Chica and the English Teacher

By Sharon Kay Johnson

Betty, a retired high school English teacher, witnesses a triple murder committed by a Mafia kingpin in Birmingham, Alabama of all places! Shes on the run for her life in the witness protection program. The killer is obsessed with finding her and so is Birminghams Detective Baileynot to mention the rival Mafia family who want to exert their own revenge on the killer. The chase is on from the Deep South to Naples to New York City. Betty changes from a lonely, withdrawn older woman into a self-confident force thats to be reckon with by all those who meet her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469140469

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Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Kay Johnson.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011963002

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-4045-2

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-4044-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-4046-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Book One

Book Two

Book Three

Book Four

From the Author

For Sis, Lucy, and Tinker

Chica: Spanish name for a small girl, preferably an extremely hot girl

(From www.urbandictionary.com)

Book One

She was approaching the main entrance of the mall when she first saw the two Mafia types standing in front of the double doors. She thought, how out of place they seem—here in Birmingham, the Deep South —instead of the streets of New York . They could have been right out of central casting.

Later, whenever she thought of what happened next, it always seemed to be in slow motion. On this beautifully clear day, the first mild day of fall after a blistering summer, she could remember every detail, smell every smell, and hear every sound.

A black SUV with heavily tinted windows quietly approached the two Mafia types from their blind side. As the vehicle came right alongside them, smoke and the stench of cigarettes billowed out when the passenger window slowly crept down. A black metal gun barrel appeared scraping against the glass like fingernails on a chalkboard. She instinctively felt danger and darted for cover behind a huge round concrete column flanking the mall entrance. In the same moment that the hail of bullets began, a slender young man with a briefcase and a large tubular package exited the mall. All three men fell to the ground—dead before they landed. Blood, glass, and bits of concrete flew everywhere. The young man had looked right at her with puzzled, innocent, clear blue eyes. As the SUV accelerated, she rounded the column to stay out of harm’s way, but she looked back in time to see the shooter spot her. She saw his face clearly, and in the instant that he aimed to fire at her, she knew she’d never forget it. Incredibly, he missed her entirely. She thought, he’ll turn around to come back for me. So she ran for the shattered doors. She made it! Inside, people were in a panic, screaming and running in all directions. It was then that her legs failed her. As she collapsed, a man grabbed her and pulled her into his store. He called 911, and she fainted.

When she regained consciousness, the police were already there swarming all over the place. The store owner was wiping her face with a wet cloth and tapping her cheek. Ma’am, ma’am, wake up, he said. She managed to sit up as a young boyish policeman approached her. She thought, he looks every bit like one of my high school English students from just a year ago. Could he possibly be old enough to be an officer of the law?

Since her retirement last spring after teaching thirty-four years, she had reflected on how much students had changed during her career, but she wasn’t at all prepared for this one.

Getting right in her face, he gruffly yelled, What did you see? They said you seen it all? What did you see?

She cringed at the grammatical error, but only said, You do not have to shout at me.

Obviously annoyed, he replied, Look, lady, you’re the only witness. Now tell me what did you see?

Even though she had just witnessed a triple murder and an attempt had been made on her life, she had the presence of mind to know this impolite boy was not the man in charge. As the store owner helped her stand, she said, I think I’ll wait for a detective to give my statement, young man.

Incensed, he said, Now you listen to me, old lady. I’m the first on the scene, and you gotta give me the details. So let’s have it!

Old lady! How dare he talk to her like that? She seethed and gave him her famous glare—the one that had caused many a student to cower in fear. No! I don’t have to tell you anything!

He rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth, leaned even further into her face, and then threatened, Do you realize I can arrest you as a material witness?

OK, that was it. That was the last straw. She felt a rush of freedom as she remembered she was no longer a teacher. She didn’t have to worry about what she said, how she said it, or what parental repercussions there might be. So she did indeed let him have it. She said what she had wanted to say to students for years. Listen, you arrogant little moron, I don’t allow anyone to talk to me like that… least of all a buffoon like you. You need to learn respect and manners. The world wasn’t made just for you. You’re not entitled to anything unless you earn it. Furthermore, you’ll be old one day, and I hope you’re treated just like you’re treating me. Now, until you change your entire attitude, you’ll get nothing from me.

His face was blazing as he started to reply, but he suddenly turned as someone shouted, Roberts, get over here!

The little moron’s comment—you’re the only witness—had now registered in her brain. Hadn’t the shooter already tried to kill her, too? She had to get away. Feeling danger flood her entire being, she knew there was no way she was going to be a part of this. This was it… her best chance. So, as Roberts turned, she took a step backward, then another, and another easing into the crowd that had gathered. When the crowd engulfed her, she turned and pushed her way further into the mall. She got to where the crowd was thinning and suddenly saw her way of escape… Lane Bryant’s. The plus size store! She could buy a change of clothes!

She had been wearing tan capris and a bright orange blouse… bright orange of all things. She could be a neon sign for Pete’s sake. So she headed for a sale rack of summer dresses. She ducked behind it, twirling and looking for her size. Bingo! A size 18 in a purple print—perfect. In the dressing room, she sat down to take a breath, and it occurred to her that the moron hadn’t even asked her name. In fact, he hadn’t asked her anything at all about herself. He didn’t know who she was or where she lived. He couldn’t track her down! Now, if she could just get out of the mall without the police spotting her… or even more frightening, the killers spotting her.

The dress was hideous on her, but she wore it out of the dressing room like she loved it. Stuffing the capris and blouse in her purse, she handed the teenaged cashier the ripped-off price tag saying she wanted to wear it. The cashier raised her eyebrows but rang it up without questions. Luckily, she had enough cash without using a credit card. She didn’t want to take a chance on leaving any traceable clues.

