The Drinking Game

By Chris Redding

A burned out detective coasting to retirement and an unstable FBI profiler must join forces to prove their mutual friend is not a serial killer. And figure out who really is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Redding
• Release date: Nov 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386159025

Chris Redding

Chris discovered at age ten she had a knack for storytelling. Ever since, she has wanted to be a published author. She was born and raised on Pennsylvania, holds a BA in Journalism from Penn State and is an established author of novels, novellas, shorts stories, newspaper articles and ghost-written books.  She has published mainly fiction, with a specialty in paranormal romance, but has written about contemporary romance, romantic suspense and cozy mystery for herself and for others.  She is actively involved in the professional writing community, and conducts workshops to help other writers. She lives in New Jersey with her family and animals. Writing is her passion and when she isn't writing, she practices yoga and runs.  Get her Newsletter and keep up with what is happening.  Go to www.chrisreddingauthor.com/contact.  Happy reading!

Book preview

Chapter One

The hair on the back of Detective Sean Gaudette’s neck stood on end.

Ken Westin, his former partner, had summoned him here and now the man wasn’t answering his doorbell. Ken, cut the theatrics.

An eerie silence answered back. Icy hands gripped his spine and his pulse quickened.

He was late, but Ken wouldn’t have left for the bar without him. At least the old Ken wouldn’t have. Sean didn’t think so. Of course, he hadn’t seen his old friend in several months.

Sean’s cop instincts told him all was not well in the state of Denmark. Looking around, no neighbors walked dogs. No one was about that Sean could ask about Ken. He half expected a tumbleweed to roll down the street.

He tried the solid metal door. With a creak it swung open an inch. Not good. Ken never unlocked his front door except to let in someone.

The low hum of adrenaline began in Sean’s blood. Looking in the window, he saw only darkness, no movement. Night had fallen a little early with the threat of thunderstorms.

Cicadas yelled as if they needed to announce just how hot it was. Sweat trickled down Sean’s back and he wished for a beer to drink and shorts to wear.

Damn. He contemplated calling for backup, but unless he could get a local cop, anyone from his office was at least fifteen minutes away. What had happened in there?

Flipping opened his cell phone, he dialed the Jenkins Crossing police. When he hung up a patrol car was on the way. The siren screamed to him in the distance.

Squaring his shoulders, he leaned back and kicked open the door. With gun drawn, he entered the house. Movement in the kitchen caught his eye. Freeze, police.

The click of the sliding glass door closing notched up the adrenaline in his system. Break in?

Footsteps pounded down the wooden steps of Ken’s back deck. The open floor plan provided no hiding places, but the bathroom which Sean peeked into on his way to the kitchen. The action of rushing across the room would be suicide if he didn’t check for bad guys on his way.

Unfortunately, that gave whoever had just left, time to get out of sight.

Sean turned on the back light, but saw no one. Damn. Had he imagined it? A breeze rustled the leaves. No other sound reached his ears from the woods.

Ken?

Closing the slider, the detective turned back to the now even darker house. No boards creaked indicating movement. He swallowed as sweat pooled in his armpits. His mind ran back to another empty house on another dark night and the grisly discovery he’d made. He shook the stressful and unwelcome thoughts out of his brain.

Freeze, someone commanded from the front door.

Sean’s heart skipped a beat. I’m the one who called you.

Sean approached the uniform with his hands visible. He hoped he was approaching a uniform. The outside streetlight made the man only a silhouette. He hated staring down the barrel of someone else’s gun.

When the officer didn’t put down his weapon, Sean identified himself, flashing his badge. I think someone went out the back door. Search the woods behind here.

Still waiting for the cop to react, Sean started up the stairs, thankful his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Dread tugged at his feet, slowing his steps.

Snap out of it. You have a job to do.

Ken? he called, though he no longer expected an answer. He hoped his friend had gone to the bar without him.

His search of the upstairs proved him wrong. Turning on the light of the bedroom Ken used as an office, Sean found his former partner.

