Sunset Blues: The Shadow - Book 1 - Justice is Relative

By Renee Topper

* * * * * “This is one of those few books I’d gladly put on the shelf alongside the likes of James Patterson and Lee Child, a must-read for fans of thrillers.”–R. Oserio

In thriller detective series SUNSET BLUES: The Shadow Book 1, former undercover cop, Rick Cruz, is accused of murdering his uncle who also happens to be the District Attorney. Incited from his refuge in the San Bernardino Mountains, Cruz returns to Los Angeles and the dark mystery that torments him.
Cruz's life undercover and his life as a detective collide and chaos ensues. Did he kill the man who was like a father to him? Will the syndicate or the police, get to him before he can clear his name? Will he and the siren Assistant District Attorney still feel that unquenchable heat between them? Find out as Cruz traverses the noir landscape, where heinous crimes permeate the Hollywood glitz.

Lauded as the next The Departed" by a Hollywood producer, this is the story of Cruz coming out of the shadows to face The Shadow. For Cruz, justice is relative.

SUNSET BLUES Garners Stellar Praise in ARC Reviews on Readers Favorite:

* * * * * "The most unique thing about this book is that it is written in the comfortable style of a classic detective yarn, but it’s set in today’s world with modern day cops, gang members, and mobsters. . . . This unique combination of the old and the new sets Sunset Blues: The Shadow apart from other crime thrillers.” – S. Cahan

* * * * “One only hopes that the title of this fictional work indicates there are more books to come, and a compelling new series is on the way.” – D. Lloyd

This is a story that is engaging, a delightful read, thanks to the strong plot elements, the great characters, and the wonderful prose.
- D. Zape

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renee Topper
• Release date: Dec 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997728460

Renee Topper

Renée Topper is a storyteller in all forms. Her debut novel PIGMENT won 2016 LYRA Award for Mystery / Suspense / Thriller and is an International Book Award Winning Finalist in the Fiction: Cross Genre category. She also garners an honorable mention in The Institute for Education, Research, and Scholarships 1st Annual International Writers Award. As a writer and producer, she digs deep to find the heart and soul of a tale -- especially those exploring the human condition -- and devise the best means to convey them, then she executes. She is currently story-smithing at StoryMatter.com. You can reach the author via email at [e-mail].

Book preview

DEDICATION

For my father,

This book is all his fault!

Also, he’s a more interesting, complex and

better man than any I could write.

May he never step on a slug in bare feet.

And may he at long last see that I love him more.

To anyone who dares read the story herein, kindly direct any complaints or compliments to the author’s father Attn: Dad c/o [e-mail]. He may or may not respond at his discretion. He did not agree to participate in any correspondence regarding this title or any other as far as the author knows.

Los Angeles—a bright and guilty place.

-- Orson Welles

It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in.

-- Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Chapter 2 He’s Not a Kid Anymore

Chapter 3 Leave the Dog

Chapter 4 Charity Permits

Chapter 5 Without Will

Chapter 6 Born in the U.S.A.

Chapter 7 Thug Life

Chapter 8 My Old Flame

Chapter 9 Jiggy

Chapter 10 Hair of the Dog

Chapter 11 LA River Warehouse

Chapter 12 415 Shady Pine Lane

Chapter 13 Change of Plans

Chapter 14 Coffee Black

Chapter 15 Desert High Noon

Chapter 16 That Thing You Gotta Do

Chapter 17 Everybody’s Got Motive

Chapter 18 The Village Idiot

Chapter 19 Officer Down

Chapter 20 Seeing Stars

Chapter 21 The Key

Chapter 22 All Bets Are Off

Chapter 23 Blue Blood

Chapter 24 Family Meeting

Chapter 25 Beetle

Chapter 26 Safe

Chapter 27 Receda’s Lair

Chapter 28 Hard Candy

Chapter 29 Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter 30 Day in Court

Chapter 31 Sunset

More Titles By the Author

About the Author

About the Publisher

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

The moon and stars shine on snowcapped peaks in the San Bernardino Mountains, illuminating an otherwise dark night. On the slopes of Bear Mountain, rosy-cheeked vacationers ski under festive lights and hail the new calendar year. At the edge of Main Street, there’s a windy dirt road that leads to the shadowy side of the mountain. The path is snow covered and quiet. The view is one of pure nature and isolation and full of tall, glistening pines. Further down the road are more shadows and thicker trees. Then, a clearing opens to a sheet of white ice atop this secluded nook of Big Bear Lake. The dock catches rays from the floodlight cast on the nearly invisible walkway up to the cabin. A warm firelight sparks through the cabin’s windows, almost inviting.

An old GMC plows through the few inches of virgin snow, leaving tracks in its wake. The headlights turn off as it pulls over to the side of the road and creeps closer to the cabin. The engine cuts. The passenger door opens, and a reluctant man is pushed into the cold, soles first. He trudges along, crunching and slipping on the fifteen yards to the cabin.

A rogue icicle has penetrated the living-room window and drips from the heat of the blazing fire. The interior of the cabin is an odd mix of modern masculine and remnant family charm. Furniture is sparse in drab solids with the occasional plaid fabric. Rick sits quietly, focused on the poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. He puts down the weathered Robert Frost: Collected Works on the end table, which wobbles slightly to accommodate the weight of it. Although not usually one for poetry, he's read it cover to cover fifty times since he got here. There's little else to keep him out of trouble while he's off grid. He checks the vintage Timex on his wrist that doesn't work—its hands are all askew. His hand shakes, clammy. He holds it up higher to measure the tremble, which proves significantly better than yesterday. He uses his full strength to force it steady for a few seconds. But it gives out and shakes even more frantically to make up for the imposed stillness. He makes a fist and considers the uncracked bottle of Clase Azul. But he promised himself he'd wait until next year. The mantle clock rules 11:45 P.M. Almost there. He chops down the icicle with the old pine-handled ice pick near the empty ice bucket and sucks on it—an hors d'oeuvre to take the sting out of the wait. He hears something outside that draws him to look out the window, but he sees nothing, only darkness. In his head, he quotes Frost: The darkest evening of the year. But not quiet enough, he adds.

