Dead at the Wheel

By Tish Cook

Third in the Lora Cannan crime series. Just days before Christmas, Tyler Logue dies at the wheel of his 1970 cherry red Camaro. The cause of death: he was poisoned by the seeds of Abrus Precatorius, also known as the Rosary Pea plant. But this plant is only grown in sub-tropical regions of the world. Definitely not in Chicago in the dead of winter.
Homicide detective Lora Cannan catches the case and eventually learns that Logue had a penchant for rough sex and dangerous role play. A large pool of suspects emerges. Lora and her partner, Doug Pope find a connection between Top Shelf Escorts and the victim, but not is all as it appears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tish Cook
• Release date: Jan 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646065158

Tish Cook

Self-published author. Novels include: When You Speak My Name, The Parrot In the Parlor, Wednesdays At the Red Pepper Cafe. Also writes under pen name Hinds Beverley for her latest Chicago homicide detective Lora Cannan series.

Book preview

Dead at the Wheel

Hinds Beverley

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Tish Cook

Other titles by Tish Cook:

When You Speak My Name

The Parrot in the Parlor

Wednesdays at the Red Pepper Cafe

Other titles by Tish Cook writing as Hinds Beverley:

Dead Head

Dead Ringers

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Chapter 1

Tyler Logue was sprawled out in a teal green Italian leather high-back arm chair; his stubby legs crossed at the ankles, black and white checkered argyle socks in plain view. He was a short guy, and a little on the heavy side. In fact, he looked sort of like a Polish sausage that had been stuffed into a maroon cable knit sweater and dark blue jeans. Cropped brown hair, a bit spikey on top and day-old stubble framed a chubby face with deep-set brown eyes and a flat nose. His stubby sausage fingers cradled a cut crystal highball glass in his lap. A few drops of bourbon were still in the bottom.

She had managed to curl herself into the far end of a tan leather sofa opposite him. Her slender frame was rolled up in a thick, white cotton bath robe, belt tied tight around her waist, her bare feet tucked under her. She stared out the oversized picture window at the snowflakes being tossed by a brisk north wind that raced across the lake.

The room was quiet except for the pops and crackles coming from the fireplace logs. A few table and floor lamps scattered here and there offered a soft glow. Plush area rugs in muted shades of mauve, navy and peach dotted the gleaming hardwood floor. A six-foot Christmas tree, branches sagging from the weight of ornaments and brightly-colored mini lights, nestled in a nearby corner. Several carefully-wrapped presents sat underneath. The smell of cinnamon and fresh-cut pine lingered. It looked like a typical Christmas scene fit for a greeting card . . . . It wasn’t.

Tyler tossed back the last of his bourbon and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. He sat the highball glass on the edge of a nearby glass-topped coffee table and looked over at her. Well, that was fun, he said. He launched out of the armchair, pulled his wool-lined leather bomber jacket from the chair back, shrugged it on, and walked to the apartment door.

He grabbed the shiny brass doorknob, then turned to face her. See you Friday.

She forced her eyes to look in his direction; they were cold and unfeeling. Yes. Friday.

You know, Christmas is next week. How ‘bout we do something special. His thin lips curled into a smug grin.

She tugged at the lapels of her robe, pulling them closer around her neck, and turned her gaze back toward the window. Of course. Whatever you say. Her voice was flat, emotionless.

Logue zipped up his jacket and pulled on his leather driving gloves. Oh, and get some champagne. Not that crap we had tonight. We should celebrate our six-month anniversary.

She stared into the fire.

I got a feeling it’s gonna be a big night for you and me. He blew her a kiss, turned on his heel and walked out the door.

She waited a few seconds, then, wincing a bit, eased off the sofa, took the highball glass to the sink, and rinsed it out. She opened the dishwasher door, put the glass inside with the other dirty dishes, added a detergent pod, and pressed the HEAVY WASH button. She leaned back against the emerald green granite countertop and let her arms drop at her sides, took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She closed her eyes and rolled her head from side to side, releasing the tension. She walked past the bottle of bourbon nestled next to the wall, went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of white wine, then reclaimed her place on the sofa. The heat from the fire felt good, comforting. She put the glass to her lips and drank, swallowing slowly, letting the wine soak into her. She told herself to relax, that she’d done everything right, that her nightmare was almost over.

That nightmare had started six months earlier, when Tyler Logue had discovered her secret and threatened to tell. She’d practically begged him not to do that, told him it would destroy her. But Logue was a Narcissist, and an opportunist, and he knew a good deal when he saw one.

His idea of moving to the big city and having it all hadn’t worked out the way he thought. His time in Chicago had been without any long-term relationships. Oh, there’d been a few women, but when the inevitable breakups came, he’d put the blame on them. None wanted to be adventurous in bed, or shared his affection for inflicting pain. He had a sadistic streak lying beneath his passive, chunky surface, and he had a big itch he wanted to scratch.