Ken, shit. Jamming his gun back in its holster, he strode across the tiny room and put fingers on Ken’s neck.

Sean’s eyes dropped closed as he withdrew his hand to call his office. To the person who answered he said, We have a murder on our hands.

***

Stuck in traffic on Route 95 near Philadelphia, Jen O’Grady tugged her tee shirt away from her slick body. Jamming a wispy red hair behind her ear, she reluctantly turned on her air conditioning.

I thought the evening would be cooler, she said to no one.

Rush hour outside the City of Brotherly Love. At least she had a nice, hazy view of the place that William Penn began.

She blew some hair out of her face as the cars in front of her started to move. A few minutes later she passed a three-car fender bender that shouldn’t have stopped her progress.

Damned rubberneckers.

She checked her watch. Damn, I should have started sooner.

Her cell phone ringing, startled her and she dug into her purse with one hand. Grasping it, she thumbed the phone open and on. O’Grady.

She expected it to be Ken, her ex-fiancé, wondering why she hadn’t reached New Jersey yet. She frowned at his odd summoning of her. They hadn’t spoken in six months, not since they’d called off the engagement.

The engagement. Another messed up part of her life. She sighed and realized someone on the other end should have spoken to her by now. Hello?

He’s dead.

Who? she asked, passing a car who had decided the left lane was for going slowly.

Ken.

Another crank. Top on her to-do list was to get another cell phone number. Ken’s dead?

Relief swept through her as she was finally able to get the six cylinders of her Porsche 911 moving rapidly.

He’s dead. I killed him.

Well, I’m happy for you.

She clicked off the button and dropped the phone on the leather seat beside her, rolling her eyes. Nut ball.

The phone rang again, playing the beginning strains of Toccata and Fugue. She picked the eerie tune figuring every time it rang was like whistling past the graveyard for her.

Dealing with murderers and rapists in her job as an FBI profiler, she had developed black humor. Not that she showed it to anyone.

No one shared jokes with her, because they’d never seen her laugh at the office. Instead she had cultivated a reputation as emotionless. In the beginning her mostly male colleagues had left pictures of naked women on her desk to get a rise out of her. When it didn’t work, they finally stopped and accepted her for what she was.

Her phone ceased its tune and she sighed. She couldn’t even take crank calls seriously anymore. She’d seen too much of what a man could do to a woman to be bothered by some kids playing a game. She wondered where their parents were.

Reaching for the phone again, she dialed the number Ken had given her. He hadn’t moved, just changed his number.

The phone rang and rang. An answering machine picked up and Ken asked that she leave her name and number.

Ken, I got stuck in traffic on 95. I’ll be there in maybe a half an hour. This better be good.

With a click she disconnected and dropped the phone again. This damn well better be good.

The call had come a day ago. She glanced at her watch again. Maybe two days now. He’d begged her to come north to help him with something. He’d been mysterious and her curiosity had her in the car now.

Then she found that case file on her desk at FBI headquarters. Someone had mistakenly given it to her even though she was on leave. She tucked it into her briefcase and made haste out the door. Now she had two reasons to be in New Jersey.

Her phone rang again and she debated not answering it. Ken would be worried if she didn’t answer.

O’Grady.

I killed him.

She frowned. You again. How’d you do it?

I shot him. He giggled.

Right, once again, I’m happy for you. She clicked off the call, then clicked off the phone. Should I just throw it out the window or file a police report?

She shrugged and kept on driving.

***

Red lights flashed and raced each other across the faces of Ken’s neighbors as they waited in the streets, held back by yellow police tape. Some had pajamas, but most wore tank tops and shorts. Roused from their television viewing, the scene in front of them had to be more boring than an episode of Law and Order, but they could hope.

Sean’s head dropped and he stared at the mottled street. Heat still poured off of the black top. Thunderstorms had yet to materialize and relieve this central New Jersey town of its oppressive humidity. Thunder rumbled in the distance as if teasing him.

He hated the dog days of August when a storm might or might not roll through and provide a respite from the heat. Relief. Sean wished for enough lightning and large raindrops to wash away the grime. He’d be grateful.

