Address for Murder

By Rebekah Shelton

Who knew renting a post office box just outside of our nation's capital would put your life in danger?
Parker Krane, a newly hired assistant at the White House, had the misfortune of renting a post office box last used by a CIA agent. Now she is in the cross-hairs of Russian spies and Ukrainian rebels who believe she is the key to finding their double agent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Shelton
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463415566

Rebekah Shelton

Rebekah Shelton, originally from Northeastern Ohio and now residing in Middle Tennessee with her husband, is an empty nester who found her passion for writing through her love of reading. Her literary journey began with her first book, "Emerald Eyes," which started as a tragic romance but evolved into a captivating paranormal romance. Captivated by the characters she created, Rebekah continued to delve into their world, crafting the ongoing series known as the "Legend of the Snow Wolves." Expanding upon her storytelling prowess, she ventured into the realm of the supernatural with a mythological twist in her spin-off series, "The Red Wolf Chronicles."Driven by her addiction to sci-fi movies and her boundless imagination, Rebekah embarked on her third series, titled "The Battle for Zarcon," immersing readers in an exhilarating science fiction universe. Displaying her versatility as an author, she co-authored a book alongside her husband, Jeff, entitled "Operation De-ICE - The Battle for Earth," delivering a collaborative tale filled with thrilling adventures and epic battles."Address for Murder" draws inspiration from a real-life incident that sparked the author's imagination. The story revolves around a woman who faces difficulties receiving packages at her post office box, which had previously been rented by an FBI agent. Intrigued by the possibilities, the author began contemplating what would unfold if the box came into the possession of a CIA agent entangled in a dangerous web of deception and betrayal. Thus, "Address for Murder" was born, weaving a thrilling narrative that explores the consequences of a double or even triple cross, putting the life of an innocent girl in jeopardy.

Book preview

PART ONE

The Beginning

Chapter 1

What do you mean you won't deliver my mail to my apartment, I nearly scream.

Like I said, Miss Krane, the postal clerk repeats, we don't deliver to that neighborhood. There is a pack of vicious dogs that run that area. Three of our carriers have been attacked; one so badly, it took five surgeries to repair his neck and face.

I look at the clerk's nameplate again before continuing. Mr. Pucci, I say to the pudgy middle-aged man with a thin comb-over standing on the other side of the counter. I have never seen a pack of feral dogs near my home. And I have never heard any. Of course, I am at the point of exhaustion when I return home each night; too tired to cook. I normally resort to a dinner of saltine crackers and peanut butter. Most mornings I wake to find I fell asleep on the couch still fully dressed.

Wesley Pucci stood silent. It is obvious he does not care. I'm sure he has no problem with his mail being delivered to his home.

Then how will I get my mail? I ask. I can feel my frustration rising by the second. I can't come here every day. Hell, most days I am at work by 7 a.m. and not home again until twelve hours later.

You could have it forwarded to your work address, Mr. Pucci suggests. I am not sure if he is trying to help me or placate the line of impatient people behind me.

I opened my mouth to speak but hesitate. I am sure I am dressed like most people who work in the D.C. area; a black skirt and jacket with a white blouse and black pumps. Exhaling, I give Mr. Pucci the address. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

You work at the White House, Mr. Pucci groans with frustration. No can do.

I work directly for the president, I assert, and you are telling me, I can't get my mail delivered to my apartment.

Mr. Pucci shrugs as if he did not care. Sorry, but he can't help you with this problem. You will have to get a post office box.

I look behind me at the line growing longer by the minute. And how much will that cost me? I screech, knowing I can barely pay the rent on my brownstone.

My meager wardrobe has nearly put me to the point of bankruptcy. But I need to dress nicely. I am already struggling to make the credit card payments. Eating has become a luxury, not a necessity.

$296 a month.

I nearly cry. So dinner will be plain crackers for the rest the year. I won't be able to afford peanut butter, I scowl. I have only been at my new job for two weeks, and some of my clothes are already loose. I have already lost five pounds since I left my parents house sixteen days ago. If I lose another five, I will look anorexic.

Mr. Pucci clicks a few buttons on the keyboard of his computer and then walks to the printer. Another clerk, a matronly woman, looks at the forms in Mr. Pucci's hand and then at me. Her expression shows distress as she approaches the man who is taking food out of my mouth. I cannot hear the conversation, but I find it unsettling.

Mr. Pucci returns with the rental agreement for the post office box. Just need your signature and a credit or debit card.

