Sonja

By Ron Stock

A diabolical murder weapon created for SAPO, Swedens Secret Service, to kill Russian agents. a desperate, blackmailing, former bisexual lover.betrayal for fashion cover fame and five million dollars in a Cayman bank.cutthroat financial wheeling and dealing for ownership of a failing international cosmetics company.just a few reasons why SONJA is a must read for murder mystery lovers and any reader seeking an enthralling page turner novel.
Swedish by birth and graced with the beauty and voluptuous body of famed Swedish actress Anita Eckberg, Sonja is a natural for the world of fashion modeling. Drilled by her parents to stay a virgin till she marries, Sonja remains true to their values till she is tested while doing a nude photo shoot with Raj, the drop dead gorgeous, famed international movie star. Her values showed not to be their values, especially when it came to her virginity.
La Dolce Vita, the Italian movie classic movie, the title means the sweet life. Sonja lives La Dolce Vita to the fullness, even at the fatal expense of others.

She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her drink. Fame is a bitch. Maybe I was a bitch on the runway, pushing myself to outshine the other models, but being admired like that is exhilarating.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546226871

Ron Stock

Reconnecting is Ron Stock's second novel, a major departure from his first novel, the inspirational Moses, God's Blessed Donkey (Amazon and Kindle EBook). A romantic at heart, Ron Stock loves to write passionate stories with unique “Wow!” endings, which the reader will enjoy discovering in both his books. Reconnecting is grounded in witty, true-life stories of the author’s high school years in Jacksonville, Florida. Returning home for the first time in 50 years to attend his 50th high school reunion, Ron Stock, loosely veiled under the character of Rob Strand, reconnects with his fun-loving high school buddies and former girlfriends, newly single again. The result is a humorous and heart-warming story with a poignant conclusion. Now living in California with his wife of 42 years, Ron is working on his next major novel, Montebank, a mystical story interwoven with real-life elements of his grandparents’ own traveling medicine show in the Midwest of the 1930s and ’40s. Besides writing, Ron also enjoys participating in Masters Track and Field events.

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© 2018 Ron Stock. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/31/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2689-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2688-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2687-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901310

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

1 Di

2 Billy Levy

3 Missy Morgan

4 Gypsies

5 Seat 1C

6 Raphael

7 Pink Dress

8 Abigail

9 Hourglass

10 BODs

11 Hamptons

12 Voice Mail

13 Sidney

14 Manny’s Pawn Shop

15 Coroner

16 Briggs Nelson

17 Sonja

18 Fire Island

19 Raj

20 Rolla På

21 Damn Chips

22 Anita Ekberg

To mystery readers who love a mind blowing twist how the victim was murdered.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For more than one year as I wrote Sonja, no deadline in mind to finish the work, my dear wife, Lucille, endured endless hours of what she referred to as my being lost in space. Our conversation during my space time was grunts of ya and ok dear. During those writing times, she could have told me she was buying a new Mercedes or running away with her yoga instructor and she would have gotten, ok, whatever, Thank goodness, she didn’t buy a new Mercedes and run away with the yoga instructor. Lucille is truly priceless in putting up with my lost in space time.

A writer is only as good as their editor and I am blessed to have Alexandra Napolitano as my editor. Alexandra was living in California when we started on Sonja, and within the year, she relocated to New Jersey for the opportunity as editor for a prestigious publishing house. All the while, as her life was changing, new job and new home, she was always available to provide her excellent editing services. I thank her for taking the journey with me with Sonja.

I want to thank both my son, Josh, an Attorney at Law, and his buddy, Shawn Hansen, Detective LAPD, for the background material that help create two of the novel’s main characters, Jonas Alexander, attorney, and Shawn Hanley, Detective NYPD. I borrowed their real life stories of their college and personal experiences which made my novel’s characters believable and interesting. Thanks guys!

Finally, Di, a main character in the novel, is named in honor of a beautiful cat that I had for twenty plus years, dying this year from old age. Dotti, her brother, was tragically killed years ago from coyotes that plague our area. I miss these wonderful companions that gave me great joy all those years.

The author, editors, and publishers wish to thank the following for permissions to reproduce copyright materials.

