Stage Six: The Infidelity Murders

By John C Payne

The biblical marriage pact has remained consistent in its interpretation since the beginning of mankind. That is to say "what therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder." Mark 10-9. The separation component has often become commonplace, human nature being what it is.
Lust, cupidity or even insatiability tend to be the foremost character traits in reaching outside of one’s marital vows—consequences be damned!
A redheaded Irene Finnerty is a nationally known and respected police psychologist with the Chicago PD. A drastic event happens that changes her life while on a trip to New Orleans. She’s influenced by the elusive Reni Breaux, a young hired gun. Extreme violence and the obsession to murder man or woman become Irene’s quest.
Simian, a former teenage vicious killer is released from prison in Columbia and scrambles to head World Funds, LTD. The organization headquartered in Quebec is the clearinghouse for worldwide contracted assassinations. Reni Breaux facilitates the introduction of Finnerty to Simian. Former navy SEAL Denis Sweeny and his cohort Sam Semanski get involved with far-reaching outcomes.
Irene agrees to rework her physical identity to propel her new profession. Now the renamed, brownish-blond Erin Boyle engages in killing under contract. Her specialty is terminating the lives of unsuspecting, unfaithful spouses.
Offended marriage partners are willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money to rid themselves of the deep embarrassment and loss of dignity they’ve suffered through the selfish acts of their wedded spouses.
Murky maneuvering and intrigue follows Erin to Quebec City, Savannah and Charleston on challenging assignments.
Success breeds contempt. Can Erin Boyle survive a drastic change of events threatening her very existence? Will Erin become the victim of her own heightened malice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C Payne
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370910953

John C Payne

Bachelors degree from St. Norbert College, Masters degree from the University of Michigan. Retired US Army officer. Owned and operated three successful businesses. Taught business courses as an adjunct professor at several universities. Married, three grown children. Love writing fictional novels.

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Prologue

Red, white and blue were his favorite color combinations. He had been a struggling amateur artist prior to his passing. He was on the way to a major breakout with two regionally acclaimed watercolor prints. With persistent encouragement from close associates and friendly bank financing, he had recently opened a boutique art gallery in the popular Charleston historic district.

An imposing black-clad, hooded figure was inconspicuously standing next to a thick oak tree, fifty-yards behind the assembled mourners. The minister was imparting the final words of everlasting encouragement to the somber crowd.

Behold the words from Psalm 121: 1, 2 . . . I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. Thy help cometh from the Lord.

The lady dressed in a hooded black coat had been present at other gravesite funeral services. She was always inconspicuous, never wanting to be seen. She never considered her presence as being an act of ministry. She left that form of public worship to others. However, being there bestowed some element of closure for her―but never enough to alter her contracted assassinations.

An imposing bronze casket was neatly draped with a gleaming American flag. How ironic, his favorite colors now blanketed over the cold and stiff remains. He was a decorated army veteran, having served combat duty in both the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts.

A ceremonial color guard, dispatched from the local VFW post added an honorable presence to the interment ceremonies. The man’s dedicated service to the military cause was in great contrast to the marital unfaithfulness that lead to his untimely demise.

The gloomy South Carolina sky gave way to dark, black rainclouds waltzing in from the west as the ritual concluded. The flag was removed from the coffin by a member of the color guard and handed with great empathy to the surviving spouse. The mysterious person in the rear of the assemblage, snickered at the Oscar- level performance of grief schemed by the newly-ordained widow.

Yes sir, a classic example of terminal revenge.

Attendees went scurrying back to their parked cars as the angry skies opened-up and deposited their sopping contents. The aggrieved widow remained at the casket, hoping the downpour was a message from God, absolving her from the mortal sin she had committed. Off to the side and twenty-five-yards to the rear of the widow stood another young woman crying. Her two small children were tugging at her dress to leave. The taller boy was wearing a baseball glove.

The tall, hooded onlooker wondered if this was her final contract? Would she be absolved of her hideous crimes in the halls of public outcry? Will she go to hell?

Chapter 1

Chicago

Irene Finnerty was born on the south side of Chicago, near Ashland and 95th Street. She was the only child of a loving mother and stern but fair father. Mom was a dubious, and yet a willing convert to the Catholic faith. She was a parochial school teacher, admired by her twelfth-grade students. Every year she was gratified to witness over 75% of the senior class gain college entrance.

