing up people; he'd learned to be, working the slums of Chicago. There was fear in her eyes and she was furious, but he didn't sense guilt. Was the woman in front of him capable of committing murder? His job to find out. She was putting on a hard act and goading him, and he was having difficulty separating the cop from the man. She's going to be trouble. To hell with it. He stood abruptly.

I need you to come with me, Ms. Gray. He reached for his jacket and shrugged into it, concealing the shoulder holster and his painful physical condition.

Look, detective, she said to the ceiling. Where are we going? All I want is my purse back.

He walked toward her and Charlie saw he was bigger than she remembered. Around six feet tall, he was heavier than when he was a high school basketball flash. Not a lean body, but a body packed with muscle, a flat gut, and he moved with an easy grace.

The paper ran a picture that hadn't done him justice. His features were good, he had a strong chin with a generous mouth. In a hard, masculine way the man was gorgeous, and except for the eyes he'd aged well. The eyes were icy chips of winter sky. The man behind the eyes was ruthless. Goosebumps rose under the bulk of her sweater. Not a flicker of recognition from him. Thank God. If he remembered her from their high school days it would be humiliating.

It served her smart mouth right that he'd taken her insults as a challenge and thrown them back. Her excuse was that she'd been blazing mad when the cop yanked her out of rehearsal. The uniform had planted his big feet on the stage until she agreed to come to the station. The rehearsal halted, the students were agog, and Kerry practically shoved her into the cop's arms to get rid of him.

Charlie's mood hadn't improved when they arrived at the station.

She was escorted to Detective Gorgeous, and the sight of the grim-faced man seated behind the polished desk with a holster slung over his shoulder, almost stopped her heart. She disliked guns and wasn't fond of cops. He'd been studying a stack of papers in front of him, papers that probably concerned her. The hair on her scalp rose and a frisson of fear slid down her spine.

He occupied a plain, no-nonsense office. White stucco walls were punctuated with framed documents. The carpet was utilitarian gray; there were locked file cabinets along one wall and a bookshelf loaded with texts and periodicals on the other. The periodicals were neatly stacked and the books were arranged alphabetically.

The only personal touch in the room was a framed photograph on his desk of a pretty woman and a child. She tried to get a better look at the photograph without being obvious. She knew he wasn't married, so maybe the woman was his sister.

She hated his neatness, she hated the cold, knowing eyes, and she hated the gun slung over his shoulder. There was a lot about Lieutenant McNair that put her back up. Her pulse pounded as his eyes raked her, Conan the barbarian sizing up fresh meat. If she weren't careful he'd have her for lunch. The only way to cope was to attack, so she'd turned on the smart-ass act. But it was a mistake. This man wasn't intimidated and she hadn't made a crack in his veneer.

He motioned impatiently for her to follow.

Lieutenant, I have a right to know where we're going.

Kountze Memorial.

You found my purse at the hospital? She trotted after him.

He halted and looked at her. Billy Diedrichsen appears to be the high school kid who took your purse. Do you know him?

Billy works for me part time. What makes you think—no, Billy wouldn't steal from me.

She didn't want to suspect Billy. There wasn't much cash in her purse, but the theft meant she'd been on the phone for hours to cancel credit cards and make arrangements to have her driver's license reissued. If her employee was responsible, she wished he'd just asked for the money.

Billy had showed up a year ago, looking for work and she took him on. He told her he was fifteen and by the time she found out differently, she was fond of the kid. She paid his wages in cash, filling him up with fast food when he was on the job. He proved so helpful that she'd bought him the Kansas City Chiefs' jacket he coveted. As far as she knew, he'd worn it every day since.

You're not that surprised, are you? the lieutenant said, taking in her expression. Why didn't you tell the responding officer you suspected the boy?

She shook her head. I need to see Billy before I say anything.

He was the victim of a hit and run. I'll take you. Bry McNair grasped her elbow and steered her out of the stationhouse.

Billy's hurt? Is he going to be okay? If Billy was in the hospital, who was there to care? Billy's father had vanished before he was born and his mother let him run wild.

Where did you park? McNair's hard hand stayed on her elbow as they entered the parking lot.

She pulled away. The blue Prius. I'll drive and follow you.

She pointed at her vehicle, watching in puzzlement as he circled her car. Then she realized what he was looking for. My God, you suspect I hit him!