A storm was brewing in his soul. Someone had killed his ex-partner. Worse yet, the killer may have been just leaving when Sean entered the house.

And he’d missed him.

Sean lit another cigarette, making sure he blew the smoke out of the open patrol car door. The officer who had responded to his call for backup had led him out the door and secured the scene. Sean’s commanding officer had shown up also, but had disappeared. Not odd, since Cam Bentley wanted to coast until his retirement next month.

Ken. Sean rubbed where an ache began the moment he saw his partner.

Unfortunately, Sean had also seen Ken surrounded by incriminating evidence. Stuff that only they could have known. Items that could make a reasonable person think that Ken had been the Redhead Killer, the man they’d been trying to track down for months before Ken left.

Sean’s eyes fell closed again. He couldn’t keep them open. With every fiber of his being he knew Ken’s innocence. Ken wasn’t a killer and whoever was, had killed his friend and framed him in the process.

Sighing deeply, he stood to work out the kinks in his back. The medical examiner, Dr. Press, walked past Sean. Doc?

The doctor glanced at him over his glasses. Detective Gaudette, I’m sorry.

How’d he die? That was all Sean wanted to know. Had someone killed his ex-partner? And would they find enough evidence to catch him?

The man, who resembled a fire hydrant, shook his head. You know I can’t comment on that.

Sean took a step toward him. He needed an answer. But Doc—

Doctor Press held up his hands. Don’t ask me for any favors. I don’t owe you any.

Sean took a drag on a cigarette as the man walked away. His inability to be nice to people while he focused on an investigation had just come back to bite him in the ass.

A large drop of rain hit him in the forehead. The detective looked to the dark sky as more rain lashed him. Maybe the precipitation would wash away this whole fucking night.

***

Jennifer slowed as she took in the scene before her. Her cop eyes didn’t miss a detail, part of her found the scene surreal.

A mass of police cars and an ambulance sat in front of Ken’s townhouse. Well, in front of the building that housed his home. She figured the meeting of law enforcement and EMS couldn’t be for him.

Parking her car, she approached the yellow crime scene tape. Having gone under so many in her time, she never thought she’d be stopped.

Where do you think you’re going, miss?

She looked up into husky blue eyes and realized this wasn’t her crime scene to work. This event wasn’t even in her jurisdiction. Uh, nothing. I was looking for a friend who lives over... She noticed the crime scene tape across Ken’s door. Her breath caught in her throat.

The caller had been right. She shook her head and mouthed the word, No. Pain threatened to cut her in half.

A breeze whipped her hair around her face, but she didn’t really notice. Her gaze remained glued to Ken’s front door. She blinked, once then again. Her head shook and the scene blurred in her sight.

Miss, are you okay? You’ll have to step back.

She did move away as if on autopilot. Ken’s house, the scene of a crime. Thick despite the recent storm, the air enveloped her like felt. She could barely draw in a breath.

Still in disbelief, she approached the uniformed officer again. What happened?

He eyed her and smiled. More like a leer. She’d seen it before when a guy wanted to impress her about how ‘in the know’ he was. She resisted rolling her eyes.

Her heart stuttered as disbelief raced through her. She knew the man’s next words.

Some guy killed himself.

Her heart stopped, then resumed. Ken? Who?

Are you next of kin?

She swallowed. Ken didn’t have any kin. His parents died last year. I’m, uh, the fiancée of the guy who lives there, she lied.

The man’s expression softened. I’m sorry, but Ken Westin is dead.

Just like in the movies, his words echoed in her brain as she stumbled back to her car.

Ken’s dead. She started the car and drove to find a hotel, maybe. She wasn’t sure where she was going.

Maybe to escape the pain and disbelief in her heart.

Chapter Two

I’m just trying to save the guy’s reputation, Lieutenant Cameron Bentley said to the medical examiner slicing up a body.

Vivaldi played in the background. What a combination, vibrant music and dead bodies.