The next problem was her hair. It was bright red and naturally curly. It had always been her best feature, and she had kept it colored as she aged. Today, it could be her downfall. It, too, felt like a neon sign—and it was flashing! She had to get a hat.

As she left Lane Bryant’s, she thought angels must truly be with her because there—just two stores down—was a wig store! She couldn’t believe it! Darting to it, she saw in the window a brown one in a page-boy style. She grabbed it on the way in and started putting it on as she hurriedly headed for the back of the store. The startled young girl managing the store ran after her and asked if she needed help. Possibly, she sang out as she continued to the back. Looking in a mirror, she saw the price tag. She didn’t have enough cash, and she just couldn’t use a credit card. Glancing at the salesgirl, she threw pride out the window and asked if there was anything cheaper in the same color. Although the girl said she didn’t need a wig because her hair was so pretty, one in the right price range was found. Again, paying cash, she asked to wear it out of the store.

She thought it was strange that neither of the sales clerks had questioned the fact that she had wanted to wear her purchases out of their stores. Despite the fact that there had been gunfire just a few feet away where three men lay dead, they never cast a doubt on their strange nervous customer wanting to obviously disguise herself. They simply completed the transactions. Oh dear me, she thought, the immature and apathetic are running the world!

Putting on her sun glasses, she caught a glimpse of herself in a glass storefront. Who was that dreadful-looking woman staring back at her? She left the mall by a distant exit and watched carefully as she made her way back to her car. She slipped behind the wheel and with trembling hands started the engine. She headed north for home, making sure no one followed her, but to make certain, she decided to go home by AL-31 instead of I-65. It would be easier to get help quickly if she needed it.

She never noticed the cute little petite blonde that saw her slip into the crowd… the one who dreamed of being a newspaper reporter someday… the one whose curiosity got the best of her.

* * *

Detective Steven Bailey yelled again, "Roberts, I said get over here now!" Heath Roberts knew he was in big trouble. Not only did he not have the crime scene roped off and the crowd under control, which was his first priority, he had let that witness get away. Where did she go? And how did she get away so fast? Maybe, just maybe, Bailey didn’t know there was a witness. Maybe he could spin this away from his monumental blunder just like he always did. He was an expert at that.

Detective Bailey was completely frustrated with Roberts. He was the most inept rookie ever assigned to the force. Bailey was constantly on him about something. Plus, Roberts had an ego that wouldn’t quit. He thought of himself as a regular Elliot Ness, and with the ladies, well, there he thought he was a Casanova extraordinaire. Where had they gotten this idiot anyway? Oh yeah, his uncle was the chief. Bailey wondered how long he’d last. He was a big screw up just waiting to happen, and Bailey prayed it wouldn’t be on a big case.

Little did he know that Roberts had already done just that—committed a career-ending mistake on the biggest case Bailey would ever have. It would take some time for it to come to light.

For now, Detective Bailey had to find witnesses to this horrific scene. He ordered Roberts and the other officers to work the crowd and interview everyone who had seen anything. He also made sure forensics started gathering evidence right away. Everything by the book, folks, he said, Be extra careful. Nothing like this had ever happened in his entire career—a gangland-style shooting with what some said sounded like a machine gun. He didn’t want any slip-ups that would embarrass them later in court. The victims were riddled with bullets and so was the mall entrance. Blood and glass were everywhere—from here ’til Sunday as his mother would have said. Processing it would take hours… maybe days. Analyzing it would take far longer.

The young man with the briefcase didn’t fit in with the overall picture. He seemed like an innocent bystander while the other two looked like they could have been the hit men instead of the targets. Bailey looked for ID on the victims. According to his wallet, the young man was twenty-two-year-old Andrew Grayson Davidson III of Chicago, IL. Now what in the world was he doing here? Searching his briefcase, it became apparent that he was an architect. The tubular package nearby contained a blueprint for a rather large two-story addition to the mall—a new wing actually. In the end, it turned out that he was genuinely an innocent bystander who had just left a meeting with the mall board. He had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—a budding magnate on the brink of his first big sale. Bailey dreaded notifying his family.

All three bodies were taken to the coroner’s office late that day where it took fingerprints to identify the other two victims. They had no identification on them. The fingerprints confirmed them to be long-time criminals associated with the New York City syndicated crime family known as the Albano family. They were truly what they appeared to be—Mafia hit men. Detective Bailey thought they most likely got what they deserved.

But why were they here? And who were the other hit men that followed them here to kill them? And why, oh why, in that huge crowd were there absolutely no eye witnesses? Roberts had made a big deal about how uncooperative everyone was—rude morons, he called them. Detective Bailey absentmindedly thought it strange he used the term moron. Where did he get that? It was certainly a mild description compared to his usual filthy profanity.

Detective Bailey really had his work cut out for him on this one. He didn’t like it from the get-go, and his wife, Jane, wouldn’t like it either.

* * *

She got home from the Birmingham mall by early afternoon. Everything looked so normal. Her simple red brick house in the northern rural part of the county seemed remarkably quiet, except for Chica, of course. Everything was in its place just as she had left it that morning. The oak and maple trees in her yard were just beginning to turn the beautiful colors of fall—red and yellow mixed with green. The grass, thank the good Lord, was dying due to the lack of rain and in anticipation of winter. Her flowers were generally all spent except for the roses and the lovely mums she had planted last fall. How could everything possibly look as if nothing exceptional had happened that day? Amazing!

She lived alone, except