There were traces of blue paint embedded in the boy's clothing, and your right front fender looks like it's been repaired recently.

She moved to his side. The fender had been roughly pounded out and spray-painted in a shade of blue that wasn't quite a match. It was a crude repair. She shook her head in growing dismay. I don't understand. I don't know how that happened.

We'll take my car, he said. Yours will be impounded until we can run some tests.

Good God! Am I being arrested?

Not yet.

He led her to the back of the lot and strode toward the black coupe parked in the reserved slot marked Lieutenant McNair. The car was a low-slung Mazda of sleek masculinity, with black leather bucket seats. The car fit the man. He opened the passenger door. Get in and fasten the seatbelt.

She followed orders, her emotions in turmoil. The nightmare was happening again, the false accusations, the threat of criminal prosecution. When would it end?

He drove efficiently, seeming no more inclined to conversation than she was, giving terse orders over his cell that her car was to be impounded and the usual tests done. He eased to a stop at the NO PARKING yellow curb in front of the hospital, and placed a printed card reading Official Police Business on the dash.

Convenient, she said, finding her sneer.

She fumbled with the seatbelt clasp. He opened the car door and shrugged in resignation when she refused to take his arm.

The guard at the door stepped in their path and gave them a startled look. Charlie faltered, remembering her stage costume. McNair flipped open his billfold to display his police ID, and the guard waved them in, looking relieved. Inside the lobby, the detective punched the elevator down button.

That pulled her out of her shocked stupor. Where is Billy? Why are we going to the basement?

No answer. The elevator door slid open and he placed his hand on it to keep it from closing until she was inside. They plummeted and the door jerked open to a brightly-lit hallway, with corridors that led off in several directions like the legs of a spider.

This way. He gestured to the center hallway.

She quit asking questions and tagged after him. This lower level seemed deserted. They passed a door identified as MEDICAL RECORDS, another stating EMPLOYEES ONLY. They came to a halt in front of an opaque glass door marked MORGUE.

No! Billy's not in there?

Yes. We need you to identify the body. A white-coated attendant opened the door and McNair flipped out his billfold to display his badge. Bryan McNair, Blue River PD. Here to I.D. the hit and run. Brought in early this morning.

The attendant nodded, staring at Charlie's bizarre makeup.

Want to use the viewing window?

No. We'll get it over with now. Lead the way.

He nudged her forward on the attendant's heels. The room they entered was walled with concrete blocks and had a low, stained ceiling. Cold fluorescent lights hummed and flickered with harsh brilliance. The far wall was lined with metal cabinets. The smell was a mixture of cleaning fluid and lab chemicals, along with a metallic odor of blood and the miasma of spoiled meat and human excrement. The attendant and Lt. McNair seemed oblivious.

She was too bewildered to object. Her heart throbbed in her throat as they approached the metal cabinets. She'd seen enough television to know what the drawers held. The attendant slid open the drawer and pulled back the sheet, exposing what was left of Billy Diedrichsen. The right side of his face looked normal, the eye closed as if he was sleeping. The left side had been scraped to the bone, the eye obliterated. His torso was a mass of scrapes and bruises.

For the record, can you identify him? McNair asked, his voice impersonal, not looking at the body but at her.

Yes, she whispered, nausea rising in her throat. It's Billy. What happened?

He was dragged down the street and run over by what we suspect was your vehicle. Were you driving, Ms. Gray?

Her eyes glazed and the world tilted.

* * *

C'mon, Charlie, drink this. It's water.

A big hand propped her head up, a paper cup was shoved under her nose, and she gulped, coughing and spluttering most of the liquid down her sweater, managing to swallow some.

Can you sit up?

I think so.

She struggled to a sitting position, blinking in disorientation. She was in a small, brightly lit room with no windows. The odor of stale coffee and old lunches permeated the air. The brown plastic couch she lay on crackled in protest when she moved. Where was she? She blinked up at a frowning male face and recognized Bry McNair.

You sick bastard! She swung her fist for his nose, but he ducked and she connected with his shoulder. It was like hitting a concrete abutment. She swung again and he caught her wrist.

Stop it, Charlie. I don't blame you, but calm down.

Oh, God, that was-—that was— The nausea hit full force. She pulled weakly at his grasp, feeling herself gag. He swore and dropped her wrist, leapt up and grabbed the wastebasket sitting beside the desk. Her stomach emptied in record time.