I know I should read the contract, but I am pressed for time. I told Mrs. Crawley, I had a dental appointment and would only be gone for two hours. I am going to be cutting it close; very close. I sign the agreement and fish my credit card out of my wallet. Silently, I pray the bank will not decline the payment.

Box number 4515, Mr. Pucci states stoically and hands me a key, which I drop into my purse. I look at the bundle of mail from the last two weeks, neatly bundled with a large rubber band, and pick it up.

Thank you, I groan and walk away; much to the delight of Mr. Pucci and the queue of people waiting.

Chapter 2

It is four days before I am able to retrieve my mail again. I pull into the parking of the post office. I notice the parking lot is empty. I am not sure if this is good or bad on a Tuesday night. Typically, it is late evening when I travel home. It is almost always dark. But tonight, it is later than usual. The impending state dinner with the president of Germany had to be moved up. I am working nearly sixteen hours a day.

I am relieved when I enter the lobby of the post office. The lights are bright, and I relax a little. I find the row for my box and start down the aisle towards it. As I travel further into the corridor, the lighting seems to dim. I begin to feel like the protagonist in a slasher film. I shake off the feeling of impending doom and continue.

I reach the box and slide the key into the lock. I frown again as I see a stack of credit card bills. How will I ever pay these?

As I close the door to the box, I feel goosebumps on my arms. I sense I am being watched. I look around and see a few cameras staggered down the corridor. Great, I think to myself. At least they will be able to see who killed me.

I am almost to the lobby when a man turns the corner and is standing a few feet in front of me. I jump, and my mail scatters on the waxed floor. You scared me, I admit to the man who is staring at me.

He says nothing as he reaches down and picks up one of the envelopes. Box 4515, he reads aloud seeing my box number written on the envelope. His voice is hoarse like that of a man who has chain-smoked for several decades. The accent sounds foreign; Eastern European, maybe Russian. He is lanky; at least six inches taller than me. His teeth are yellow and crooked. He looks rugged and unfriendly. Menacing, my gut tells me.

Yes, I mumble awkwardly and hold out my hand.

The man hands me the envelope and slides by me. I watch him for a few seconds before I reach down to retrieve the rest of my mail.

As I stand, I feel a hairy arm grab me from behind and start to choke me. I try to scream, but I can barely inhale enough air to force out a scream. I struggle. I need to breathe. I need to get away.

I can hear my brother Joe telling me over and over, 'Gin, Gin, Gin."

Groin, eyes, knees, I chant like a mantra silently. I turned my head towards my attacker. Finally, I can breathe.

I try to lift my foot to kick him in the groin but am not able to. I will have to go for the eyes. I make a 'V' with my index finger and middle finger and aim for his eyes. Again, I fail. I can feel him squeezing tighter. Is he trying to kill me? Is he trying to break my neck?

I know I have to find a way to get away. I make a half-closed fist and hit him as hard as I can just below his chin. He loses his balance. I push him away and start running.

The floor is slippery, and I slide across the lobby. I struggle to stay upright, and one of my shoes falls off my foot. Shit! I yell and reach down to remove the other one. Maybe I can run faster in my bare feet.

He catches up with me and has me in another headlock. I turn my head again while raising my shoulder. I tuck my chin into the crook of his elbow and force my body downwards. I have escaped his grasp. I know I must move quickly before he grabs me again. I turn quickly and aim for his eyes.

I gasp as the heel of my stiletto goes into his left eye a few inches. He falls to the ground. I am not sure if he is dead, but I am not waiting around to find out. I pull my shoe out of his eye socket. I find the other shoe and run for the parking lot.

I jump into my car and toss both shoes on the floorboard on the passenger side. I can barely breathe. I can still feel his arm around my neck. My hands shake as I try inserting the key into the ignition. Finally, I start the car and speed from the parking lot.

I realize I need to slow down or take the chance of being stopped by the Gaithersburg police. Maybe I should have stayed at the post office and called 911. It was self-defense. He attacked me. But it is too late. I have left the scene of the crime, and I cannot turn back now.

I can feel the darkness close in around me. It is as if my car is on auto-pilot. Only the headlights of the occasional oncoming car pull me back to reality. Otherwise, I would drown in the obscurity on the night.

I don't remember driving home. It feels like I blacked out the entire way. I pull up in front of my apartment and turn off the car. I cannot move. My hands are locked around the steering wheel. I am not sure I can stand, let alone walk. I take a deep breath, but the air catches as I try to exhale.

I pry my hands off the steering wheel and reach over to grab my shoes. Shit, there is blood on the floor mat. Hell, there is probably some residue of my attacker's eye; maybe even his brain. I grab the floor mat and run for the house. Juggling everything, I manage to unlock the door the first try.

