Speaking of Murder: A Novel

By Jonathan Black

After a divorce and an early retirement from newspaper reporting, Hank Fowler’s life is back on trackhe has a girlfriend, steady freelance work, a teaching jobthat is, until he gets a call from his old pal Chris Beckwith. Beckwith, his college roommate and a former drug-addict turned motivational speaker, is found dead not too long after. Following up on Chris’s sudden death, Hank begins to unravel a series of gruesome murders, all involving motivational speakers.

Meanwhile, Rachel, newly divorced and trying to write a book, enrolls in Hank’s writing class. With her help, Hank must track down the killer before the killer tracks him. In this suspenseful and tightly woven narrative, Jonathan Black creates a fast-paced murder mystery for the digital age. An homage to Chicago, Speaking of Murder is a noir whodunnit and a gripping read for lovers of the mystery genre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Agate Digital
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781572844902

Jonathan Black

Jonathan Black—real name Mark Booth—was born in Cambridge, UK, and educated at Oriel College, Oxford, where he read Philosophy and Theology. He works in publishing and publishes many bestselling authors and cultural icons. He also publishes many prominent authors in the MBS and ‘alternative history’ fields, including Graham Hancock, Lorna Byrne, Mooji and Rupert Sheldrake. As an author he has sold over half a million books in the English language and his work has been translated into twenty-one languages. The Secret History of the World was a New York Times bestseller. Booth has given lectures and interviews at the Royal Academy, Maastricht University and the Marion Institute in Massachusetts. He has been widely interviewed on radio and TV, including BBC Radio 4’s Today and Coast to Coast in the US. He has written articles for the Independent on Sunday, English National Opera, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Mind Body Spirit.

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Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Black

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the publisher.

Speaking of Murder

by Jonathan Black

Agate Digital

First e-book edition

September, 2014

ISBN: 978-1-57284-490-2

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage anyone or any company’s products or services.

Agate Digital is an imprint of Agate Publishing. For more information, go to agatepublishing.com.

Table of Contents

State Dental Convention, April 2014

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About the Author

State Dental Convention, April 2014

And now…the man who wrote The Happiness Habit! Let’s give him a big warm welcome!

He strode out with hands raised. The Chesapeake Ballroom was more than half full. Not bad for a State Dental Convention. Plenty of women, too, so none of that wink-wink stuff about drive and transmission and internal combustion that got him big laughs at the NAPA auto parts meeting last week in Topeka.

Thank you, thank you. He waited for the applause to die down. I’m very happy to be here. After all, you’re the people who give America something to smile about.

There was a round of cheers, more clapping.

You know what’s funny, though? How many people don’t bother to take care of themselves. That goes for dental visits—and for living life. We get all mired down in our problems. We fret about mortgages and Little League games and our neighbor’s lawn. Am I right? What we forget is that happiness is a muscle. It needs to be exercised…

Forty minutes later he was done.

Not as many lined up in back to buy books as he’d hoped. They’d scheduled him right before the afternoon golf. But sixty-odd books added up. He should be happy, heed his own advice. Instead of brooding over, what? The weather report he’d seen, Midwest thunderstorms and likely delays at O’Hare? His wife who’d be sound asleep, snoring, in her baggy pajamas? Just once, it would be nice if…

Thanks for stopping by. He signed the last book with a flourish. Enjoy the rest of your meeting.

There, he was done.

Outside, he stopped to light a cigarette. Not too popular with the dentists, he guessed, but they were all inside or heading for the links. Almost all of them, anyway. A man came through the lobby doors, gesturing.

Say, I hate to bother you. But I had to take a conference call and missed getting my book signed.

He checked his watch. He had another hour to get to the airport and return the rental, then catch his flight home to Chicago. I’m afraid they’re being packed up inside.

That’s okay. I’ve got one in my car. The man nodded toward the parking lot.

It was on his way, he supposed. The man fell into step beside him.

I’m a big fan, he said.

That’s great. I appreciate it.

You’ve made a big difference in my life.

Funny how many times he’d heard that phrase. Way back when he used to do workshops, and all the time since. Still heartwarming. Except the man’s eyes were strangely cold; not much enthusiasm there. People usually got all emotional talking about the book.

