His Twisted Smile: A Gordon Crane Thriller, #1

By Chris Thompson

Gordon Crane thought he'd seen it all. Formerly one of Carlson Flats finest, a personal tragedy caused him to lose faith in the system he worked for. Now, he's a private investigator working cases that give him less satisfaction; all he wanted to do was help people, but it hasn't worked out that way - that is until a new client comes calling late one night.

Isabelle Reese-Smyth has recently lost her daughter, Millie. Her death was ruled an accident, but Isabelle is convinced there's more to the story; with all her options exhausted, she places her trust in Gordon to find the truth and help her solve the mystery surrounding Millie's death.

As Gordon delves into Millie's life, he soon discovers there's more to the case - more that was missed in the original investigation. With the evidence of foul play mounting, Gordon starts to believe that somewhere a killer is running free, and he's determined to stop them.

His Twisted Smile is the first Gordon Crane thriller, perfect for anyone who loves a hard-boiled detective story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Thompson
• Release date: Jul 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386636724

Book preview

His Twisted Smile

A Gordon Crane Thriller

By Chris Thompson

Copyright Information

Text Copyright © Chris Thompson 2017

Cover created by Chris Thompson and is © Chris Thompson 2017, and is an original image.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious; any similarity to persons alive or dead, to any crime, or to any victim of a crime is purely coincidental and unintentional. This story contains adult subject matter, language, actions and crimes that are sexual in nature. If any of this subject matter is offensive or distressing to you then please, do not read any further. This book is intended for mature audiences only, and reader discretion is advised.

Table of Contents

Copyright Information

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

GLAMOROUS: THE ONE word that can’t be used to describe working as a private investigator. Books, movies and comic books depict gunfights, car chases and beautiful, seductive women who lead heroes into danger before taking them to bed and making all their dreams come true. Gordon Crane knew all of those things were lies. The truth about being a private detective was that you spend most days uncomfortably waiting. If it was a job to serve a court process, then it would be waiting for whoever it was to show up so they could be served papers. If it was evidence for a divorce you’d be waiting for the husband or wife to meet their lover in order to take some compromising photographs. Of course, some jobs were more exciting than others, but they were the exception rather than the rule. During his time as an investigator, Gordon had worked a few missing persons cases and, although the results weren’t always what his client had hoped for, he had at least felt like a cop again while working them.

Gordon was sitting on the rooftop of a convenience store in the lashing rain, far away from the glitzy, illuminated main streets of Carlson Flats. It didn’t often rain, but thanks to the North American Monsoon it was that night, as it had the night before. Dressed in cheap jeans, a T-shirt and a raincoat that was doing a poor job of keeping him dry, he had been waiting for a cheating scumbag who was going to be bedding his mistress in the apartment across from his vantage point. The guy’s wife was paying Gordon to get some good pictures for the divorce. She had known where her husband took his mistress, which was a little unusual to Gordon’s mind, but at that moment all Gordon cared about was getting what he needed so he could go home and warm up with the cheap bottle of whisky he kept in his desk. After the husband arrived it wasn’t difficult to do what his wife asked; her husband was having intercourse with his mistress against the window, with both his and her face in clear view. Gordon snapped half a dozen pictures with his digital camera and decided to wait, just in case anything of further interest happened.

Since Gordon acquired his private investigator's license, he’d done this kind of thing a lot; it wasn’t what he’d pictured after retiring from the Carlson Flats Police Department, where he’d formerly been a detective. His retirement from the force had been for a number of reasons, some personal and some occupational. After the death of his wife and daughter, Gordon simply hadn’t been able to work in the legal system and shake off the dejection caused by the constant, seemingly endless stream of murders when he went home. On top of that, there were crimes which they had put a huge effort into catching the perpetrator by steadily gathering evidence and building a rock solid case, only for a deal to be cut to save taxpayers money rather than going to trial. Or the offender would offer information on another case to have his or her sentence reduced, which made it a more tolerable situation to swallow. Gordon also came across prosecutors who fancied him or herself in political office ten years later, so they would cut a deal to protect their win ratio. None of that appealed to Gordon’s strong sense of justice, so he had left the only career he had known and begun afresh as a private investigator. Early on, work had been sparser so he had been forced to live off his pension, but now things were fairly consistent and he believed he’d found a degree of success, even if the jobs themselves were often uninteresting.

