Deadly Dreamer

By Mary Burns

Kelly and Carl dream of achieving success in the music business. Haj dreams of being a teacher. C.W. dreams of surmounting his physical handicap. Linda dreams of helping others heal their souls. Trevor dreams of a happy marriage. More than one is willing to kill to achieve their dream.

Jason Vogel dreams of emulating his private eye heroes while filling his life with excitement, danger, and good deeds. Instead, he is stuck behind a computer searching for missing kids.

When he is discovered standing over the body of a woman he has dreamed of loving, his dreams change to hopes that Detective Mike Ceretzke will look for another suspect. However, as the bodies pile up, the evidence against him grows stronger. Undeterred by threats of being fired or arrested if he persists with his bungling investigation, Jason uses the skills he gathered at the Canadian First P.I. School to find the real killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 1, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462831722

Mary Burns

Edmonton is where I was born, where I married, where I raised two sons, and where I plan to remain. I enjoy long walks through the park that fills the North Saskatchewan River valley and marvel at the well-kept secret of Edmonton’s beauty.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Jason Vogel studied the vehicles in the parking lot. One was a plumbing truck that occupied its usual spot. The other was a bronze Taurus. Neither belonged to Haj, unless he’d bought a new car. But that was unlikely.

So, who did it belong to? Was someone waiting to attack the unwary? With his luck, the gym had a new member who preferred the predawn hours for his workout.

Jason pulled his aging red sedan into a stall on the far side of the lot, watching as his headlights swept the car’s interior. It was empty.

He scanned the storefronts. No one lurked in the shadows. The grey predawn held no danger. He dragged his tote bag across the seat, pushed himself out of his vehicle, and stepped into the night’s silence and warmth.

He pulled his glasses off and scrubbed his face with both hands, pushing away the lock of sweaty hair tickling his forehead. As he replaced his glasses, he gave the Taurus a final glance and let a heavy sigh escape. Why did nothing exciting ever happened to him?

He was tired of being on the butt end of fate’s jokes. Investigative work was supposed to be exciting, if not dangerous. When he’d daydreamed of being a EI. he had seen himself dodging bullets, taping up broken ribs, sucking scarred knuckles, or at least nursing the occasional hangover after plying an informant with beer.

He sure hadn’t hungered to become a private eye to spend eternity hunched over a computer terminal, worrying about carpal tunnel syndrome and secretarial spread. A clerk, a researcher, a gofer. That was his lot in life. His grand dreams come to naught and his future promising more of the same dull routine.

Jason tightened his grip on the handle of his gym bag. The way Martha Yablonski carried on after today’s fiasco, you’d think he’d deliberately sabotaged the case. Right! As if he’d wreck his first assignment. Only for him could a fantastic triumph end in dismal, humiliating, pounding failure, but then when did his life ever follow a tidy plan? This was just another step on his path to earning the rank of level one screw-up.

He remembered Martha smirking when she handed him the overflowing file his first day on the job. Little did he know then that she had added to the insult of certain failure by appointing Myron to be his mentor. Myron had swelled with joy at having someone he could order about and had spent two hours explaining in excruciating detail how Jason should retrace the steps of three experienced investigators who had given up on the case.

Of course he had accepted, even welcomed, the challenge! What a spectacular beginning to his career if he solved the case that the veterans called impossible. He would gain instant recognition and acclaim. But how to perform such magic? Should he follow the steps of others? Never! He would think outside the box, think like a kid, catch the cruel kidnapping father, and restore the son to his loving mother.

Today, after two months of hard work and creative thinking, something most of the drones in that place couldn’t spell much less do, he had found the kid.

Sure the husband was tricky. How else could he elude the agency’s best efforts for five years? Jason had punched the air with excitement for the first time and probably the last on that job, when he caught a whiff of their trail. Thinking like a kid had worked. The son had signed onto the Internet using the nickname his mother had given him. Jason’s continuous search of new sign-on addresses had paid off. They had returned to Alberta. With that tidbit, he reran a computer search of school records and performed magic. They were back in Edmonton.

No way should he have been expected to sit in that swivel chair and let Myron, who was too dumb to find his right hand much less a fugitive, take credit for his work. Besides, his surveillance skills were petrifying from disuse.

It had been plain bad karma that the kid spotted him in his perfectly ordinary car quietly reviewing his textbook on stationary surveillance techniques.

Jason pulled his sweaty T-shirt away from his back. His intentions had been good. He had wanted to ensure they wouldn’t bolt before the kid’s mother gathered her custody papers and reached the house.

Damn, the father must have brainwashed his kid, because he’d scampered off the instant he noticed Jason. Anyone listening to Martha’s tirade would figure Jason was responsible for condoning infanticide.