Glad to hear it. Excuse me, but where is your car?

Right over there. He gestured to a solitary vehicle near the far fence. I’m always getting dinged by other drivers. I don’t like to take chances.

Okay, but I’m afraid I’ve got to hurry.

He stood alongside while the man aimed his key, waited for the click of doors unlocking. Instead, the trunk rose up a couple of inches.

I thought your book—

Safekeeping, said the man. Anything valuable I keep in back. Have a look.

He felt a hand on his neck. This has gone far enough, he thought. But the man gave a sudden squeeze, a quick excruciating pain, so intense his eyes clouded over, and the last thing he saw was the gaping black of the trunk.

He’d lived his life in terror of dark, confined spaces. When he finally came to, he thought his chest would explode in fright. The trunk’s metal lid was inches above his face. His fingers clawed at the lock, but there wasn’t a lock to open. He couldn’t see. It was pitch black, blacker than he’d ever thought possible. He forced himself to breathe. He tried to think. They were driving, he was being taken somewhere, the man must want money. He needed to call Louise…or the police. He worked a hand inside his jacket. His phone was gone. The car swerved and his sleeve tore against something sharp. A jagged edge, attached to…cables? Battery cables. A weapon?

There was noise from inside the car. Some kind of music. Not voices. The man was alone. He tried to shift his body, but he couldn’t turn, there wasn’t room. He remembered the Chicago executive who’d been kidnapped and buried in a box until a ransom was paid. When police dug up the box, they found the breathing straw had clogged. It had given him nightmares for months.

His breath was coming in short gasps. Panic was the enemy, he had to remember that. He groped in the black. His hand fastened around a hard metal pole behind his head. Not a pole. The jack.

Conserve your strength, he told himself. Think how long it’s been. More than an hour. They’d need gas, there would be people, he could yell. The car had slowed. He listened for the sound of other cars passing. What sounded like a truck went past, then nothing. Another turn and the road was rougher, unpaved. The car braked, rolled onto something smooth, maybe grass, and stopped. He tensed his legs, tightened his grip on the jack. There was the sound of footsteps. The trunk was thrown open, the jack yanked from his hand.

Up you go.

He blinked, blinded by the light. The hand was at his neck again, forcing him along a path, past trees, up steps, onto a porch, through a door.

Please, I have money.

You got lots of money, that what you’re saying?

Yes, yes! I can go to the bank.

Shut up.

He was dragged across rough floorboards, past an old sofa, shoved through another door and into a bathroom, his arms wrenched behind him, the wrists tied with rope.

Call my home. Call my wife. Look in my wallet. She’ll pay anything.

There was the sound of water splashing into a bathtub. He craned his neck. It was an old clawfoot tub with rusted fixtures.

No, don’t make me—

Who’s got the happiness habit now?

He struggled as he was dropped into the water. His arms were jerked up and his wrists roped to the taps. The man swung the battery cables, dangling them in front of his face, then let them drop on the floor. A hand gripped his jaw. The blade of a knife pressed against his cheek. It moved to the corner of his mouth.

You liked talking to the dentists?

I don’t know. Yes. No. He shook his head violently.

Let’s pretend I’m a dentist. Open wide.

Oh my God.

The hand tightened on his jaw. Open wide!

If there had been people nearby, they would have heard his scream. It carried for miles on the still air of the afternoon.

Chapter 1

He’d forgotten to pull the curtains. A slash of sun fell across his face and he blinked, rolled over, and squinted at the clock. Eight nineteen, his flight didn’t leave until one. He yawned and reached for the remote. The local news was doing the traffic report. A grid of expressways with blinking red dashes. Slow going on the Kennedy, long delays on the Bishop Ford. He had no idea who Bishop Ford was or why anyone had named an expressway after him. The news switched to the weather. The temperature was headed for the nineties again. August in Chicago. A good time to be getting out of Dodge.