I run straight to the laundry room and throw the floor mat into the sink. I drop my shoes and purse onto the floor. I turn on the water in the sink and then freeze. What if I was followed?

I dash to the front door and lock all three of the locks. I realize I need a weapon. I have a large butcher knife in the kitchen. Maybe I should have bought a bat. The thought of hand to hand combat nearly paralyzes me. I do not want anyone that close to me again. I need a gun. I wish I had listened to Joe when he offered to teach me how to shoot. I barricade the door with a chair from the kitchen. I grab the largest knife I can find and return to the laundry room.

The car mat was easy to clean. My shoe is more difficult. These are the best work shoes I own. I know I need to scrub around the tip of the heel and any seams. But I cannot ruin them. I do not have the money to replace them. I nearly vomit realizing every time I put them on it will be a reminder of what happened tonight.

For a split second, I amuse myself with the thought of returning to the post office tomorrow and demanding my money back. I growl realizing that will be impossible. I signed a one year lease. I should not have signed the contract before seeing if there was an 'I was almost murdered while picking up my mail' clause.

I need sleep; at least a couple of hours. I walk upstairs to my bathroom to undress. As I hang up my brown suit, I see a couple spots of blood near the bottom hem. I try to blot away the blood but fail. I decide to let the dry cleaners take care of it. I will drop the suit off on my way to work in the morning.

Chapter 3

I am exhausted. I barely slept for more than two hours. Even three layers of foundation cannot camouflage the dark circles under my eyes.

I pull up to the rear gate of the White House. I wait while one of the White House guards walk around my vehicle as he does every morning. Only a dozen or so of the White House staff have parking privileges in the underground lot. My supervisor is one of them. However, she does not own a car, and after stacks of forms and hours of walking from office to office, the parking slot was reassigned to me. I am grateful and smile that I do not have to park three blocks away and walk to work. Plus I cannot afford the monthly lot fee.

Suddenly, I stop breathing. What if that asshole's blood dripped on the outside of the car? In my haste to get to work on time, I did not have the forethought to check.

I grip the steering wheel to steady my nerves. I try to watch the guard and the bomb dog through the rear view and side view mirror as they circle my car.

Watcha got? Jim asks the German shepherd on the other end of the leash. I stop breathing as I look back and see them next to back seat door.

Do you have meat back here, Jim asks as if trying to crack a joke. Boomer loves a bloody steak. It's his favorite.

I can't remember the last time I had a steak, I chuckle to cloak my trepidation.

There's something bloody back here.

Dammit, I groan. I had a nose bleed last night on my way home, and some of the blood dripped on my skirt. I forgot to drop it off at the cleaners this morning.

It must have been a doozie. Boomer is a bit agitated.

Not as agitated as I was, I quip with another dejected sigh. If they can't get the blood out, I'll have to throw it away.

I hold my breath while Jim decides if my story is plausible.

Clear! Jim calls out to the guard in the shack.

Have a great day, Jim, I smile and exhale fully for the first time since I arrived. Jim does not smile as I pull away slowly. He never does.

As I pull into the garage, I look around. I am relieved when I do not see the Hank and his canine Atka. I do not think I can pull off another ruse so soon. I park and nearly run to the entrance to the White House. I quickly scan my badge and yanked open the door. The cool air from the air conditioning is a pleasant welcome to what is already a day from hell.

I swear everyone is staring at me. I glance at the Secret Service agent standing next to the entrance to the Oval Office. He is staring straight ahead. I know, of course, Agent Daniels sees everything. I know I am just paranoid, but I have every reason to be. I killed a man last night. There is a bloodstained skirt in the back of my car with the man's DNA on it. Maybe I should just burn the suit and destroy any evidence.

Did you see the news this morning? Mrs. Crawley asks me. Don't you live in Gaithersburg?

What? I gasp a little too loudly.

Calm down, girl.

Gaithersburg, Mrs. Crawley repeats. There was a horrible murder there. A man was found dead at the post office. He was stabbed in the eye.

Oh, I gasp. That is horrible. Have they caught the guy who did it?

Of course, they haven't. I am sitting right here.

Not yet, Mrs. Crawley shrugs. But you need to make sure your doors and windows are locked tight. There's a killer on the loose.

I will, I answer succinctly.

And I want you to leave tonight before it gets dark.

But I have so much to do, I counter. I know there is no killer roaming my neighborhood and I have no reason for fear. Besides, I was hoping this temporary gig would turn into a permanent job; at least until a new president is elected or I am arrested for murder.

