Weekends Are Murder

By David G. Dillingham

The Long Wolf Detective Agency is owned and run by Jason Wolf and his partner, the beautiful Maggie French.

Weekends Are Murder For The Long Wolf Detective Agency involves two beautiful women who murder-for-hire on weekends. Its a fast moving story with a surprise ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453570418

David G. Dillingham

I was born and raised in southern Indiana. I graduated from Boonville High School in 1960 and joined the Army Infantry in the fall of that same year. I retired in 2002 from Bristol Myers Pharmaceutical where I was in refrigeration maintenance. Experiences in the Pharmaceutical business gave me the idea for my first story, Long Wolf, Evolution of a Hitman.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The shooter was hiding in the brush waiting for the target to appear. It would be dark soon. The shadows were long. The safety of darkness was settling in.

A rustling noise off to her left made the assassin tense up. A fat raccoon waddled into view without noticing anything unusual and continued on its way. It had taken her three hours to get into position and she was virtually invisible. It was just a matter of waiting. Her hair was tied up under her dark green baseball cap; her clothing was generic so she would leave no traceable fibers behind. She relaxed and listened as the chirping, fluttering daytime voice of the forest turned into its nighttime voice of croaking frogs and buzzing insects. It was increasing in volume, which meant they had accepted her presence.

She checked her Zeiss Conquest Scope; there was no need for further adjustments. She had calibrated the scope the previous day and she had never missed at eighty yards.

The last glow of twilight brightened the lake and silhouetted the picturesque cabin.

The assassin took in the setting. There were rolling hills covered with lush vegetation, trees growing down to the lakes rocky shore. An inlet of crystal-clear water provided access to the lake from the cabin’s boathouse. It was a calming sight, a place to get away from it all. There are worse places a man could die.

Headlights flashed across the lake and then swung away as a vehicle made its way down the winding road to the isolated cabin.

The assassin’s pulse quickened as the moment of termination drew near. She turned her baseball cap around so the bill would not interfere with the shot.

Another look through the scope for reassurance, with its light gathering capability, the scope framed the dark kitchen window. Once the kitchen light was on, it would be an easy shot.

The vehicle approached the cabin and stopped in front. Two car doors slammed and a few broken syllables of a man and woman talking carried through the still of the night, the woman laughed, the assassin could pick up the sounds though the words were indistinguishable.

After a few seconds, a light came on in the front room of the cabin and the evening was once again quiet.

The shooter looked through the scope, the stock pressed firm against her shoulder. The right hand around the upper stock, her delicate finger on the trigger, and her cheekbone pressed firmly against the cheek pad.

After a few minutes of waiting, the kitchen light came on. Her trigger-finger took up the small amount of slack as she readied for the shot. A figure appeared at the window. She eased up on the trigger. It was not the target.

A blond woman stood at the sink that was under the kitchen window, the shooter relaxed and waited. Someone passed behind the woman, the shooter tensed up again. The light that the scope gathered illuminated the eye of the shooter whose dark pupil unconsciously contracted and intensified as she anticipated shooting the bastard that came up behind the woman. Once more, the finger took up the slack in the trigger.

The target placed his arms around the woman’s waist and his head came into view over her right shoulder. The assassin’s finger squeezed the trigger; the noise, suppressed by the biscuit-can silencer, sounded much like the opening of a carbonated beverage.

So sure was the shooter that a second shot was not considered. Before a minute had passed, she had disassembled the rifle and placed it in a satchel; she collected the single cartridge, and was moving swiftly through the woods.

As she moved silently, she became aware of a feeling of calmness. That wonderful feeling of euphoria as the cool night breeze enveloped her. Another man was dead, another rotten bastard dead. She could feel her heart rate slowing to its normal rhythm.

*     *     *

CHAPTER ONE

In the cabin, the tinkle of glass and the expulsion of air from her man made the woman look to her right. She noticed a small red spot above the corner of her lover’s left eye and the frozen look of surprise on his face as he fell backwards. She knelt down beside him and said his name, but then the realization of what had happened began to dawn on her as she looked up at the broken windowpane and back at the blood beginning to pool under his head.

Crawling to the living room, she found her purse and retrieved her cell phone. She punched in 9-1-1 but there were no bars on the tiny display. She grabbed her purse, threw in her cell phone and ran to the car. She yanked on the door handle, but the car-door was locked, and the keys were inside the cabin. She began to cry. She leaned against the car and slowly slid down to the ground, expecting a bullet at any second.

After five minutes of crying, she realized that she would probably be dead by now if the assassin had wanted to kill her. She stood up and walked slowly back into the cabin. The keys were in her dead lover’s pocket. She tried her cell phone once more, still no bars. Giving up she dropped the phone into her purse.

She kicked the lifeless body on the soul of his shoe and said, Charlie you bastard, who’d you piss off now? This was supposed to be a fun weekend. You call this fun, you son-of-a-bitch.

She knelt down next to Charlie and patted his front pockets. Hearing the jingle of his car keys, she reached into his right pocket and removed them. She thought about driving back to Trenton, but it was a long drive and after some consideration, she thought it might be better to drive the ten miles to the closest Sheriff’s outpost. An investigation would eventually lead to her so it would probably be her best bet.