Dad was the editor and publisher of Illinois Backroads Travel, a popular monthly magazine enjoyed by residents and tourists alike. He was nicknamed the Red Baron because of the tight, out-of-fashion, flat-top he wore with pride. An avid outdoorsman, he took Irene camping on weekend hunting and fishing trips while her mom stayed behind tending to a chronically sick, homebound aunt. Hunting and fishing became an avid interest for young Irene.

Irene attended Catholic schools and loved to sing in the choir. Her friends thought she was good enough to pursue a career in music. She also became intrigued with bible studies and the extreme violence and killing contained in both the Old and New Testament readings.

An older aunt thought her mother remarried in haste. She’d heard the new spouse was a notorious, two-timing heavy drinker. Irene never bonded with her new stepfather. He was a retired private detective, having worked many high-profile cases throughout the state. The excessive use of alcohol often resulted in sporadic bouts of both physical child and spousal abuse. For Irene, the repugnance was bumped up another level to sexual abuse.

Irene also loved sports and excelled in both baseball and basketball. Disaster struck the family when the Red Baron was killed in a car accident. Irene was twelve years old. Her otherwise stable growth was torn apart, propelling her off into unchartered behavioral territory. Irene’s mother denied this errant behavior and deteriorated into a clam-like existence from the overbearing spouse. Instead of reporting him to the authorities, she sought counseling for Irene. The expensive therapy failed to heal the searing hatred in her daughter’s heart for the monster. However, seeing a child psychiatrist made a lasting impact on the young girl’s future career pursuits. Her mother was able to persuade the physician not to report any findings to the authorities.

Irene confronted her stepfather one afternoon with one of Red Baron’s hidden handguns as her mother was visiting the homebound aunt. Her biological father had taught her the finer points of weaponry marksmanship at a younger age. She’d expressed at the time, an interest in becoming a police officer when she reached adulthood.

Steadily aiming it at his head, she pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. No loud explosion, nor pistol recoil. She tried again and again. Zilch. The gun had never been loaded. He laughed, slapping her so hard, she fell across the kitchen table cutting her lower lip. Irene had learned two important lessons. If you intend to fire a pistol at a person, make sure the weapon is loaded. Second lesson―shoot to kill.

The sexual abuse subsided after this episode but was replaced by another revolting development. The stepfather shifted his energy to another abhorrent exercise, that of chasing skirts. Irene became ill one day in school and was sent home by the school nurse. Her mother was attending a teacher’s conference at the time, in a downtown hotel. Irene heard muffled sounds in her parent’s upstairs bedroom and a series of loud screams. She raced up the stairs, opened the bedroom door and froze. Her stepfather was raping her mother’s best friend. She would remember the horrifying scene the rest of her life.

The grossness and unbridled act of infidelity destroyed any relationships the stepfather had with her mother. The woman adulterer 0committed suicide two weeks later.

The step-father sulked and complained that he was despised and unwanted in his own household. He would disappear days at a time, drinking and carousing around the city with his buddies. An event took place several months after the media-hyped suicide that would have a lasting impact on Irene’s life.

The doorbell at home rang numerous times. It had stopped when both Irene and her mother met in the hallway. They were hesitant to open the door―it was three in the morning. Irene turned on the porch light. Her mother peered out a side window. She witnessed a uniformed officer pacing back and forth on the doorstep. With trepidation, she allowed the officer in and suggested they move to the study. She asked Irene to leave, fearing shocking news was on the officer’s agenda. Irene sneaked back to the opening doorway.

The mother was advised, after some soft preliminaries, her husband had died in a flaming car wreck on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Irene had overheard the entire discussion of the appalling news. She jumped for joy. It was good news to her. She turned away and ran from the room. In her exuberance, Irene stumbled on a door frame, fell and smacked her head on the concrete-tiled floor. The force knocked her unconscious.

Irene’s behavior was bizarre, after having been treated for a concussion. She seemed prone to periodic bouts of violent acts with some of her schoolmates during recess periods. These tirades prompted her mother to seek medical attention. Irene overheard some of the conversation between the neurologist and her mother.