Martha had ranted for ten minutes, pounding her desk and screaming that her agents were hired to follow her orders, not to get involved on a whim. They were supposed to watch and notify the authorities. They only acted when and if it was absolutely necessary. Never did they sit in front of the abductor’s home studying a text on surveillance techniques.

Hell, he should have lived sixty years earlier, in the days of true crime fighting. Once he started his own agency, no one would order him to back away from a case. No way.

Jason fumbled through several of the pockets in his cargo shorts before finally locating his key card. Being a EI. in a modern agency was no fun. If you wanted to catch an errant spouse you didn’t tail him, you just scanned his credit card transactions. Someone went missing? Run a check on his Social Insurance Number.

If he ever did manage to stumble onto a real crime, he would probably discover the cops were using their countrywide database links to monitor his suspect. How was a EI. supposed to make a name for himself in the computer age?

Jason squeezed the edges of his key card, then relaxed his grip, and slid the card into the reader attached to the glass door of the fitness club. A dull buzz broke the silent heat of Edmonton’s midsummer night and grated on his nerves. That buzz was even more annoying than the repetitive computer beep he listened to at Martha’s agency.

Why didn’t they kill that noise? The day staff might need it, but who would it alert in the middle of the night? The owner of the Taurus? Hopefully not Haj. The last thing Jason wanted was a nosy witness to his brown brooding mood and his later than usual arrival.

There was no privacy left in the world. Nowhere to hide from buzzers, cameras, and security systems that were slaps in the head to the growth of real crime. Any ambitious career criminal had better be working toward a doctorate in disarming alarms and circumventing electronic scanners if he hoped to make decent cash. Investigation was too easy. Damn high tech was killing gumshoes and giving birth to technicians.

Jason pulled the door open, then used the edge of the key card to scratch the stubble on his bony chin. He caught himself and shoved the card into one of the pockets in his shorts. A good P.I. didn’t have unconscious habits that could draw unwanted attention and mark him in someone’s memory.

He listened to the click as the door closed and locked. This place didn’t have a decent security system, though the new owners had plans to install something. He had to admit they were wise to do so, because the systems were a necessary evil, besides he couldn’t totally vilify them as he had profited from them personally.

Everyone knew a good PI. had to know as much as his competition—that was an argument he had used to rationalize the months he’d spent installing security systems to finance his last year of school.

Jason felt his mood lightening and fought to retain his anger a while longer. All the great detectives had an amazing ability for holding grudges. His fleeting moments of bad humour never lasted long enough to punch out a guy, much less give him time to mount a deadly manhunt in search of justice.

He scanned the walls of the gym, searching each crevice for the glint of a tiny camera lens. Too many corners to be certain none existed. Maybe the new owner and her husband actually believed in the goodness of humanity and would keep surveillance devices to a minimum. Mrs. McKinney seemed like a nice lady and he hated to think that some day she might be blindsided by

The reception area was empty. Not surprising since Haj usually spent the early morning hours sleeping. Jason didn’t report the breech. To do so would destroy the solitude of his middle-of-the-night sessions. The recent change in ownership and the switch to a twenty-four hour format gave him breathing space and time to unwind from the frustration caused by his money earning jobs.

The privacy had a downside too, because he liked talking to people, using casual conversation to gather confidences. He still got the chance to pump people at the OK Corral, but the boss expected his bouncers to look threatening and scowling disapproval was a conversation stopper. Still, most days offered him some opportunity to extract information from people before they caught onto his tactics.

Jason peered into the deserted office area. He debated taking a few minutes to search through the papers on the desktop, but decided he needed a physical workout more than a mental one. Sometimes he snooped through stray paperwork, but he never used what he learned about people for personal gain. That conflicted with his professional ethics.

At this hour, the place differed drastically from the early evening when blaring music drove sweating, exhausted patrons to ever-greater levels of physical endurance. Now only the hum of the vending machines and the drone of the air conditioner running on high assaulted his ears.

He listened to the whisper of his crepe-soled sandals sliding over the polished hardwood floor. Almost soundless. He rubbed the soft bristles adorning his chin. Damn, he was getting good at creeping around.

He sauntered by the juice bar and the pink and purple waiting room where end tables displayed the latest issues of muscle magazines. Gleaming, nearly naked bodies decorated every cover. Nothing appeared out of place. No one skulked in the darkened reaches of the social area; nothing threatened his safety.

Jason bent to adjust the strap of his sandal and peered toward the sauna door. It was propped open with a book jammed between it and the doorframe. Through the half-open door, he spotted Haj’s deck shoes neatly aligned on a bench. Satisfied that Haj was napping as usual, Jason continued down the hall toward the weight room.

There was another disadvantage to working out at night. It was hard to meet girls at three in the morning. Most of them arrived during the early evening hours, especially those who socialized. Kelly had told him just last week that with the change in management, more of them were lingering after their workouts. Jason missed the times he and Kelly had talked during their evening sessions, comparing the effectiveness of each machine and conferring on proper technique. They had even shared a few racquetball matches.