*     *     *

CHAPTER TWO

The neighborhood was one of the oldest in Trenton. Back in the fifties, the locals called it millionaire acres. Now that a million was not so hard to come by, they called it by its original name, Willow Wind Acres.

It was 2:00 a.m. The old mansion loomed before the assassin and with only two windows illuminated on the third floor; it looked sort of like a yellow-eyed monster silhouetted against the paler night sky.

The assassin waited lying on the ground against the fence that enclosed a huge backyard. She was waiting for the two Dobermans to take a nap. They had each devoured a pound of ground beef laced with a sleeping powder.

The dogs had charged in the assassin’s direction, barking, but the two pounds of ground beef distracted them. They ate it quickly, a light came on at the back door, and they ran to their master.

The man at the door surveyed the lighted area and said something to the dogs. He closed the door and turned off the lights. The dogs headed for the spot where they had found the beef. Upon finding, there was no more they headed for the spot where the assassin was, but decided to take a nap before they could reach the dark shape lying quietly next to the fence.

The small figure agilely climbed the five-foot wrought iron fence and ran to the house. Within seconds, she had picked the back door lock, removed the silenced Berretta from her pinch-holster, and moved silently through the mudroom into the kitchen.

It was dark but she knew the layout and once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, there was enough ambient light to maneuver.

Finding the small double doors to the dumbwaiter, she quietly opened them and climbed in. Once inside she had to reach over the door on the right, press the third floor button, quickly close the doors, and lean back in.

Preparing for a quick retreat and pressed the third floor button but the noise from the lift motor surprised her. It was much louder than expected. She fumbled for the doors trying to close them but they swung open again and there was no time for a second try.

Goddamn it. She whispered, she hated for things not to go exactly as planned.

She thought to herself, No matter, it was Sunday and the target was supposed to be the only one in the house.

The motor for the dumbwaiter was located in the basement and had sounded loud in the shaft though it was probably only a small hum in the rooms above.

As the assassin ascended and readied the automatic just in case the target had been tipped off by the sound.

The dumbwaiter came to a stop on the third floor. The assassin could hear classical music emanating from within the room.

The target, Alfred Miller had three nightclubs in the Trenton area and always got home late Saturday night or early Sunday morning and did his bookkeeping before going to bed.

After waiting for five minutes, listening for any unusual noises, the assassin put pressure on the dumbwaiter’s double doors and they popped from their catches. There were no surprises.

She could see the target sitting at his desk across the room. There was a wingback chair between the target and the dumbwaiter that might interfere with a head shot. She slowly eased out of the enclosure but as she cleared the opening, the dumbwaiter made a bumping sound as it hit against the back of the shaft.

Maybe the target heard it, maybe not. The assassin tensed up; waiting in the shadows, she squared off for the shot.

The man did not seem to hear the noise but had chosen that moment to open his right hand drawer. He quickly grabbed something from the drawer and fell to the floor just as the assassin fired. The shot missed by inches and imbedded itself in the wall behind him. The target came up with his pistol ready but finding nothing to fire at he paused.

The hesitation was all she needed; the assassin’s bullet found its mark; the man fell to the floor. She walked over to him and fired another round into the back of his head.

The assassin returned the automatic to the pinch shoulder holster and said, Nothing personal, Prick.

She closed the dumbwaiter doors and sent it to the first floor and taking a letter opener from the target’s desk, dug the stray slug from the wall. She picked up the three ejected shell casings, and left using the stairs.

Downstairs she passed through the kitchen and closed the dumbwaiter doors on the way out.

Walking across the backyard she stopped, knelt and felt the carotid artery of each dog, and said, I think you boys will be okay in a couple of hours. I hope you find a good master.

*     *     *

CHAPTER THREE

William Robert Rossi was the third of four contracts. The third and fourth seemed like they would be the easiest.

She hated this kind of contract that placed her in a particular area within a particular timeframe. However, the hits were too lucrative to refuse. She hoped that someday she would be wealthy enough to pick and choose the jobs she wanted.

She hated trusting her welfare to an unknown person.

She was not even sure if The Handler was a man or a woman, a distinction that would be important to her once she became more independent.

William Robert Rossi’s hobby was restoring antique cars; he would spend his weekends in his large garage working on one of his restoration projects. If he was not there, it was because he would be at an antique auto show with one of his finished projects.

William’s wife, Darlene, seldom traveled with him. She had never shared his enthusiasm for antique cars, a major sore spot in their marriage.

William had been looking forward to this weekend. The Sunday before Memorial Day was the big annual antique truck and auto show in Livingston, New Jersey. He would leave at noon on Saturday and not return until Monday afternoon.

He was going to enjoy the Saturday and Sunday night sessions with the pals he was sure to run into, men who shared his enthusiasm for antique cars. He knew they would be staying up late playing poker and swapping stories about finding parts and restoration projects. That was what he lived for, if his wife didn’t want to go that was fine and dandy with him. As far as he was concerned, he was good ol’ Billy Bob to his pals, single for three days and two glorious nights where anything goes.