After review of the diagnostic regimen we’ve undertaken over the past week, I feel her behavior is attributable to one of several intersecting scenarios.

Please, God, help my daughter, her mother exclaimed.

Mrs. Finnerty, hear me out.

I’m sorry, doctor, please go on.

MRI and CT scanning revealed some scarring of the anterior temporal lobe of her brain. This condition can occur from a pattern of physical abuse or trauma from a fall like she experienced at the time you were notified of your husband’s death.

I don’t think either situation is the cause of her vicious outbreaks, her mother said.

How did you come to that conclusion? The doctor was stunned at her response.

Irene was sexually abused by her stepfather but not beaten-up by him. I think her passing-out was minor, in that she only lost consciousness for five minutes at the most.

Mrs. Finnerty, there is another plausible explanation, but medical experts haven’t reached a conclusion on the theory.

Please skip the detailed explanation, doctor and summarize for me in a way I can understand.

Alright. It’s called ‘epigenetic inheritance’ by the researchers. They maintain that environmental influences such as stress and violence can affect the genes of your children or even grandchildren. Maybe Irene’s biological father was physically abused growing up.

No, no, he came from upright stock. I’m not aware of any-thing like that happened to him. She started to cry.

You told me he was a passionate outdoorsman. These folks are not exempt from tense and worrisome situations. He felt confident in his assessment.

I was never aware of any problems he had because of his enjoyable and stress-resistant hobby, she offered. He even taught Irene to enjoy the challenges of hunting and fishing in the wilds and spartan areas of our beautiful state.

Okay, but maybe your parents or his parents were routinely abused. The DNA of any one of them could transmit biological information between generations.

Doctor, all this is poppycock! I’m taking my daughter out of here.

Chapter 2

Chicago

Seventeen Years Later

Irene Finnerty grew up hating her name. Her father had won the naming contest after an arduous battle with her mom. She wanted their only child to be named Vittoria in honor of her Italian grandfather, Giuseppe Vittoria. Dad fell in love with Greek mythology while attending prep school. The Irene moniker is of ancient Greek origin, stemming from the Greek goddess of peace. Her father insisted on Irene, a name that represented his philosophy as a goodwill ambassador.

She once considered changing her name to Athena, having taken an elective college course in Greek mythology. Irene was enthralled that Athena’s birthing of being thrust from the forehead of Zeus, made her the most unique woman in the universe. Athena won the honor to watch over Athens by besting Poseidon in a contest organized by Zeus. Both contestants were to present the most useful gift to the populace, who would in turn judge the winner. Athena caused an olive tree to appear out of nowhere. Poseidon, being the god of the sea, caused a freshwater spring to come about on the Acropolis. Her gift was deemed the most useful and she was named the patron goddess of Athens.

In the end, she held fast with her first name being Irene. It was the given name her wonderful father had bestowed on her. Yet, she did change her last name to Finn. It was short and sweet and of no significance to her now deceased mother and father.

Irene graduated from college with honors. She sailed through graduate school in record time. Nothing seemed too difficult or too challenging for her. She would fulfill her lifelong dream and become a cop.

Finn was groomed to become an investigator by her superiors, after finishing at the top of her police academy class. She was aggressive, and in some cases hostile, both during and after physical competition. She had earned advanced degrees in both microbiology and kinesiology from the downtown Loyola University. She had declined the opportunity to attend medical school.

So where are you heading out this weekend, Irene? her in- quisitive supervisor asked for a third time on a busy Friday afternoon at police station headquarters.

Why do you ask, Ebony?

Curious, her boss replied. Nothing specific.

Don’t you have enough on your platter to keep you busy? Irene shot back at her.

Be difficult, young lady. In reality, I don’t care what you do on your own time.

"Oh, I’m sorry, boss. I didn’t understand your question over here behind this stack of old unsolved murder cases I’ve been reviewing.

Is that so? Ebony responded.

Yes, as a matter of fact. I’ve been digesting that interesting request we received the other day.

And what fax was that? Ebony asked.

Irene hesitated in responding and clarified her comment. I surmise you’re referring to the murder at that San Antonio psychiatric hospital?

Ebony nodded her head in acknowledgement.