Book Cover. Photo by Diana Grytsku/Shutterstock Images

CHAPTER 1

Di

Thursday, May 25

Lower East Side, New York City

D etective Shane Hanley placed the dead woman’s cell phone on the table, staring at the glowing display, desperately trying to make the evidence flow, square pegs in the square holes. The phone logs indicated a short call to an unidentified phone number, then a second call to a private number, followed by a text message: Jonas, call me! Must meet. Game changer! Praying he would not recognize Jonas’s phone number, he lightly tapped the information button. He should have prayed harder. ‘Jonas’ was the same Jonas Alexander who was his college roommate, best friend at his wedding, and personal friend going on ten years.

As he stared at the text message, almost wishing he hadn’t seen what appeared, he jolted upward. Not Delivered. Below the text was a little red warning that the text hadn’t been sent. She made an effort to send her message, but the network hadn’t connected properly. A headache began pounding just behind his temples which only added to the misery of his churning stomach. He softly began mumbling not to be overheard by others in the room.

Why is Jonas involved with this dead woman? What’s the game changer? What were they up to? If he is here in New York, why didn’t he call me?

Minutes earlier arriving at the death scene, Hanley could barely keep from gagging from the horrific scene in front of him. Damn, I hope I don’t lose my lunch before I get out of this apartment and get some fresh air.

In his years on the NYPD force and now a detective, seldom had he investigate a death scene as gruesome as the one before him. Not only the smell from the decomposing body on the bathroom floor was most distressing, but also the pitiful sight of the painfully thin, probably middle-aged, naked woman slumped over a filthy, aged toilet, her head hanging over the discolored water. Rigor mortis had set the woman’s fingers where they grasped the toilet bowl’s edges.

Leaning forward and holding his breath, he got a better view of the body. The inside of the bowl was splattered with what appeared to be dried blood and other stomach matter, perhaps the results of a violent regurgitation. Judging from the woman’s weight, he conjectured she may have been in the late stages of cancer or possibly struggled with anorexia.

The detective snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves, and unable to find his handy tube of Vick’s VapoRub to smear under his nose to curb the smell, he covered his nose and mouth with his seldom-washed handkerchief to filter the stench. Bending over the body to get a closer look at her face, he gagged at the sight of her bulging eyes extending from their sockets. Her mouth was half-open, apparently having thrown up at the same moment she died. Her twisted expression reminded him of the Evard Munch’s painting, The Scream. The woman must have sensed she was dying; her frozen gaze appeared like she was looking towards her next destination, Heaven or Hell.

Seeking evidence of foul play, he noted her matted blonde hair was thinning with occasional bald patches. Near her right temple, a small blood-crusted sore dotted the side of her head with more sores on her paper white torso, legs, and arms. What caught his attention were dark red hematomas around her wrists where her stiffened fingers held onto the toilet rim when she attempted to pull her body up. Odd, he observed she had only a few of her fingernails painted a faded red, as the majority of the nails on her hands and feet had no polish, not even hints of old polish.

No tattoos, piercings, or pubic hair, she’s shaved clean. Looks like this chick might’ve had AIDS or cancer. She’s skinny and she’s got sores and thinning hair, but I don’t see any track marks, noting his observation to the two officers just outside the doorway.

We’ll have to wait for the autopsy and toxicology reports, Hanley continued in a raised voice. Make sure the coroner takes a closer look at the markings on her wrists. Looks like someone might’ve jerked her around before she died. Anybody got an ID for her?

My god, that is awful! One of the uniformed beat cops poked his head into the bathroom and then quickly pulled back. Way worse than the stink of the guy I pulled from a fire last week; his burns smelled like fried bacon.

Damn it, what’s her name? The frustrated detective yelled at the uniformed officers.

Di, responded one of the cops, a short, pudgy, mustached officer.

Di? What’s the rest of her name?

License just reads ‘Di’ with no last name. She must have been some sort of model; there are fashion photos of her all over the floor. She doesn’t look anything like her photos now with the maggots and all.

Di, I believe the name is short version for ‘Diana,’ the detective musing over the odd name. I know women who changed their name to Diana after Princess Diana got killed in the car chase by the paparazzi; maybe the dead woman changed her name to Di in honor of the Princess? Or maybe she wanted a catchy name for modeling, like JLo? Or she simply hated her last name, like Lipchitz or something. Hanley smirked at his own joke, "I could have ended up with a funny name given my Irish and Jewish heritage.

The woman’s cell phone was found by a pudgy uniform officer who handed the phone to Hanley, Found this her purse, Detective. We can try her contacts for her birth name, if we can get the phone unlocked.