He’d used an escort service a few times. The women were beautiful, and some even willing to experiment a bit. But his idea of a fun time between the sheets apparently was too much even for them. Not to mention the heavy escort fees that went on his credit card.

So he seized the day, and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse: Sex any time and any way he wanted it in exchange for his silence. She didn’t have to think too long about it. She knew he would out her to friends and associates. He was that kind of guy. So she had given in. Since no one else knew about her little secret, she had thought it would be worth it to keep things–and him–quiet. How bad could it get?

Tyler was young, with plenty of drive and imagination. He’d flaunted different talents, ones that involved toys, role-play, submission, pain, and fear. It didn’t take long before she’d realized that the sex she thought would be manageable would be rougher, meaner, and lately his idea of fun was bordering on dangerous . . . for her.

During one of his ever-intensifying role plays, he’d pretended to strangle her, had put his hands around her neck, squeezing ever so slightly. He’d laughed when he saw the fear in her eyes. The next time it was more forceful. At one point she had to wear a high-collar blouse at work to hide the bruises. Another time she had to bandage the back of her legs, covering bloody strips made by a Cat-O-Nine Tails. She’d endured chains and course ropes around her ankles and wrists. She had to cut her hair shorter after he ripped out a section at the nape of her neck.

Five and a half months into it she just couldn’t take it anymore. She was afraid one night he’d go too far, and she’d either end up in the emergency room on or a stainless steel slab at the county morgue. She knew it was time for him to go. In mid-November, right before Thanksgiving, she’d started planning the breakup.

She’d done her homework. It would be slightly complicated in its design, but simple in its delivery. She had planned it to perfection. No way would it be tied to her. The incentive was definitely there. It would work. It had to work.

She’d chosen tonight to carry it out. She would know if worked by tomorrow morning.

Confident that she had played her part to perfection and that he hadn’t picked up anything unusual in her behavior that would have given him cause to suspect, she raised her glass to an invisible audience, drank the last of the wine, and looked at the chair he had occupied for the last few months. She shuddered. The chair had to go. Maybe she’d donate it to a favorite charity. That and her bedroom set. Flush the horrible memories away. In fact, she’d probably sleep on the sofa until she could get rid of them. She nodded silent approval, turned her gaze to the Christmas tree, and smiled for the first time in months. Her eyes wandered toward the refrigerator. It was time for a little more celebratory wine. The clock on the wall chimed eleven times.

The fifth-floor elevator was just a few steps away, and while Tyler waited for the doors to open, his stomach rumbled a bit. He belched, tasting the pepperoni pizza he’d had for lunch.

He nodded to the doorman on his way out. The doorman, tall, barrel-chested with thick arms and big hands, narrowed his eyes and nodded back.

Logue plodded through the drifting snow, pissed off that nobody had been there to plow the parking lot yet. He made a mental note to remind her to call about it. He smirked when he thought of how that would go over. She hated it. He loved it. He could make her do anything, maybe even kill somebody, but he didn’t know anybody that he hated that much. At least not yet.

It had been snowing big wet flakes most of the afternoon and into the night, and there was no sign that is about to let up. He leaned into the wind and shivered; it cut through his lined leather coat like a knife.

His 1970 cherry red Camaro SS was parked on a back row under one of the high-beam security lights. Logue liked the older model cars. Hell, BMWs and Jags in Chicago were a dime a dozen, but there weren’t a lot of ’70 red Camaros.

He shivered again, pulled his coat collar up to keep the snow from going down his neck, then swiped the flakes from the windshield and side windows with his gloved hands. He hopped in, put the key into the ignition, and turned it. The Camaro rumbled to life. He liked the way the engine sounded. Cars today were way too quiet. Some of the new electric models had a computer chip somewhere under the dash that simulated the sound of an engine. Bullshit. Definitely not his style. His cherry red baby had 350 horses under the hood, two four-barrel carburetors, and dual racing mufflers. All that gave it a deep, throaty, sexy sound when it rolled down the street. Plenty of eyes turned in his direction when he revved it at a stop light, or put his foot in it on Lake Shore Drive. He’d bought it five years ago back in Ohio before he moved to Chicago. The previous owner had rescued it from the jaws of the junk yard car crusher and restored it. Not to perfection, but good enough, so the only thing Tyler had to do was drive it. That was fine with him. He didn’t know a fuel pump from a fly wheel. He liked the attention it, and he, got.

While he waited for the engine to warm up, a smug grin surfaced. He still couldn’t believe he was getting free pussy any night he wanted it. And he wanted it a lot. Tyler, even with his cherry red Camaro, didn’t get a lot of dates. Lucky for him he had this little number going. He had surprised himself with his creativity, and it didn’t bother him in the least knowing that he was pushing the boundaries. She was the only one getting hurt. He, on the other hand, was getting off.