Hank Fowler swung his legs out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Showered, a towel wrapped around his waist, he stood in front of the mirror and shaved off two days’ worth of stubble. He peered closer. The rough beard had suited him better. Now he looked like a skinned cat. He was a tall man, rangy, with strong features and the kind of understanding gray eyes that surprised women. Or had surprised them, once. He turned sideways and sucked in his stomach. Not what you’d call the cover of Men’s Health, though he’d seen worse in the locker room of his health club. Of course, that had been when he was still in the grip of his trainer, Jolene the Hun. Still would be, if she hadn’t drained his savings with her twice-weekly sessions and insistence that a man of 53—well, 51 then—needed to work on his quads and core. He should probably go back, try one of those rope things. He squinted under the mirror light. Getting some sun in Africa—that would help.

He walked into the kitchen and toasted the last half-bagel, didn’t bother with butter, and chewed it while he moved around the apartment running his checklist. Passport, fresh batteries, notepad, reading. Clothes—clothes were a problem. He’d had a couple of extra scotches the night before and forgotten to do a wash. He rescued what he could from the laundry basket, found a shirt on a closet hanger, buttoned it while he stood at the living room window. In the distance, out past Navy Pier, sails puffed white on Lake Michigan. There were runners on the lakefront path, and light was shimmering off the curved glass of Lake Point Tower. He’d taken the apartment for the view, thinking he deserved an upside to his life, which had otherwise flatlined, to put it generously. But the view had now become familiar, as views did. He watched a speedboat churn lazily over the water and tried to remember what he’d forgotten. Right, the trip itinerary.

Becoming a travel writer was not what he’d envisioned the day he’d walked out of his former job. Truth was, he hadn’t envisioned much of anything—just a face-saving exit from the inevitable. The paper had gone into downsize mode. Ad pages had dropped, trim size had been cut, the zillionaire who’d bought the company had started hacking away at staff. Hank’s long investigative stories got chopped to nothing, and he guessed he’d be chopped next. So he’d done what any sane person would do: taken the buyout.

He’d acted impulsively, tempted by the chunk of change and Claire’s reassuring, It’s the right move, sweetheart. The job is making you crazy. You’re 48 years old. You’ll find a million things to do.

He had not found a million things to do. He’d spent a week’s salary—what used to be a week’s salary—on a professional-looking resume. He’d worked the phone. He’d bought a new laptop and scanned the internet. He’d networked at lunches—lunches that ended abruptly when the waiter arrived with the dessert menu, prompting his old pals check their watches and say apologetically, Nothing for me, thanks. Got to get back to the salt mines. Great to see you, buddy.

Take a breather, Claire had advised.

A breather, that was the ticket. And so he’d launched himself into a dozen projects because, really, there were so many things he’d wanted to do but never had time. Italian! A beautiful language—too bad about all those irregular verbs that he’d gone blind trying to memorize in bed at night. He made a list of eighteenth-century novels he wanted to read. He treated himself to a new sound system and listened to opera. He took a break from his breather and went to an eco-resort in Costa Rica, where he met an editor from Travel News. When the man fell off his horse while galloping down the beach, leaving him bedridden for the remainder of his trip, he had begged Hank to write up the place.

Thus his new career was born.

It wasn’t exactly a career. Travel writing paid next to nothing. Still, he liked the sudden departure to places unknown, the promise of adventure. It wasn’t what you’d call real journalism. He wasn’t sending dispatches from war-torn Iraq or the ravaged jungles of South America. He wasn’t back on his old beat, rooting out evil, chasing the bad guys who got away with fraud and, occasionally, murder. But he liked the pace of the trips, the quick visits, the chance to drop in and get out. He liked the anonymity. No one asked who he was or what he was working on. On the rare occasion that someone did ask, he’d reply, Getting the most out of life. That usually sent them running, though it was true enough. He’d come to enjoy the travel more than he’d thought. There was plenty to see, even as a pampered journalist, new experiences everywhere, every city and landscape suggesting a different future. The past was the past, over and done with. He’d hung up his spurs. Enough with all the investigations. Enough with the scramble to expose the corrupt and change the world. He taught, he traveled, he had season tickets to the Lyric. It was more than enough to keep him busy.

He zipped shut his bag and headed for the door.

Off to Timbuktu?