The cheating husband shifted his mistress and presented Gordon with another angle of their amorous encounter, so he decided to snap a few more pictures. It was then he noticed that the husband kept looking out of the window, which seemed distinctly odd. Gordon wondered if he’d been seen; it seemed unlikely as it was dark on his side of the street and, with the rain, the husband would certainly have had a hard time picking Gordon out on the gloom shrouded rooftop. After catching a few more sets of intimate pictures, Gordon decided he had enough to satisfy the wife and started making his way down the fire escape. Once at the bottom, he began to trudge wearily back to his car. The evening had given him none of the sense of job satisfaction he had once known as a police detective, but he knew the pictures he’d taken were more than enough to ease the divorce through the court with little or no room for legal wrangling from the husband's lawyer.

It took less than five minutes for him to return to his beat up, dark green sedan. He wondered if he should put something on the seat so it didn’t get soaked when he sat on it, but as a fresh surge of rainwater ran down his back, he decided he didn’t care and slumped heavily behind the steering wheel. The drive back to his home-cum-office was slow as the roads were slick with water and, the radio reported, the storm drains were backing up in places so ‘care was advised when driving’. On the way he passed by a crime scene, which uniformed police officers were scrambling to cover with tarpaulin and plastic sheets, though Gordon imagined most of the evidence would be compromised in some capacity by now anyway. He slowed down further and cast an experienced eye over the scene. However, as he was no longer in law enforcement, he was wary of lingering too long and being thought to be a voyeur looking for a cheap thrill. While there wasn’t much he could observe, the number of officers attending the incident suggested it was a murder. The victim could’ve met his or her end any number of ways, but most likely through a gunshot or knife wound. The victim could have been a tourist who had wandered down the wrong side street, a resident in search of a companion for a couple of hours in a sleazy hotel room, or even an angered spouse lashing out at their partner after an argument got out of hand. As Gordon had learned, people didn’t seem to need much of a reason to kill each other. Not that violent crime in Carlson Flats was much higher than anywhere else in Nevada, Gordon reflected. The city was a decent enough place to live and he’d been a resident all of his life.

Founded a little after Las Vegas, Carlson Flats had always been in the shadow of the bigger, glitzier place further down to the south west. They offered similar experiences: extravagant live shows, gambling and fun for a family of all ages, but Vegas just did everything a little better. Carlson Flats had once been described as the poor man’s Las Vegas, which Gordon couldn’t disagree with. That said, it had prospered and would continue to do so and, for the people who called it home, it had everything they could want. Downtown was where most of the jobs were, with the casinos, theatres and hotels, but there were stores and diners interspersed throughout the city, with a fair number of industrial buildings offering a variety of skilled and unskilled jobs towards the edge. There were also several affluent residential areas, but Gordon hadn’t spent any leisure time in any of them; he had always been called into them in a professional capacity, to take witness statements or investigate a crime scene. Despite the city’s pleasant veneer, Gordon was well aware it had a dark side and, after a lifetime looking at it, sometimes had to remind himself there were places to visit outside the shadows.

Twenty minutes later he pulled up across the street from his apartment building. The building wasn’t the nicest, but it was inexpensive. That said, it wasn’t an area known for gang related or violent crime - just the occasional break in or car theft - so Gordon was careful to secure his few valuables and keep his gun in easy reach, just in case an opportunistic burglar decided to come by his apartment, which was on the third floor. He took the stairs because the elevator was known to get stuck and he’d learned to avoid it. The apartment was roughly in the middle of the floor on the left side of the building and, as a result, the windows offered a lovely view of the wall of the adjacent building and the windows of the neighbouring apartments. He kept his blinds closed mostly so that his neighbours couldn’t see into his office or living space, or he theirs; the last thing he wanted was to become embroiled in their personal business, at least not without being paid. As he ran his business out of his home, he’d attached a cheap plastic sign to the door that read ‘Gordon Crane, Private Investigative Service’ just below the apartment number.