Okay, beautiful, what’s your cell phone password? Looking at the morbid figure on the bathroom floor, Odds are the password is something simple like one, two, three four or your birth year. Taking a shot in the dark, Hanley pressed one, two, three, four, only to be vaguely surprised when the phone unlocked.

Tapping on the messages app, the very first text to Jonas was an unexpected punch to the stomach which caused him to back quickly out of the bathroom, as if sent flying by some ham-handed brute’s fists. Spotting a single chair by a small kitchen table, he stumbled to the chair needing space to think through what he had seen.

The studio apartment looked more like a large closet due to the array of women’s clothing, shoes, and accessories haphazardly strewn around the room. Other than a Murphy bed and the small kitchen table, there was very little in the way of furniture.

Looks like she used the floor as her dresser. Sad, she didn’t take much pride in her living quarters, but maybe that’s all she could afford. Hanley muttered in disgust at the cluttered room.

Glancing towards the apartment’s bed, he asked a taller, trim uniformed officer to have the forensics team pull DNA evidence from the sheets. He didn’t particularly want to think about what kind of evidence there might be.

Now seated on a single, cheap pine chair, his two-hundred-pound, six-foot frame made the chair creak ominously, struggling to hold up under the strain. The flimsy table was covered with two half-empty, dirty coffee cups, the cream in which had curdled. A cereal bowl with cartoon caricatures of Cinderella, the fairy godmother, and a handsome prince were pressed into service as an ashtray. The bowl was full of half-smoked cigarettes and one lone cigar butt. The scent of stale tobacco added to his queasy stomach, eased by popping two antacids from a roll he religiously kept in his pocket.

The coroner and forensics officers entered the apartment, one carrying a Nikon camera. With a thumb up, he recognized the ME team, especially Dr. Fienberg, the coroner, which Hanley had consulted with on dozens of homicide cases.

Take plenty of photos and make sure to dust everything in the apartment for prints. Take samples of everything, even the rat tracks and cockroaches that live in this dump. I want everything gone over, miss nothing, and even get these cigarettes and cigar in a bag with the coffee cups. I want them fingerprinted and tested for DNA too.

A forensics officer carefully placed the cereal bowl and coffee cups into evidence bags. The officer bumped a small yellow vase holding a dead red rose, causing a petal to fall onto the table.

Hanley shook his head in disgust, God, everything in this place is dead. Check the refrigerator. See what, if anything, she ate and drank. Also, I want to talk to Sidney, the owner of the liquor store downstairs who called in complaining about the smell. Maybe he knows something about the people coming and going from this apartment.

Scrolling down the cell phone’s messages, Hanley noted there were several messages to a modeling agency inquiring about various photo shoots. There were numerous messages from a handful of friends and coworkers—Great time at the shoot yesterday! Call me and we’ll do brunch! Love the new hair! Raphael approved?

Noting each of the mobile numbers, he stopped on Happy B-Day, Mom! Wish I could be there. Love ya. She had a mother, a mother who needed notification of her daughter’s death. After Fienberg’s autopsy, she would have to her to claim her daughter’s body. The text had been sent to a Florida area code, making him relieved he would not be responsible for the unpleasant job of telling the mother her daughter was dead. Local cops could send someone out to her home and tell her in person. They’d also make his life a little easier by getting him her real name and information about the dead woman’s home life, where she grew up, and what her family was like. Just by looking around and asking a few standard questions, the local cop should be able to draw solid conclusions and report back.

The phone’s call log indicated a recent call and multiple calls to the same agency, specifically to Raphael Ruffo. He figured he was the same Raphael her friend had asked about in the text. He scribbled and circled Raphael’s name in his notepad to follow-up on. Somewhat surprisingly, there were no other messages or calls to or from Jonas. A few phone calls made last week had gone to a private number. While timing could be a week to get the private number, a subpoena for the phone records from the service provider would produce where the calls came from. If the case is ruled a homicide, the cell phone would come under scrutiny and Jonas might end up on the wrong end of a murder investigation thanks to some assistant district attorney looking to make a name for themselves. If his friend did have something to do with her death, there would be other evidence. With a firm tap on the screen the conversation was instantly deleted.

Pulling off the vinyl gloves, he put his hands to his face, and rubbed his temples with his thumbs trying to numb the throbbing from the shock of his close friend being somehow involved with her strange death.