No argument, Mrs. Crawley insists. I will stay late and finish whatever you don't get done. I don't need to see your face plastered across the TV screen tomorrow morning.

My thoughts instantly go to me being arrested. I can see my face on the TV screen and my arms behind my back in handcuffs. It is not a pretty picture. Okay, I acquiesce only to divert any more attention off me and my address.

At six o'clock, Mrs. Crawley calls out, Parker, go home.

I'm still approving the centerpieces for the dinner, I scowl.

I'll finish it, Mrs. Crawley insists. You go home and remember to lock up tight.

I will, I reply even though my fears are not about being killed; I am the killer. But I will check all the doors and windows when I get home. I know Mrs. Crawley will ask me tomorrow if I did and I want to be able, to tell the truth. The lies are starting to pile up. And I am too tired to keep them straight.

I gather my belongings and begin my long walk to the parking garage. I am not surprised when I see the Secret Service agent who works the evening shift near my vehicle.

I had a nose bleed, I call out.

So I've heard, the agent smirks. Atka was acting crazy all day. So please remember to stop at the cleaners on your way home. We don't need a repeat of today; dogs hitting on bloodstained clothes.

Will do, I nod. Taylor, right?

Yes, Miss Krane.

Of course, he knows my name. All of the agents do.

Chapter 4

Two days later, I am leaving my apartment for work. I call it an apartment, but it is more like what might be termed a brown-stone or a row house. It is a row of two-story apartments spanning the entire length of the block. The front of each unit has a slightly different shade of brick and with a unique pattern. Inside, the floor plans are identical.

I am startled as I open the door, and two police officers are standing on the stoop; one about to knock.

Ms. Krane? the female officer asks.

I am stunned and unable to speak.

Parker Krane? she asks again.

My mouth is dry, and I am not able to speak. I nod.

Detective Brady, the female announces and then motions to the man standing behind her. And Detective Rappaport. May we come in?

I am headed to work, I counter as I squeeze onto the landing and close the door. I really don't have much time.

A couple of questions? Detective Brady asks assertively.

I have time for a question or two, I relent.

Do I really have a choice?

Detective Brady holds out a phone. Do you know this man? she asks as she pushes the phone closer to my face.

I look at the photo and turn my head. The picture of the man with his eye punctured is sickening; more so since I was the one who inflicted the fatal blow. No, I reply. It is not a lie. I honestly don't know who he is. Is he one my neighbors? Should I be worried?

Have you ever seen him before?

Before he attacked me, I think to myself.

No, I lie.

He was killed three nights ago at the post office on Center Point Way, Detective Brady states bluntly.

I saw that on the news, I say a bit nervously. I may have seen his picture on the TV.

Detective Brady frowns and then turns towards the street. Is that your vehicle?

The Hyundai? I ask.

Yes, Detective Rappaport answers.

Yes, I nod.

It was seen in the area of the post office the night this man was killed. Were you at the post office Tuesday night?

Yes, I reply. Stopped there around 8:30 to get my mail.

Don't you mean 9:45? Detective Rappaport rebuts.

I don't think it was that late, I shrug. But who knows, I have been putting in a lot of hours at work.

At the White House? Detective Brady asks.

You seem to know a lot about me, I reply as the hackles on the back of my neck rise.

A little, Detective Rappaport grins.

I can't really say what time I was at the post office that night, I shrug again.

Of course, I remember what time I was there. I remember every second of what happened that night.

Can we take a look at your car? Detective Rappaport asks.

I know I have cleaned my car from top to bottom; inside and out. But I decide to refuse. With a warrant, I insist. So if we are done, I really must get to work.

We will be back with a warrant, Detective Brady nods and turns on her heel to leave. I know she is not happy. And while I would like to believe I removed all traces of blood and DNA from my car; I am not as confident as I was when I cleaned it Wednesday night on my way home.

I get into the car and look down. I know the police will be back with a warrant and they will ask about the missing floor mat. It is still in my laundry room. I need to dispose of it and the one currently beneath my feet.

Working longs hours is not giving me much of an opportunity to cover my tracks. I do not want to go to prison. I should have called the police that night. It was self-defense; however, I doubt they will believe me now. I have lied to them once or twice.

Realizing I need to destroy or at least cleverly dispose of the floor mats, I come to the realization I must also burn my brown suit. But how and where? Knowing I am going to be late for work, I call Mrs. Crawley.

Yes, they are going door to door, I tell my supervisor leaving out most of the important details. "I will get there as fast as I can. But traffic is heavy this time