Yes, you are correct, Ebony, said the five-eleven-foot, green-eyed Irene, with her flaming red hair swooping down her erect backside. She was worn-out after a vigorous afternoon physical exercise test the department required quarterly. She had a minor shoving match with one of the male instructors. Her days of playing college basketball were long gone. She was nicknamed shamrock because of her bruising approach to guarding opponents. Irene sported a melon-sized, gray Shamrock tattoo behind her left calf. Nonetheless, the athletic scholarship was a godsend after the creepy stepfather went straight to hell in the car accident.

So, what about this weekend? her boss asked again.

Go to hell! Irene shouted as she left the room. In the hallway, she gazed out the window at the impressive Chicago skyline. She dreamed of one day owning a penthouse condo on Michigan Avenue. The realization soon subsided, after realizing a cop’s salary could barely pay the mortgage on a small bungalow in the suburbs.

Five minutes later, Irene regretted her childish outburst with her boss. Irene walked back and apologized to the short and trim Ebony. Several inches over five-feet tall, her boss wore her hair in a tight afro. Her piercing eyes tended to put people on edge. A wide grin would defuse the uneasiness.

Forget it, kid, her boss responded. I may end up in hell after all.

Believe it or not, I’ve always looked up to you, Irene said.

Impossible, you’re at least a foot taller.

They both laughed.

Irene and Ebony were good friends. They often jogged together after duty hours in a nearby park. They were known as the Mutt and Jeff cop couple.

Ebony Washington had been severely wounded in Iraq, while serving as a military police officer. Her heroic actions had resulted in the award of a Silver Star Medal, one of the highest decorations for valor in combat. The written accolades resulting in the high honor were astonishing. She had volunteered to join an intelligence-gathering, secret mission. The insertion took place in the dark. Ebony suspected an ensnarement waiting ahead of them while on patrol. She maneuvered to the front of the column and directed the riflemen to take defensive positions. An intensive cross-fire ensued. She was caught in the middle of the battle. Ebony was knocked to the ground, struck by a bullet fired from a high-velocity weapon. The round punched into her upper right leg, clipping a chunk of bone off the femur. The award commentary concluded that her unselfish actions resulted in saving the lives of seven other soldiers about to walk into an enemy ambush.

Ebony left military service after her evacuation from Iraq, confronting two major challenges. First off, Henry Washington, her husband of three-years had left her for another woman. It happened during her combat tour—no announcements—no stated reasons. She was devastated. He didn’t challenge her divorce papers. On top of dealing with that catastrophe, she had to contend with a permanent limp, although slight. She applied for, and received a medical waiver to join the Chicago PD.

Irene took a seat next to Ebony and opened-up. Sometimes I regret my duties as a forensic psychologist, assigned cases that nobody else could solve. I don’t mind working Chicago-area complicated homicides. Being the last resort in nation-wide of ‘whodunits’ is time-consuming and energy-draining.

Irene, you should be honored, Ebony said. You’ve brought respect and great admiration to the greater Chicago-area law enforcement legacy, and more specifically, our own bureau.

Irene paused, and lamented, At the expense of relishing the limited downtime I have to enjoy myself.

Comes with the turf, her boss smiled.

Irene was proud of her achievements. The New York shadow assassin, as he was called by the local New York media, comes to mind. Having left a trail of six decapitated prostitutes, freaked-out everyone in the Bronx. Irene was called-in to interpret the rationale for the killer to sever the heads of each corpse. She concluded that they all had been married but somehow failed to satisfy their spousal responsibilities. Four were having affairs with other men. The other two had joined a religious sect that encouraged open marriages. The assassin died in state prison after three unsuccessful appeals.

Autopsy results revealed that all six were infected with different forms of a sexually-transmitted disease. Irene determined that in the executioner’s mind, the beheadings were intended to detach the physical body from the spiritual soul, thus separating cause from effect. The STD’s seemed to be God’s way of punishing the offenders.

Her reputation to interpret criminal intent grew across the law enforcement communities in the Midwest.

Still want to know what I have planned for the weekend? Irene smiled.

Not really. I’ve lost my interest in your pursuit of happiness.

Well, I’m going to tell you anyway, so listen up.

Ebony walked out of the room.