He shrugged away his regret. until his student loans were repaid, he planned to work at the bar until it closed at two a.m. Maybe it would take him a year, but eventually he could quit and once he switched back to an evening workout time, his friendship with Kelly could resume.

And maybe grow into more. No. Jason grinned at his reflection in the window of a darkened racquetball court. He prided himself on his honesty and knew his chances of cultivating a romance with Kelly Dupre were exactly slim and none. Kelly was a great person, but she liked her men handsome and dangerous and he didn’t fit either category. Maybe that indefinable air of danger would come to him after he had fought evil doers for a few years, but handsome was beyond his dreams.

He scanned the rooms to his left. Most had been converted into areas for karate, yoga, and step classes, though the new owners had retained some of the racquetball courts.

A loud snort came from the sauna and Jason felt his neck muscles relax. Haj at his best would have destroyed his fragile return to good humour and Haj was rarely at his best. Last Thursday Haj had woke up and watched him practice his karate routine. His superior grin almost drove Jason to practice some deadly techniques on his audience of one.

Jason shrugged the remaining tension from his shoulders. He was good at karate and it wouldn’t have killed Haj to utter a word of shear amazement. Instead, Haj had taunted him by saying he was almost as good as their one-handed cripple.

Haj was damn lucky C.W hadn’t heard the comment. C.W hated being called a cripple and would have ripped him apart and maybe apologized afterward. It would have been a two-second contest because Haj was too busy leading the life of a working student to expend energy keeping physically fit.

Sure Haj worked in a grocery store most afternoons and spent his mornings taking classes, but he caught a few hours sleep before getting to the gym and more after treating the place to a cursory cleaning. How much sleep did one guy need anyway? Someday Haj should try working off his stress, not sleeping it away.

One day the new owners would discover he was ripping them off. As much as Jason liked Mrs. McKinney, he didn’t plan to be the person who told her, not unless she hired him to check out their employees. Of course, if they ever did install a couple of cameras they would discover his sleeping habits fast enough.

Jason knew just where he would place those cameras. He’d been good at that job. At the nod of his head, he could reclaim it and be writing up estimates and drilling little holes. Maybe the next time Martha yelled at him, but no, he would never be desperate enough to go back to a routine civilian job.

Jason’s granddad complained that he led an upside-down life. He just wouldn’t understand that night was Jason’s element. After all, good private investigators needed the cover of darkness to do their best work, if it didn’t include searching databases.

He studied the room on his right through its glass wall, a concession to the female members who claimed they felt safer in an open space. The image of massive Martha, her bulging muscles glistening with sweat, cowering in fear of a lowly male was hilarious.

He felt his smile fade. Someone was in the weight room, probably the owner of the Taurus. There would be no private workout tonight. Then he relaxed. It was Kelly. Finally, something was going right with the day.

Why wasn’t she moving? Her face was turned toward him but her arms hung limp and her feet stretched wide on either side of the bench. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. A red rivulet mingled with her raven-black hair.

Jason shook off the dread that threatened to freeze his wits. This was no way for a EI. to act. He reached out to push on the glass door, then hesitated. What about fingerprints? A professional wouldn’t contaminate a crime scene with fingerprints. But Kelly needed his help. No, she was beyond his help.

He turned and pushed the door open with his shoulder. A faintly musty smell, containing something more pungent than the odour of stale sweat from straining muscles, assaulted his nostrils. He wove his way through the labyrinth of gleaming machines toward his friend.

Kelly?

He fought to make his voice heard. He cleared his throat, looked around nervously, and tried speaking again, hoping he was wrong but knowing he wasn’t. Do you need help?

Not a muscle of her slender body twitched. Sweat formed at the back of his neck and trickled between his shoulder blades. His stomach lurched in a way it hadn’t when his class visited the Medical Examiner’s office. In that place, the bodies lay neatly encased in white, on trolleys, in refrigerated storage areas.

He touched her tanned cheek. Cool and stiff. What did that mean, except that she was dead, long dead?

A bruise stained her left cheek. The mark spread down her left arm and leg. A trickle of dried blood decorated her right temple.

A door whispered, startling him.

What the . . .. Jason what’s going on?

Jason looked toward the locker room door where C.W. stood. His face glowed; his wet hair clung to his forehead. He held a red and navy tote bag in his good hand, keys in the other.

She’s dead.

What happened? C.W. squinted and his tone of voice became threatening. What did you do to her?

I . . .. Jason looked toward C.W, puzzled by his tone, puzzled by the question. I just found her lying here.

She wasn’t here when I went to shower and change, and that was only fifteen minutes ago. Have you called an ambulance?

Jason studied C.W. They had been friends for a long time, a long time ago. C.W. had a warped sense of humour. Sufficiently warped to think this was a good joke?