A minute later his stomach rolled again. He told himself he was going to have to lay off the pizza for a while, at least ones with pepperoni. When the car’s heater finally started blowing warm air, Logue turned on the wipers and slowly edged to the parking lot entrance. He looked both ways, saw no traffic in either direction, pulled out into the street and headed south toward his apartment.

The doorman took the elevator to the fifth floor. He hurried to apartment 509, knocked softly, and waited. Eventually she opened the door a crack, a half-full wineglass in her hand, the belt on her robe hanging loose, her face flushed.

He leaned in close. Are you okay? Concern filled his voice.

She nodded. Never better.

Are you sure?

Yes. She licked her lips and smiled.

His eyes narrowed. That bastard’s out of control. I know he’s hurting you.

She shook her head. It’s okay.

Something’s gotta be done, he said through gritted teeth.

She reached out and patted his arm softly. Wayne, I know you’re concerned, but it’s okay. Really. Everything’s going to be fine.

Why? Is he gone? For good? He’s not coming back?

She lifted her chin slightly. Yes, yes, and yes.

Since the Camaro was rear-wheel drive and the tires should have been replaced six months ago and the snow was piling up, Tyler had to keep his speed at right around ten to fifteen miles an hour, sometimes dropping the speed lower. The only plus to driving late at night in drifting snow was that his car was pretty much the only one on the road. The radio was turned up. A song he didn’t recognize blasted out of the speakers.

A couple of miles into his journey he inched up to a red light and waited. Two cars and a snow plow went through the intersection at super slow speed. The plow’s blade pierced through the snow, shoving it aside while salt pellets spewed out of a chute at the back. On green, Logue gently pressed the gas pedal. The back tires spun briefly, and he let off the gas for an instant before coaxing the car onto South Halstead Street. Just a few more miles to go.

A few blocks later sweat began to trickle down his forehead and the back of his neck. He swiped at it, thought it was strange that he was sweating since it was colder than a well-digger’s knee outside. When he reached to slide the heat lever back a little, his body started to shake. He sat up straight in his seat. His eyes flicked from side to side. Something was wrong. He wasn’t feeling too good right about now. Everything started to get blurry. His stomach lurched.

Chapter 2

Hate this fuckin’ shit, Libertee Jackson snarled through her teeth. Her feet were freezing. Six-inch ComeFuckMe heels weren’t meant to be worn in Siberia, let alone Halsted Street on Chicago’s South Side. Standard issue clothing for the evening: waist-length zip-up fake fox fur jacket, bright red V-neck sweater showing lots of tit, black short shorts showing lots of ass, those dreaded CFM heels, gloves but no hat. The sex trade, especially during Chicago winters, wasn’t for sissies. Gonna get the fuck outa here. Move south. Maybe Florida. Won’t get cold down there. You should come, too. I hear they’s a lot of old rich fuckers down there just lookin’ for party girls.

There wasn’t a lot of late-night traffic on South Halsted. All four lanes were choked with at least four inches of wet snow. No plows in sight yet either. Libertee Jackson and Jasmine Woo picked their way down the snow-covered sidewalk. Normally they would walk on the side of the street, next to the gutter. It was a dangerous path to walk, and they both knew it. But they also knew they’d be closer to oncoming cars that might want to stop for a chat or . . . maybe something else. The two women were on their way home after a not-so-successful evening of pay-for-play dates.

You been sayin’ that for two years now. Shut up and keep walkin’, Jasmine said. Call Big B. Tell him to get his lazy ass out here and come get us. Her voice shivered.

Libertee let out a big laugh. Yeah, like dat’s gonna happen. She rubbed her gloved hands together, then shoved them into her pockets. He probably sittin’ in his crib, warm and all that while we be out here. Could freeze ta death and he be like, ‘Why you ain’t makin’ mo money?’

You know he ain’t like that.

I know. I’m just tired of bein’ cold.

Halsted Street runs for miles, from the North Side of Chicago, to the South Side. The North Side of the city has Wolf Point–the site of Chicago’s first trading post. The North Side also boasts the first hotel, the first church, the first taverns and the first bridges across the Chicago River. It’s the North Side of Chicago that has wealth and privilege, Michigan Avenue, Water Tower Place (one of very few structures that survived the Great Chicago Fire), Wrigley Field, Lincoln Park Zoo, clean sidewalks, big money graystone mansions, five-star restaurants, trendy bars, designer stores. It’s home to Fortune 500 businesses, women in real fur coats that cascade to their ankles, women that wear knee-high lined leather boots instead of CFM heels, and the Merchandise Mart–the world’s largest commercial building under one roof.

The South Side of Chicago, where Jasmine and Libertee did their thing, was like living in another world. The South Side has blue-collar communities like Evergreen Park, Blue Island, Hyde Park; areas where men and women go to work every day, work hard for their paychecks, live, worship and raise their families.

But then there’s the other South Side . . . communities like New City, Fuller Park, Burnside, with drugs, gangs, bad muthas without souls, who drive down the street in their gansta-mobiles and shoot at houses just for