He snagged her hair and lifted her head from the wastebasket. I'm sorry, Charlie. That was rough, but I had my reasons.

Reasons! she choked out. That was the most sadistic—the most—the most— She spat in the wastebasket and stifled a moan as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She stared at the greasepaint on the thick material of her sweater. Why was she wearing greasepaint?

It was the quickest way to find out if you knew Billy was dead. Who else could have been driving your car, and what can you tell me about Billy? His friends, where he hangs out, anything else.

She flopped back onto the couch, tears running down the sides of her face. She rubbed her face again, smearing more black and white greasepaint. She remembered Billy's off-center grin that showed a row of crooked teeth. He adored her assistant Diane and followed her around like a puppy, begging for extra chores. He had a hitching laugh that he didn't use often, but Diane could get him to crack up.

She'd have to call Di. Did Billy's mother know? And would she care?

Did you really need me to identify him?

No. His grandmother was in this morning.

So you are sadistic.

Not usually.

You have a perfect record with me.

He sighed. "I'll be right back.

She closed her eyes, hugging her arms around herself, trying to calm the shakes. He returned and sat on the couch, propping her up by his side. He held out a wad of wet paper towels, and she wiped her mouth and face.

Better? Drink this. It'll help your stomach.

He handed her a can of cola, and she sipped, grateful for the cold trickle down her raw throat. The effervescent sweetness cleansed the nasty taste from her mouth and helped clear her head, but she wished he would move. She felt crowded; his maleness overwhelmed her. She tried to get to her feet and he pressed her back.

Tell me about Billy. He had a juvie record going back to fifth grade. If you knew that, why did you hire him?

He wasn't a bad kid, just confused and unhappy.

We suspect he was dealing drugs. That's a dangerous line of work, especially for a kid.

I don't believe that. Yes, he was mixed up. Who wouldn't be with the home life he's had.

He worked for you after school?

A couple of days a week and on Saturday mornings. He did unpacking and ran errands. I never saw him on drugs. Don't kids deal drugs to supply their own habit? I'd swear he wasn't using.

They'll do an autopsy and we'll soon know. C'mon. He hoisted her up. Are you okay to walk to the car?

Yes, I'll make it. Let go of me. He released his arm. Her legs wobbled and she nearly pitched on her face.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. You need some help here, Charlie, whether you want it or not. Do you have someone you can call to stay with you tonight? He led her into the hall and down the corridor toward the elevators.

Did she? Kerry, maybe. But Kerry was up to her armpits in preparations for tomorrow's opening night. Aunt Murielle? Not likely. She took care of Aunt Murielle, not the other way around. And she wouldn't feel right, imposing on Diane and her mother.

I don't need anyone. And wasn't that the story of her life?

The elevator clanged and they stepped through the opening doors. She sagged against him. He felt solid. The cold of the morgue was still with her; its smell seemed to have seeped into her clothing. He held her against his side all the way to the parking lot, and tucked her into the passenger seat.

You don't look good. Don't you have an aunt who lives in town? Why don't I take you there?

Update your files, lieutenant. Aunt Murielle fell on the ice a few months back and broke her hip. She recovered, but has moved into a senior care facility. They don't allow overnight guests.

He climbed into the driver's side and buckled up. Your friend Kerry Wilson, then? I could take you there.

Kerry has a family and a busy job. She'll be in crisis mode until the final curtain falls on the spring show. Just take me home.

All right. The Carriage Apartments on Third?

Do I have any secrets from you?

He made an exasperated sound that could have been a curse or a prayer and started the car.

Chapter 3

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Charlie unlocked her front door. Bry McNair stayed on her heels and at her request, accompanied her inside the apartment. That slip in sanity was due to a banging headache, the fact that her legs were quivering noodles, and that his arm provided support as they climbed the three flight of stairs. She had to get a grip. The theft of her purse was trivial compared to Billy's death. She'd call Di with the sad news, and then contact the boy's family to express her sympathy.

Bry released her and looked around.

Nice. I like the posters and the bright colors. Hardwood floors, too. You don't often see hardwood floors in an apartment. He knelt and ran his fingers over the satiny wood.

Are you making love to my floors, McNair?

He frowned up at her. Drop the smart-mouth, Charlie. You blew your cover when you upchucked in the wastebasket.

"Give me