Doctor Jeff Press paused with his scalpel poised over the open abdomen. The squat man ruled this stainless steel palace. He probably disinfected himself before he left work.

Cam swallowed. The scent of death mixed with antiseptic assaulted his nostrils. He fought not to gag.

The suicide matters in light of the other incriminating evidence?

For a cop. At least he could go with a little more dignity then having offed himself with his own gun. Cam paused. He couldn’t reveal what he knew.

The doctor shrugged and sliced up another organ. The bottom line is that the gunshot wound was post mortem.

Cam’s mind came back to the child support payments this month. He didn’t have enough capital to pay his ex-wife and this doctor. Besides, he couldn’t risk it. Rubbing the back of his neck he asked, Could you delay releasing the report until after he’s buried?

The doctor’s stern gaze darted to Cam and the lieutenant thought he’d gone too far. It’s part of a major criminal investigation. I can’t do that. Besides, nothing’s going to happen until I get the labs back in a day or two. What is your part in all this? I know the deceased had been a cop.

Cam stepped back and ran a beefy hand through his greasy, brown hair. Damned debts. Ken was a good cop. I don’t want to see his reputation tainted. Ken’s death would make the shipments late and therefore his payments for them would be late.

I would think the evidence found with him would preclude that. Look. I need to get this autopsy done. Then vacation for a week and I really want my major cases done.

And I’m retiring in a month and I don’t need this on my watch. Cam smiled, but didn’t let the thoughts get out. Of course, I understand. I just thought we could come to an agreement.

Slicing up a liver, the doctor said, I can’t be bribed.

Cam put his hands up in supplication. I meant since we were all on the same side.

A big, dark man in a white lab coat poked his head into the autopsy room. Doc, someone here to see you. FBI.

The doctor rolled his eyes. You law enforcement types will be the bane of my existence today.

A hot redhead. Didn’t know Feds could look that good, the newcomer said.

Cam’s heart skipped a beat. He knew a redheaded FBI lady. Of course she would come. She and Ken were to be married. Well, not anymore.He left and the doctor turned back to Cam. Unless you have anything useful to say, I must get on with this.

Well, I... and not being able to think of what else to say, he pushed the door the young man had opened to deliver the message. Turning back he said, This meeting never happened.

Once in the hall, Cam peered through a small glass square on the door to the waiting room. His heart lost its rhythm for a second and sweat appeared on his palms. Wiping his hands on his pants he looked behind him. The same young man walked towards him with a knowing smile.

What could he know?

She’s a hot one.

Cam took a moment to realize he meant the redhead in her honey suit and sensible shoes. Ah, yes. Do you have a back door?

A puzzled look leapt onto the tall man’s face. Sure. He pointed over his shoulder. Where funeral homes take the bodies, out the back door.

Down this hallway?

At the door take a left.

Cam stumbled down the stark gray hallway almost desperate for air. His difficulty breathing had nothing to do with his bulk and lack of exercise. His heart raced and he moved as if someone were chasing him.

He couldn’t face her. Not yet, but he knew Jennifer would come to see him. Too much history between them for her not to question him.

Around the corner a female voice said, I can talk to him while he’s doing the autopsy.

Cam glanced back down the hallway. She didn’t look his way and the young man was too busy ogling her to notice him.

Not wanting to press his luck any further Cam traveled to the door that led back to the hospital. When he reached the dock, he gulped air. He waited until his heart slowed before he made the trek around the hospital to where he parked his car.

He couldn’t face Jenny yet.

Chapter Three

The day had been too hot for a high neck blouse, but Jennifer wished for one at the moment. Not that her attire revealed anything, but the young man standing in her personal space attempted to see something. Anything. Not like she was well-endowed, so his eagerness confused her.

Even with her observational skills honed by years as an FBI profiler, she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes. His gaze had spent milliseconds on her face.

Ma’am. I’m sure you don’t want to see some cut up dead bodies.

Jen resisted rolling her eyes. Her Irish Catholic face had never served her well in law enforcement. She’d inherited it from her father and figured it hadn’t helped him being a cop either.

Mentally