He keyed the lock and opened his door, stepped through and shut it with his boot, leaving it unlocked as he imagined his client would hurry over to see the pictures. There was a short corridor he travelled down, which led to the room that served as his office. It housed a simple desk with a chair on either side - one for him and one for a potential client - his laptop and a couple of filing cabinets. A door to the right led to his private space: a bedroom, where he had a small television set, and an adjacent bathroom, while on the left side of the apartment was his kitchen diner. He went through his bedroom into the bathroom to retrieve a towel to dry his mop of grey-brown hair. He dabbed at his beard, doing his best to dry it off before tossing the towel over the rail above the shower. Following that, he hung up his soaked rain coat to drip dry then went into the bedroom to get changed into a different pair of jeans and a dark grey shirt. He reclaimed his phone from his wet jeans and called his client to let her know he had the photos she required. After that was done, he transferred his pistol and holster from his discarded jeans, clipping the holster to the fresh ones, followed by the assisted-opening knife he carried that he considered more a tool than a weapon. Feeling less like a drowned rat, he ran a comb through his hair before returning to his desk where he sat down to wait. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and one of the glasses he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk and poured.

Two shots later, a little tingle of warmth was starting to spread through his cold body. He had no idea when his client would turn up, so he opened his laptop and checked his emails. There weren’t any messages relating to work, so he started flicking through the news. It was a depressing read, with the worsening global situation and the economy apparently struggling. As he sipped at his third drink, the most faint and delicate of knocks echoed from his front door.

It’s open! Gordon called out. Slowly, the handle turned and the door opened to reveal a beautiful woman dressed in black. She was pale and delicate looking, but had sultry eyes and a body that could give a model a run for her money.

Mister Crane? She asked. The woman, whoever she was, had a definite English accent and was clearly not who he was expecting.

Yes? Can I help you? Gordon stood as he responded, his eyes scanning her for any indication of her intentions.

I... I well, I hope so. She replied a little timidly; it was clear that at some point she’d had more than a little to drink judging by the wobble when she walked. She stepped into the corridor, shutting the door behind her, then started towards him. Her heels, expensive ones by the look of them, clicked on the wooden floor and her long-sleeved black dress looked wet, as though she’d been walking in the rain. He also observed that her dark hair clung to her head and briefly wondered if it wasn’t so much that she’d walked in the rain, but rather that she’d been standing in it waiting.

Do you need a towel? He asked as she approached.

No, thank you. I just need to ask for your help.

Okay, have a seat. Gordon said, gesturing to the chair across from him. I don’t usually talk to new clients this late at night.

I don’t imagine you do. Truth be told, I knocked a little while ago but you weren’t in so I decided to wait and took a walk around the block.

In the rain? It must be important.

It... it is, at least to me.

He looked into her pale grey eyes and saw immense sadness; a pain that came from the death of someone close that she still hadn’t recovered from. It was a look he’d seen in his own eyes years ago and still saw from time to time when he looked in the mirror.

Why don’t you start with your name? Gordon suggested.

Isabelle Reese-Smyth.

Well, Ms Reese-Smyth, what brings you to me on a night like this?

It’s my daughter, Mister Crane.

She’s missing? Gordon asked. He occasionally worked missing persons cases - with mixed results - and figured his name had reached her on the grape vine.

She’s dead. Isabelle told him flatly. It stopped Gordon in his tracks.

My condolences. He responded after a few seconds. He reached down into the drawer and took out the second glass and proffered it. She nodded and he poured her a small amount of the cheap booze in the hope it would make the conversation easier for both of them.

Thank you. She said after sipping it, resting the glass between her hands and looking down into it. My daughter, Millie, she... she was murdered, Mister Crane, and nobody will believe me.

I take it you’ve been to the police?

More times you can imagine. They won’t take my calls or let me past the front desk now. After months of persistence, one of them finally gave me your business card and told me you might be willing to look into things on my behalf.

Who was this, if I may ask?