Jonas, what have you gotten yourself into and why the hell haven’t you called me? Putting the gloves back on, he turned and asked a uniform to hand him the modeling photos. Flipping through the glossy photo stack, an image of a strikingly beautiful woman formed in his mind that bore no resemblance to the corpse lying on the bathroom floor. One particular photo caught his attention, that being Di standing in a green meadow, wild black-eyed Susans surrounding her bare legs. Her thick blonde hair billowed out behind her, as if caught in a gust of spring wind. A white, flowing silky top accentuated her lithe figure, while a colorful scarf brought out her rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Her expression was open, honest, and joyous as she shared an infectious smile with the viewer.

How did you go from a lovely meadow to this shitty apartment on the Lower East Side? Shaking his head, he softly whispered to the photo as if she could hear him, You should have lived in a million dollar condo with a view of the park and a doorman, not in this shithole.

A scuffle and thump dragged his attention from his mutterings to the bathroom door where the coroner and his assistant struggled to remove the body from the premises. He asked Dr. Fienberg to run the usual toxicology panel and look for anything that might explain her physical condition and could have killed her.

Whether the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up was because of his best friend’s involvement or because something about the case just didn’t feel right, his instincts were screaming something other than a natural death had killed the woman.

The taller uniformed officer turned and told him they found something he might like to see in her purse. The officer handed him a large, brown, faux fur handbag and a pill bottle already bagged as evidence. He set the evidence bag on the table and turned the handbag upside down, shaking the inexpensive bag’s on the kitchen table—a cheap plastic covered checkbook, a small makeup bag packed with cosmetics, loose change, over one hundred dollars in various denominations, and spiking his curiosity, a new, empty American Airlines ticket jacket, without the boarding pass, receipt, or luggage claim tags.

Where have you been, Ms. Di? Picking up the airline’s tick jacket, he quietly pondered, Where’s your receipt? Boarding pass? Did you pay for the ticket or did someone else? Judging by this dump of an apartment, someone had to buy the ticket. He added to his crime scene notes to have American Airlines run her name and find out where and when she traveled.

Opening the checkbook and falling to the table were carbon copies of checks issued to Sidney’s Liquor Store, most of the check copies made out for forty dollars. Guess she didn’t have an ATM card, if she did, probably lost the card somewhere in this mess she lived in.

Catching his eye in the back of the checkbook was a four-day old bank receipt for a deposit of one thousand dollars. Okay, that tells me you were alive on Monday. So, who gave you the money and why? Maybe whoever wrote the check is the same person who grabbed you by your wrists and tossed you around. He clicked his pen and scribbled a reminder to contact her bank and get a copy of the check, so he could find and question the person who wrote her the check.

After forensics stripped the bed, the short, pudgy officer struggled as he lifted the heavy Murphy bed back into the wall. Under the bed were three dress sized department store cardboard boxes. Rising slowly, Hanley walked over and opened the first box to find an odd collection of souvenirs from the victim’s travels: several plastic bead necklaces from Mardi Gras and Rio Carnival, an Oktoberfest mug, a faded washcloth embroidered with the logo of Le Bristol Paris Hotel, a small metal replica of the Eiffel Tower, and other similar tchotchkes.

Did she go alone to these places or did someone treat her to Le Bristol Paris? Holding the washcloth by his pencil so as not to contaminate any possible evidence, he conjectured aloud, The washcloth is definitely not from the Holiday Inn.

Strictly out of curiosity and not for any investigative purpose, he picked up the heavy mug with Oktoberfest, Munich etched into the glass and smelt the mug to see if there still was a trace scent of beer. Turning to the pudgy cop, he raised the mug and in a poor German accent imitation, toasted, "Prost!"

What the hell didja say? Puzzled, the officer responded.

"The salute is German for Cheers! I spent a couple of weeks drinking my way across Europe after I got out of college. Saluti! That’s Italian. À votre santé is French. What to know what ‘cheers’ is in Irish?"

Not particularly, Detective, the pudgy cop rolled his eyes.

Cheers, same as English.

"And here in New York, it’s up yours," the cop muttered not loud enough to be heard by the others in the room.

Turning back to the dress box, he took note of the other items: eight shot glasses from a number of American and foreign bars, a few wine corks from what might have been expensive wines, and a small stuffed toy animal, a terrier, wearing a real leather dog collar and ID tag. The tag was stamped, Buttons. If found, please call 321-300-6798. He made note of the phone number as the number might lead to the victim’s mother or someone else who knew her.

The second box contained a blonde wig, a pair of knock-off Ray Ban sunglasses, and a black knit watch cap.