Bitch, Irene said loud enough for her boss to hear.

Bio-bitch to you, Ebony sneered, and laughed it off.

Early Saturday morning, Irene drove down to the Mount Olivet Catholic Cemetery. Situated on West 111th Street, it was the first final resting place to serve the south side of Chicago. Both parents were interred there. Her father went first. Her mother joined him eleven years later. Irene insisted her mother died of a broken heart. Her miserable second marriage, and the insidious cancer bug overwhelmed her chances of a longer, more productive life.

She positioned a bouquet of white roses on her mother’s grave and a half-dozen red roses on her father’s grave. The stepfather’s burial site was unknown to Irene. Her mother donated to a medical science entity what was left of his remains after the crash. For all they cared, he was buried in a pauper’s graveyard, amidst an overgrown and unattended weed patch. She fell into deep thought.

What a pity for my mom to have put up with that beast of a man, who abused the two of us. The horny bastard wasn’t satis- fied with limiting his sexual gratification with mother. I wonder if his life as a private detective made it easier to seduce other women. I would never believe that my own father would’ve strayed. Why would he? Do all men have a dysfunctional DNA that predisposes them to adultery? Mom was an adorable and giving person. He would’ve been out of his mind to leave her bedside.

What’s wrong, lady? a passing groundskeeper asked. Can I call for help? He was concerned with her actions.

She was pounding the graveled ground with closed fists, kneeling at the foot of her father’s grave. Blood was oozing from her right-hand palm. She threw herself down in an exhausted heap.

Huh, oh, please ignore me, she pleaded. I was dispelling some demons that had settled in my brain.

The groundskeeper scurried off in another direction, not even attempting to digest her comment. He had witnessed many unusual happenings while performing his duties. Nonetheless, this occurrence took the cake. He wasn’t going to mention the episode to his superior, who might in turn, question his own mental stability.

Why am I acting out like this? By all accounts, my parents had a solid footing in their marital relationship. Maybe I’m stressed out with too much work with bizarre happenings. But that’s my job. I’m trained to delve deeply into the human mind and figure out the whys and wherefores of criminal behavior. I need to get out of here, go jog, run hard, and clear my mind. I’ll get ready for my trip to San Antonio.

Chapter 3

San Antonio

Hello there, pleased to meet you, Rod Richards greeted Irene Finn when led into his office.

My pleasure, she said, as the hospital administer motioned for her to take a seat.

"Agents from the local Metro PD, FBI and CIA have concurred in bringing you here to help. We’re all glad the Chicago PD was willing to release you. Those folks are on their way over, as we speak.

I hope I can help, Irene said.

Mission Oaks Mental Health Hospital, located near the famed Riverwalk, had enjoyed an outstanding reputation. That was until a female CIA agent was murdered in the hospital dayroom. She was admitted to the hospital with two directives. Act like you belong there and find out if al-Qaeda had formed a cell in the downtown area.

Rod guessed Irene’s age to be in the mid-thirties. Her green, horned-rim glasses sat precariously on the edge of a sharp nose. She was flat as an ironing board from stem to stern, and not pretty. Irene was probably labeled by her male counterparts as a true academic. Rod had no way of knowing that she was a star basketball player in her undergraduate years in college. She had huge mitts, the size of a Little-Leaguer’s catcher glove. This anomaly, together with superb leaping ability, enabled her to be the only female on her team able to dunk a basketball. Needless to say, a rare feat for a point guard. Her feet were also huge, needing special orders to various shoe manufacturers. Her teammates teased her about having a good understanding. Finn stood in a rigid manner. Her demeanor led Rod to believe she wanted to be firmly in control of the situation.

Why are you staring at me, Mr. Richards?

Oh, sorry, I guess I expected a much older person, based on the reputation that preceded your visit.

Rod Richard had a propensity to assess all women as though he were buying a used car. Kicking tires, checking for dents, and determining if the product was an aerodynamic Porsche or a boxy

Ford van were criteria for evaluation. However, he was never accurate when guessing how many miles were registered on the dashboard odometer.

I could show you the exact location where the agent was found dead while we’re waiting for them. The entire area has been cleansed and sanitized after the investigators released the crime scene. Those folks have numerous pictures of the congealed blood stains with the numbers etched-in.