Lucas Jones. She informed him before taking another sip of her drink.

He was Gordon’s old partner and was still working as a detective at the same precinct Gordon had before he retired. He was a decent guy with a big caseload and a sort of desensitized attitude to police work that came from years of looking at the worst of humanity. Maybe that’s why he passed her to Gordon, because Jones knew he would give the case the time and attention it deserved, or maybe he was just trying to give out an easy gig that wouldn’t require more than an ‘accidental’ glance at a police case file.

I’ll need you to tell me exactly what you want me to do.

I want you to prove she was murdered! Isabelle suddenly snapped, her passion overwhelming her for a moment. I want someone to listen to me and believe that my daughter wasn’t the person they’re making her out to be! I want... I want... She trailed off, her outburst leading to heavy sobs. Gordon wished he could offer her more than the box of tissues on his desk but he couldn’t. The pain of losing a loved one, especially losing a child, was unlike any other agony a person could endure.

Start from the beginning. He told her as soothingly as possible. After a few moments to compose herself, Isabelle started talking again.

My baby was twenty-two and had just finished university. She wanted to be a vet - had since she was old enough to know there were doctors for pets. But, as much as she wanted tomake it her career, she also wanted to take a few months off after graduation to travel around the States. You see, Mister Crane, I married a very wealthy man and, after he passed away, I inherited much of his wealth. Millie had only known life here in the United States, so I stayed here rather than returning home to England. After turning twenty-one, my daughter had access to her trust fund, but despite that, her trip was a gift from me to her. The night before she was due to leave she went missing. When she wasn’t back by morning I knew something was wrong, but initially I couldn’t file a report because they said there was no evidence to support it - that she could simply have decided to leave early. It seemed ridiculous to me because she was driving herself on her trip and hadn’t taken her car that night, but they insisted she might simply have caught a ride with someone else or any number of other ridiculous ideas. But Millie never went anywhere without her phone and I know she would have called had that been the case, and then... a week later they found her body. She was in an alleyway, Mister Crane, disposed of like she was nothing but trash. Isabelle recounted. She finished her drink quickly and placed the empty glass on the table. Gordon offered her another and she nodded.

The police investigated, but the conclusions they reached were all wrong. They told me there was evidence of drug taking and that she had... well, she’d had sex not long before her death.

Isabelle said this with such precision that it led Gordon to believe this was something of importance.

But I know my daughter, Mister Crane, I know there’s no chance, not even the remotest of possibilities that she would’ve taken drugs or been sleeping with someone. Not willingly.

And how can you know that? He questioned. Young’uns can lead a double life. It was a routine question to try and gauge how close she was to her daughter.

I know that because she’d worn a promise ring since she was old enough to understand what sex was. She wanted to be a virgin when she married.

Was this something you suggested she do?

No, I never advised her to do it. While I was proud that she was looking after herself in that regard, I was also concerned that perhaps she would miss out on something special. Perhaps, I told her, a special encounter with someone she was close to would make a wonderful memory. But she had insisted that to her it was more special to wait - that it would prove that the man she was with loved her for more than just her body.

It was interesting, but things could change in a person’s mind - even the longest held of convictions should the right situation present itself. He didn’t press the topic any further.

And I assume she had never had any incidents with drugs?

Isabelle shot Gordon a deathly look.

I’m not trying to offend you but, if I’m going to help you, I need to ask questions you may not like. He explained to her.

My daughter has never had a sip of alcohol let alone taken drugs, Mister Crane. For them to tell me she was high on cocaine was all the proof I needed to tell me she was murdered. She would never willingly take such a thing.

Did the police say what the cause of death was?

While under the influence of drugs, she recounted, she tripped and fell, hitting her head on something in the alleyway which caused her death. They never told me if they found what it was she supposedly hit her head on, but it’s absurd. She was dressed like... like some kind of prostitute. She never owned those clothes, Mister Crane, and yet they don’t believe me.

It was the kind of thing he’d dealt with in the past, and the events could’ve been entirely as the police had said. But looking into the grieving woman’s eyes, there was something Gordon couldn’t shake; a feeling that if her daughter was all