His neighbor down the hall, Tom, nudged his morning paper with a slippered foot. Tom was 72 and his one friend in the building. I don’t want that dope of a doorman finding my body, Tom had explained the day they’d swapped keys.

Tanzania.

What’s the point of reading this stuff? He belted his bathrobe and stooped to pick up the paper. Bridge repair and a gangland shooting. That’s news?

"You should get the New York Times."

I read it online. Want me to water your plants?

The only time Hank’s plants got watered was when he was out of town. He turned to lock the door. I owe you. Any requests for a souvenir?

His previous efforts had proved less than successful. Last Hank had seen the puppet from Bali it was dangling from the bookshelf behind Tom’s television. The tin of foie gras from Lyon had gone into the cat’s dish.

Coming back alive will do. The Middle East is crawling with terrorists.

Tanzania’s in Africa, Tom.

Where they chop off heads with machetes. Not pretty. I saw it happen here once.

Tom, a tough old ex-cop, still kept a vigilant eye peeled for gangbangers with a long memory. Outliving them probably kept him young.

I’ll watch my back, Hank said, but Tom had already gone inside.

The elevator door opened on five, and he was joined by the pert brunette who’d cornered him at a rooftop social he’d made the mistake of attending. What was her name? Judy. No, Jody. He should have retreated downstairs, but too many glasses of cheap white wine had apparently turned him garrulous. Ever since, their occasional run-ins were peppered with invites to openings and screenings and readings, each accompanied by a coy smile and an aggressive jut of her hip.

Hey, 12-D. If you’re back by Saturday, there’s a fun cheese tasting at the new hotel on Grand. You—hip cock—up for it?

She was years too young, of course, possibly decades too young. After the divorce from Claire, he’d made that mistake a couple of times. There were apparently a number of young women who wanted to try out older men, and who was he to spoil their fantasy? The sex had been fun. It was the before and after that gave him pause. He cringed remembering the dinners at restaurants, trying to fathom this or that work crisis, pretending he’d heard of some band, pretending he’d seen a YouTube video. What had he been thinking? Anna was at least within hailing distance of his own age.

Sorry, said Hank. I’m away until Monday.

"Monday’s perfect! They’re doing Aida in Millennium Park. You love opera, right?"

He tried to remember what else he’d told her. The opera stuff was true enough, but he hadn’t exactly covered the waterfront.

You know I’m practically engaged, he said, but the words were lost as the elevator door opened on the lobby. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care.

Outside, he waved down a cab on Wabash, tossed his bag inside and followed it onto the seat.

O’Hare. How’s the traffic?

The driver said something, but it wasn’t to Hank. He was chattering on his cell phone, a private sing-song in a language that could have been anything, and didn’t bother to turn. He drove like the man who’d driven Hank through a city in Cameroon, running up inches behind the car ahead, seeming to forget he’d stopped, swerving through traffic again. On the Kennedy, he slowed to a crawl.

Hank leaned forward. I’ve got a plane to catch.

The driver chuckled at some joke on his phone. No tip for you, friend, thought Hank, though of course he relented. It was bad karma to get an attitude before climbing into a wafer-thin tube six miles up in the jet stream.

It turned out he had time to spare. His Lufthansa flight was an hour late. He went through security and headed for the airline’s business-class lounge.

It was one of the perks of his job that he got to hang out in the lounge. Occasionally he had the fantasy of not going anywhere—ditching the travel bit, simply camping in this hushed sanctuary to eat, read, and rest, then grab a cab home. A brusque woman in a sky-blue Lufthansa outfit went about clearing glasses and scooping crumbs. She straightened with a sidelong glance at his canvas shoes. Everyone else was dressed for serious business, poring over a laptop or the Wall Street Journal. He was an imposter. He wolfed down one of the tiny salmon sandwiches as his cell phone went off.

By the time he got it out of his pocket the ringing had stopped. The caller ID read Unknown. He stuffed the phone back in his jacket. Then it rang again, prompting a squinted scowl from the man who’d lowered his Financial Times.

Jesus, that really you? said the caller.

And this is who?

It’s Chris, old man.

Chris?