All I want, here and now, is a quick walk-through of the crime area. I’ll meet with the investigators and review the photographs. Finn replied.

Fine with me, Rod answered. At this stage he could care less.

Rod took Finn upstairs and showed her the dayroom location. The ping-pong table had been folded upright and stored in a corner. He rolled the table over to the exact position on the floor where the body was discovered, opened it up, and excused himself. Irene checked the black-chalked outline drawn to depict the position of the deceased. She was finished there and signaled the ward attendant to escort her to the conference room. She would await the other agents.

After cordial preliminaries, the CIA agent presented the photos taken at the crime scene. The slumped corpse had a huge scissors embedded in her chest and bled out a pool of blood on the floor. The next photo zoomed-in on the nine numbers etched in the congealed blood.

The FBI agent jumped in. This is where we need your assistance, Finn.

You want me to determine the meaning of the numbers? Irene asked.

Bingo, offered the Metro PD cop. We’ve wasted valuable days attempting to determine what those numbers represented. The deceased was still lucid enough to give us a clue who murdered her before she succumbed.

Did you find any genetic materials such as fingerprints or even shoe patterns in your investigations?

Look Finn, moaned the CIA agent, Don’t be condescending. We’ve done everything by the book, exhausted every conceivable lead, and we’re still baffled. The medical examiner was sure they stood for the killer’s social security number. Someone suggested a telephone number or a combination of address and zip code. Dates of birth, marriage and death were ruled out. Until somebody hits the jackpot on those numbers, we’re hung out to dry and the killer goes free.

I do have some ideas, but they’re too premature to report. I’ll take all the photos back to Chicago and sit with my staff. We’re quite good at this.

How soon will we hear something from you? the CIA agent asked.

Within a week, Irene promised.

Rod Richards walked into the conference room as the investigators were starting to pack their bags and leave the hospital.

I hope we’re close to getting this case solved, he said.

Irene briefed him on the plan of action, as the others moved past him and out the doors.

Are you staying the night, Irene?

Yes. I have an early morning flight back to Chicago.

Would you like to join me and some of my family for dinner?

I would enjoy that.

I’ll introduce you to my son, Larry, who will be there, Rod added. He’s also a psychology-type.

Does he work here at Mission Oaks?

Rod smiled. No, he has a major contract over at Ft. Sam Houston, our local military post. His skill encompasses dealing with adolescents with major mental health challenges.

Oh, my, I’m not sure I could deal with these kids nowadays, Irene laughed.

You’re staying at the St. Anthony’s, I’m told.

Yes, an interesting historic hotel, she smiled.

I’ll pick you up at eight bells.

Rod grilled T-bone steaks, while Irene was engaged in a series of rambling discussions with Larry and his wife, Pam. She couldn’t help but notice an underlying tension building up between the married couple. Pam put him down at every turn, interjecting curse words to stress her points. Irene experienced discomfort. In her mind, this was not a healthy marriage. Pam appeared much older than him. Maybe that was the underlying problem for the discord.

Sorry to have left you all by yourselves for so long, Rod quipped, upon entering the living room. Living the life of a bachelor has its shortcomings.

Pam jumped in. "I’m led to believe you don’t seem to have any trouble rounding up female acquaintances.

It might be time for you to settle down. At your age, I would think it becomes harder and harder to envision marital responsibilities."

Hold your tongue, Pam. Dad doesn’t need your critical assessment to lead his life. I suggest you follow your own advice in this matter.

What are you implying, Larry? Pam shot back.

Larry suspected that Pam was seeing one of the soldiers over at Ft. Sam. His contract manager witnessed Pam and a handsome uniformed soldier touching each other in the Post Exchange. She felt obligated to share the situation with Larry, after seeing a repeat performance two weeks later. All the tell-tale signs were evident. He remembered a call home from his last out-of-town meeting and getting a curt voicemail response― not here right now, leave a message.

Hey, Larry, would you come out here and help me with these steaks, Rod shouted from the patio. They’re starting to flame-up. I need another pair of fireman’s hands.

Pam made another stiff vodka on the rocks when Larry rushed outside to help. She plunked down in a big lounger next to Irene. She appeared tipsy.