Friday night’s weather report had predicted a sunny weekend with moderate temperatures. Billy Bob had spent Friday evening dusting, polishing, and making sure his 1948 Plymouth Deluxe sedan was in perfect condition. The sky-blue Plymouth with old-fashioned gangster white walls was a real eye catcher and it never looked better.

Billy Bob had always liked antique cars. He liked the smell, he liked the colors, and he loved the way the motors sounded.

It had started when he was a young boy. His father had restored an old Model A Ford with a rumble seat. It had always been a thrill for him to ride in the rumble seat, on those beautiful summer days. The nostalgia of the whole experience was irresistible for him.

Saturday morning he packed his suitcase and was on his way by noon. The trip to Livingston went great. His car did not have air conditioning, but with the front windows down and the front window wings open, it was very comfortable. As far as he was concerned, the two-hour leisurely drive went by too quickly.

Pulling onto the lot of the Livingston Mayflower Motel, he could see there were already several antique cars and trucks parked there.

The Mayflower Motel was an older Motel built back in the 1950s. It had once been a deteriorating Holiday Inn. However, the Antique Truck and Auto Show had brought new life to the entire city of Covington, New Jersey and to the Mayflower Motel.

As he entered the lobby of the Mayflower, he heard a rousing chorus of ‘Billy Bob’. He waved and said, I’ll check in and take my bags up and be right down.

Billy Bob approached the registration desk and began signing in.

The motel clerk stepped out of the office that had afforded her a view of the sign-in desk and asked, May I help you?

An attractive young brunette in her late twenties or early thirties approached the desk and stood a few feet to the right of Billy Bob.

The clerk acknowledged the woman and said, I’ll be with you in just a moment.

Billy Bob flashed his best smile at the young woman beside him and said, Hi.

She smiled back but said nothing.

To the clerk Billy Bob said, I have a reservation, the name is William Robert Rossi, Billy Bob to my friends. He directed the last part of the statement to the woman waiting beside him.

Again, she flashed her beautiful smile at him.

While Billy Bob was filling out the registration form, the clerk asked the waiting woman, How may I help you?

I know the antique auto show is tomorrow, but could you tell me how to get to the location of the show?

Billy Bob could not help but overhear the question and offered, I’d be glad to show you where it is, as he slid the finished form to the clerk.

The attractive young woman said, I won’t be going till tomorrow if you just give me directions that will be fine.

Billy Bob got the message, Well, you could meet me in the lobby tomorrow morning and follow me out there or follow anyone. I’d say just about everyone staying here is going to the show.

Billy Bob continued, By the way it’s called the J. R. Crawford Memorial Antique Truck and Auto Show. Anyone in town can tell you where it is, if you should get lost.

Thank you.

If you give me your room number I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave tomorrow morning.

With a skeptical look the attractive woman said, Why don’t you give me your room number and I’ll call you in the morning.

Billy Bob smiled his best smile again and said, I thought it was worth a shot. My room number is 287.

The young woman tore a sheet of paper from a pad on the desk and wrote Billy Bob, his room number and J. R. Crawford Memorial Antique Truck and Car Show.

The writing was just for show. She never forgot anything. As she wrote she asked, What would be a good time to call in the morning?

Anytime after eight and if I’m not in my room I’ll be in the Mayflower dining room having breakfast.

Thank you, I’ll probably see you in the morning.

Billy Bob asked, Why don’t you have a drink with me this evening?

I’m sorry, I have to meet with friends in a little while, and I’m sure we’ll be together all evening.

Well, if you change your mind give me a call.

Okay.

See you tomorrow, I’d be glad to buy you breakfast, offered Billy Bob.

We’ll see. I don’t eat much of a breakfast.

That’s even better, a cheap date.

She flashed the beautiful smile again.

Billy Bob said, Well, I’d better get settled in. I’ll see you around.

The beautiful woman smiled once more as Billy Bob watched her walk away.

*     *     *

CHAPTER FOUR

Billy Bob found his room. He unpacked his suitcase, hung up the few clothes he had brought so they would shed their wrinkles.

As he washed his face and hands in the small bathroom he thought about the beautiful young woman he had met in the lobby. It was hard to tell her age she could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. Looking in the mirror at his fifty-five year old face, he decided he had best forget about her. While he had not aged badly for a man of fifty-five, still he had to be realistic about his chances for a one-night stand. Of course, if she were a prostitute, things would be different. If she was a prostitute, she was not trying very hard. However, she did have his room number. Who knows she might call.

Billy Bob put the young woman out of his mind and headed for the lobby to hook up with old friends. As he stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, he scanned the area for friends but realized he was also hoping to spot the young woman. She was nowhere in sight.

He crossed the lobby to an area toward the front where several antique show enthusiasts were sitting. Some greeted him by name others just said hi.

Billy Bob said to the crowd, After that drive from Trenton, I need a cup of coffee, anyone with me? With several affirmative responses, they all headed for the dining room.

The group of men sat swapping stories. Occasionally one would