This must be her outfit for bad blind dates? Or going out in public when she wants to avoid her zealous fans? Hell, she might have been holding up convenience stores. Strange.

The third box was stuffed with personal photos. Many of the family photos featured a yellowish, knotty pine dining table around which everyone had gathered, everyone in the photo, characteristically leaning in close to get themselves in the photo. A young girl who resembled Di appeared in all the photos. Whoever her parents might be was difficult to judge. The girl always appeared squeezed between much older people, maybe her grandparents. She must have been an only child as there were no other children or teenagers in the snapshots.

As he rifled through the photos, he found one of an older, bearded man with his arm around the young girl. She was looking up at the man with a laughing smile as if saying she loved him dearly. He assumed the man was her father or uncle, but wondered what happened to her mother, as none of the photos included a woman who would have been about the right age. Divorced, perhaps?

She was the one taking the pictures. Slapping his head, he mumbled, Hard to do a selfie with a Kodak, I guess. But why aren’t there any photos of the three of them together?

One photo of the victim was a high school class picture inscribed, Gateway High School, Class of 1998. Kissimmee, Florida. The picture wasn’t a formal graduation photo, rather just a yearly class photo taken on picture day in either her sophomore or junior year.

The collection of photos ended there. Puzzled, "Maybe she hadn’t graduated, but why? Left school early for modeling work? Teen pregnancy? Skipped town with her boyfriend? He set aside the thoughts and hoped her mother could fill him in.

Leaving the apartment with the scent of death still lingering in the air, he told the two officers he would be back in an hour or so to talk with Sidney.

Making his way down the building’s three flights of stairs, he headed to a nearby neighborhood coffee shop he spotted when he pulled up in front of the liquor store. He could use their restroom and then give Jonas a call on one of his disposable cell phones. He generally kept one on hand for contacting his informants. After a few calls, he would smash the burner and throw the phone out, never wanting some shyster lawyer to subpoena his cell phone records and outing his network of snitches.

The recent firing of their college football coach gave him a good excuse to call Jonas without arousing suspicion. He had to know if he was in New York or had been in the last week. If he was still around, they could get together for a beer, if not, he would subtly quiz his friend why he was in New York and hadn’t contacted him.

Frustrated his friend was involved in the crime scene, out of sheer anxiety and confusion, Hanley pounded the stairway wall with his fist as he approached the foot of the steps.

Damnit Jonas, what have you gotten yourself mixed up in?

CHAPTER 2

Billy Levy

Saturday Morning, May 20

Newport Beach, California

N ice bod for an old man.

Sonja Ecklund Alexander sat up in bed to further admire the chiseled body of Jonas, her new husband.

What do you mean ‘old man’? I’m only a couple of months older than you, so I guess that makes you my old lady.

He giggled at what he considered a clever comeback and slowly moved towards her as she teasingly pulled the white, combed cotton sheets up to her chin. Her long, tastefully highlighted, blonde hair spread seductively over the matching white pillowcase.

Standing by their bulky, four-poster, dark wood bed frame, he grabbed the top sheet and quickly pulled the sheet away, revealing her naked body. Even though they had been married for six months, he was always astonished by her perfect body. At thirty-four years old, she did not have a single wrinkle on her five-foot, ten-inch frame. Her smooth, Cabo-tanned legs tapered to size nine feet with glossy bright red toenails. The bright red paint conjured the image of a bright red fire engine in his mind, which was similar to the one he walked past every day on his way to the bus stop as a child.

For several seconds, he stood and stared, almost mesmerized, at her red toe nails. I should’ve been a fireman, he muttered. Less stress, more free time, and women love firemen.

Do you have some sort of foot fetish? God, I’m married to a foot freak.

No, your red polish reminds me of my childhood in a weird way. At her continued disbelief, he clarified, The color is bright red like the fire engine in my neighborhood growing up.

Then, my dear hubby, what does this remind of? Slowly and seductively, she spread her legs apart.

The Grand Canyon?

You pig! She screamed and grabbing his pillow and swung the fluffy pillow at him angrily.

He blocked her, which only encouraged her to aim lower. Best piece of pork you ever had, he quipped when he caught her glancing at his penis. Maybe I should call you Porky Pig, she snickered.

Yeah, call me Porky Pig, but only at home, never in public Besides, I am really a boob man. And you’ve got a perfect pair of five finger boobs.

Five finger boobs? she asked. "What the hell are