I’m told you’re a renowned psychologist, Pam half-slurred to Irene. I just don’t understand my husband. His father served in the army and is molded in the rugged type. I think special operations. His older brother was an outstanding football player at Stanford. How in the world can Rod Richards father a son like Larry? He tends to be half the man his dad is.

Pam, I―

Not being deterred, Pam cut her off. I’ve been married before and fell in love with a rodeo clown. Would you believe that? He lived a dangerous life before he was murdered. The sketchy details of his death happened under unusual circumstances. The killer was never found and brought to justice. Nonetheless, it was exciting to be around him. I met Larry over the internet and pursued the relationship. He was good-looking, intelligent and earning a good living. I’m nine years older, but we―

Stop, stop, Irene shouted. You’ve had too much to drink. I have no interest in your marital discords. She joined Larry and Rod on the patio.

They finished dinner without incidence. Pam contributed lit- tle to the conversations, preferring to sit and sulk. Irene didn’t care and excused herself. It’s late, and I have an early flight, so have to get back to my hotel. I called for a taxi, Rod. We’ve all had several drinks. There’s no need to expose you to the uncertainties of the road at this late hour.

You don’t have to take a taxi, Irene, Larry offered. Allow me drive you back. I haven’t kept up with the rest of you good people on the drinks’ scorecard.

Absolutely not, Pam interrupted. She’s a big girl now.

Be quiet, Pam, Rod shouted. I think it best if you excuse yourself while we wait for her taxi.

It was past midnight when Irene took out the folder on the murder case, given to her by the FBI rep. Chills ran up and down her spine when she studied the photos. She broke out in a cold sweat, shivering and bouncing up and down on the bed. The sight of the corpse, with the scissors jammed in her chest, excited her.

She stared and stared at the pooled blood, not concerned about the mysterious nine numbers. Something about the process of a human body bleeding out its corporeal body fluids, captured her imagination. The hotel room began spinning in vertical and horizontal directions. My God, what kind of thrill it must be for the person thrusting that sharp blade into the upper body? She couldn’t fall sleep, tossing and turning most of the night.

The flight back to Chicago was rough, with intermittent bouncing up and down. Tray service was halted. Irene couldn’t relax between the environmental disruptions. Two things bothered her. She couldn’t put her arms around the situation at Mis-

Oaks Mental Health Hospital, nor the evening cookout at Rod Richard’s home. I’m stumped on the numbers issue. Maybe Ebony can offer a reasonable analysis. The marriage between Larry and Pam is in deep trouble. It’s not going to last much longer.

Hey, sister, what’s your name? the young lady sitting next to Irene startled her. You seem like you’re in some sort of daze.

Irene ignored the young girl.

My name is Reni S. Breaux. You can call me ‘Snapfat’ for short, a nickname my friends hung on me. I’m a first-class techie. What do they call you?

Irene continued to ignore her.

Do you have a problem, sis? Reni poked her on the arm.

Irene softened up, turned to her and said, You’ve been asleep since we boarded this flight. Now you can’t seem to shut up. I guess the turbulence pumped some life into you.

Nah, I’m always that way. I’m a Cajun from the great state of Louisiana. Where you from?

Call me Irene. I’m a cop from Chicago. What do you do for a living.

I’m an esthetics specialist.

What in the hell is that? Irene asked.

I decontaminate and purify the body in many ways.

Like how? Irene was more than curious.

I do skin care, nail augmentation and overall, beautify the female body. I think you could use my skills.

Do I look that bad? Irene quizzed.

Let me see your fingernails.

Irene slid her hand over and extended her fingernails.

Ugh . . . bad. First off, you look, and act like a cop. And for seconds, God didn’t give you the most attractive body in the world.

Irene laughed. This five-foot, attractive ball of energy, with kinky hair and a quick wit, reminds me of Ebony Washington―audacious, insightful, and funny. She tends to disarm anyone near her. I like her.

They chatted for at least an hour until the plane made its final approach into O’Hare.

Give me your card, Snapfat, Irene said. I’ll give you a buzz in a day or two. By the way, why are you traveling to Chicago?

"Ah, oh, I’ve been invited to give a talk at a national beautician’s jamboree