Jason shook himself. This wasn’t a joke. Kelly was dead and her body was lying in front of him. What should they do now? Calling the authorities, like C.W suggested was probably the thing to do.

No, I just got here . . ..

You said she’s dead?

Jason heard a waver in C.W’s voice. He nodded.

How, C.W. asked, his voice a husky whisper.

Jason looked at Kelly’s body. Someone had killed her. He couldn’t say the words aloud. Go wake up Haj. I’ll call the cops.

He turned to leave, then turned back.

C.W. was reaching out as if to touch the girl’s knee with his good hand.

Don’t touch anything.

C.W drew back at the words. He straightened until his shoulders were directly opposite Jason’s.

Jason met the challenge he read in C.W’s eyes and held his stare until C.W. turned and took a hesitant step toward the door.

Jason fought the tears threatening to blur his vision. He pulled off his glasses and smeared moisture from his eyes. Amateurs, you would think they had never seen a dead body before. Let’s get out of here, Jason said aloud, not wanting to have to convince the cops just who had upchucked on the crime scene.

C.W scowled. What do you think I’m going to do, steal something?

The cops won’t want any evidence disturbed. Jason looked down at Kelly’s body. Why her? Why his Kelly? The door to the locker room creaked. Who’s in there, Jason asked.

No one. It’s been a quiet night. Bud Fraser left about half an hour ago. No one else is around, that I know of. Just Haj. And you.

Where’s your car? I didn’t see it outside, Jason said. It’s there.

There’s only a Taurus out there. Yeah, it’s mine. I traded my jeep for it. For a car, Jason demanded. That’s a major attitude change for you.

Some of us grow up. I guess Kelly will never have that chance now.

They stood looking down at Kelly, their shoulders nearly touching. C.W. turned away first.

CHAPTER 2

The girl’s body lay face up. Her brown eyes were open, as if studying the metal crosspieces that had once held ceiling tiles.

Detective Mike Ceretzke of the Edmonton Police Service looked up but saw only a dark cavity. Just last week he had helped Ron McKinney strip those tiles to aid air circulation. Was that emptiness the last thing the girl had seen?

Mike shifted his gaze to the crime scene crew. Pete Humphries stooped near his assistant, directing her to take photos at specific angles. She must be new to the job because Pete didn’t usually hover. He expected his staff to know the requirements for winning a conviction and insisted they give him their best efforts.

The crime scene photo shoot had already progressed from wide-angle shots of the room through a slow pan. Now the camera lens focused on the slender body at centre stage.

After every shot, the assistant wrote in her notebook. Pete made a point of approving each shot she took and each note she jotted. Mike shook his head and grinned. Pete, the detail man, was ensuring she had all the technical information correctly recorded, because her notes could prove vital in countering the defence attorney’s probing questions. Providing, of course, he solved this case and it roamed through the legal system all the way to trial.

After nodding his approval of her next target, Pete straightened his back into a shallow curve and turned his head in Mike’s direction. With an abrupt nod and an exaggerated shrug of his hunched shoulders, Pete acknowledged the detective’s presence.

Mike sighed, resigned to wait. Pete would brief him but only when it fit Pete’s schedule.

Mike sipped coffee from his jumbo travel mug as he analyzed the scene. The medical examiner considered the death suspicious. Still, the only mark he spotted was a trickle of dried blood on the dark skin of her right temple.

He scanned the room for clues to explain the medical examiner’s call of foul play. Though the area surrounding her showed signs of a recent workout, with a pair of hand weights and a wadded towel lying near the bench, she didn’t look as if she had fallen backward into that position. The scene appeared staged, as if someone had arranged her on the bench.

The girl’s complexion was darker than most tans, her cheekbones rode high on her face, her forehead was a broad plain. She wore her black hair long. Several strands had slipped from a glittery green fastener and lay draped across the bench. Her fingernails were short and devoid of colour.

A pair of nearly indecent cream-coloured shorts and a skimpy green halter-top was all that covered her thin frame. Her feet were encased in white socks and trainers.

Mike knew the layout of the club. This central area was used for circuit training and free weights. One entrance led to the main hall where he stood, others to the locker rooms. Each locker room had a second door leading to a back hallway and the locked rear entrance. The back hallway housed the sauna, massage room, tanning room, and storage closet.

He returned his attention to the crime scene as they completed the establishing shots. The constable turned to the detail work and Pete traversed the cordoned-off pathway toward Mike.

You in charge of the investigation? He waited for Mike’s nod of confirmation before continuing.

M.E. said she died maybe six hours ago, maybe eight. Not here either. Pete pointed to the discoloration running along her left side. Her body lay on its side long enough for the blood to pool. Whoever put her on that bench was an amateur who didn’t realize how easy it is to tell a body’s been moved.

"So someone dumped her here. Why? A fitness centre seems a strange place