At the bar he opens the bottle, the most feminine and curvy shape he's held since Lita, and pours himself three fingers, but continues to wait for the clock's permission to partake. An uninvited waft of cold air stirs the flames and inspires him to slide the ice pick from the empty bucket into his pocket. He sets the virgin drink down and moves to face the fire. With Rick's back to the door, Tony Palmeri, a heavyset man in his fifties, steps into the room, mucking up the violet-blue carpet with his dirty shoes.

I don't remember sending out any invitations, Rick calmly says as he turns to face the intruder, casually handling the poker as if it were a baton, ready for anything. His voice has just the right amount of gravel for a medium-olive-skinned Mexican Spanish American with scraggly hair and a ragged beard. He hasn't spoken aloud in a few weeks, well before the withdrawal anguish ceased. The lines on his face and the scar over his right eye mark him as a man of experience beyond his forty years. His body is lean and fit, but torment pierces through the depths of his eyes. He's feverish, still sweating toxins out of his system. The icicles help.

You din't. Tony's clothes are wrinkled and disheveled as if he's been wearing them to sleep in for a few days because he has been. If he could lose fifty pounds, it would ease his labored breath. But he'd never be able to take off that nasally Long Island brogue. The shorthand for standard speak in other parts of the country where din't means didn't.

How’d you find me?

’Count of the season and all. You're the only guy I know doesn't ski but likes the mountains in the winter.

Rick glares as Tony works his way closer to the fire and Rick to thaw out.

Fire is good. It's bitter cold out there.

Rick steps back and watches as Tony rubs his big soft palms in the heat. He's no Santa Claus, and Rick wishes he were glad to see him. Pour yourself a drink while you're at it, buddy. Rick looks at his drink, untouched, then back at Tony, whose perspiration glistens on his forehead. Tony's hands are shaking worse than Rick's as he spills the amber gold liquid into a glass. Long walk from the city?

Car crapped out on the highway.

Tony’s a lousy liar, always has been, and Rick sees right through him. He leads him further. You and Carol should be into your second bottle at Lita's.…

Not this year. Tony downs what tequila he managed to get in the glass.

Still, it’s not like you’re on your way somewhere else. What are you doing all the way up here, Tony?

Tony is sheepish; he can't bring himself to look Rick in the eye.

You always need something and you always think the somebody to give it to you is me. I got a New Year's resolution: I’ve got nothing for you. I’ve got nothing for anybody.

You owe me, Tony yells, insisting his reason by raising his voice.

You never were good at math. It’s true. Tony can only ever come up with numbers that benefit Tony.

Everybody knows what you did. Nobody says it out loud, but they know. Tony feels justified but is trying hard to avoid saying too much.

But Rick sees how desperate he is. A grown man throwing a tantrum about something he doesn't understand, who doesn't have all the facts, is dangerous. Usually Tony needs money. But it feels like he wants something different this time. The vibe around this surprise visit sucks. What did I do? Rick demands, with a cautioning glare for Tony to be very sure of his next words lest they unleash Rick's rage upon him.

Will was one of the good guys. I’m sure you had your reasons…

This is like a punch in the gut to Rick. Even Tony thinks he did it. Rick looks at his watch. Will gave it to him. It’s broke, but Rick knows what time it is.

Tony recants, You din’t do it. Did you?

Rick looks him in the eye. Do you think I killed him?

Nah. ’Course you din’t. That’s what I told ’em.

Told who? Tony looks at his shoes. Rick steps toward Tony but senses other activity in the house.

Tony backpedals. I wouldn't a come if there's any other way. They says it's you or my Carol. You gotta better chance than her.

Who are they? Rick asks again nearly out of patience with him and the tension building all around them.

The barrel of a .38-caliber Long Colt pushes through the kitchen swing door behind Rick.

What did you do, Tony?

The gun aims at Tony's heart. Tony sees it and shakes his head no, but can't move otherwise. He is the equivalent of a moose frozen in the headlights of a tractor trailer. Rick follows Tony's gaze, his reflexes kick in, and he swipes the poker into the barrel of the gun just as it fires.

The bullet hits Tony on the side of the neck, and he topples to the floor like an old tree under the ax. Blood spews, even onto the book of poetry and felled scotch. Rick punches and counterpunches with this mystery thug with the .38 who’s dressed in all black and a ski mask. Rick plows his poker into his shoulder and rips the gun from him. The assailant—a man named Scar from Rick’s recent past—grips his puncture wound and withdraws from the house.

Rick peers out the window and sees Scar having a brief conversation with another masked man, Red. He hears a third assailant upstairs. Shots are fired into the room from outside, shattering the plate glass window. He gets low and checks his ammo—four bullets left. He drags Tony to cover behind the sofa. He places Tony's hand on the wound to apply pressure, a hopeless effort to stop the geyser of blood draining from his body. He cradles Tony's head in his left hand and the gun in his right.

I…I didn't have a choice… Tony gasps for air.

Who are they?

Tony coughs blood, then he ceases, his eyes freeze wide open, and his tourniquet hand drops to the floor. Blood continues to stream from his neck and seeps into the blue pile. Two more shots storm into the room. One hits Tony's corpse in the chest. Rick rests Tony's head on the floor and takes his wallet out of his pants pocket. He fires twice out the window to buy time. A barrage of bullets tears into everything from the painting of the lake by local artist J. Landers to the wall paneling and the glasses on