Come on, Hank. Chris Beckwith. Am I catching you at a bad time?

Chris Beckwith. Hank suppressed the urge to sigh. I’m about to get on a flight to Germany.

The paper’s sending you abroad? Don’t tell me you’re the new Berlin correspondent.

Actually I’m no longer—

I’ll make it quick then. This is a huge deal. You have no idea. Maybe you guessed from the letter I sent.

I didn’t get any letter, Chris.

You’re kidding. Aren’t you still at—there was a pause—that address on Willow?

Claire and I split up two years ago.

Wow, sorry. That’s rough.

Yes, it was for a while.

What I was thinking, said Chris, is I could supply the details. Nobody else is onto this yet. It’s national, Hank. Another reporter would jump on it. That’s why I couldn’t risk writing you at work.

The Lufthansa woman stopped by to indicate the departure screen. Your flight is boarding now, Mr. Fowler.

I’m not asking for money.

I’ve got to get going, Chris.

Joint credit is all I’m suggesting. Maybe book and movie rights.

Why don’t we talk when I get back?

Sixty-forty then. You get the sixty.

Chris—

I’m serious. This story is big.

He pocketed his phone and headed for the plane. Inside, a flight attendant took his jacket and asked if he wanted champagne or a mimosa. His seatmate, a blond woman in a black skirt and white cashmere sweater, allowed a businesslike nod, then went back to her spreadsheet. Hank’s drink was delivered. He dug through his black case full of amenities, nudged off his shoes, and pulled on slippers. The captain came on to apologize for the delay. They hoped to make up the time. Hank scanned the in-flight movies, none of which he’d seen, none of which he wanted to see. The flight attendant stopped by his seat. He finished the champagne and handed back the glass. They shuddered to a stop at the end of the runway. There was a keening whine from the engines, the brakes released and the plane began its lumbering rush.

He picked up the novel he’d brought and read a few pages. Then he slid it into the seat pocket and clamped his eyes shut. Big story? Please no, not again. How many times had he heard pitches like that from Chris, the plots and investment schemes that Chris insisted would bankroll Hank’s next new house, car, or retirement. There was the mall in Florida (It’s marsh now, Hank, mistakenly condemned and about to sell for nothing. I happen to know the guy behind it.) There was the hot new indie film at Sundance (A couple of lesbian bank robbers with genius IQs, that’s the twist. They just need money for distribution.) A new hotel in Cabo San Lucas, an online business that targeted college dropouts. He’d listened, half in amusement and half in awe, because he couldn’t help admire Chris’s capacity for self-invention and the buccaneer way he went about leading his life. He’d listened because they’d once been friends, the oldest friend Hank had.

They’d met at Harvard, suitemates freshman year. Chris was like nobody Hank had known growing up on the manicured lawns of Forest Hills in Queens. He had a motorcycle, he had working-class pals with a waterfront loft on Boston’s south side, he had parents who’d met in a commune. Hank couldn’t devour enough of the details. What Chris saw in Hank was less obvious. You’re kidding, right? said Chris when Hank finally worked up the nerve to ask him. You know about art and books and history, but you don’t have an attitude like the rest of the pretentious creeps here.

Following graduation, they’d both moved to Manhattan and into the loft they’d agreed to share on West 4th Street. Hank was in law school, Chris had taken a job in advertising. A year later, Chris moved in with Natasha, the Russian translator; the two friends would then meet for late-night curry at Bombay Palace, the East Village basement dive where they got drunk on Indian beer and tried to sort out their lives. Often these were the only real conversations Hank had. His fellow students spent all their time studying, focused on white-shoe law firms or the jobs they intended to land as hard-driving prosecutors.

And there were women, of course. Hank had emerged from his cocoon in college to find Manhattan a bounty of young professionals who found his dry reserve a welcome change from the packs of aggressive careerists who talked about nothing but themselves and money. But the relationships all stuttered to an end within days or weeks or months, though now, decades later, Hank couldn’t remember why. From the vantage point of middle age, they all seemed like highly desirable women. Chris, though, was the one who’d become a fixture in his life, the kind of friend you had when you were young—before the bother of careers and spouses and life. Probably why I stayed