To Die For

By P. Hankin Title

Jake Harmony's back! In To Die For, the vain, short, balding, overweight, smart, and funny Nassau County Homicide Detective of Who Killed Mona, is faced with another murder mystery. This time involving his stepfather, Henry Slater. Although their relationship has always been hostile, when Henry is arrested for murder, Jake is determined to prove him innocent.

The deck is stacked against him. The victim, Billy Kingsley, was found in the front seat of his Rolls Royce, his throat slashed, with Henry seated beside him, covered in blood. The police are sure they have an open and shut case when they discover that Henry insured Kingsley's life for five million dollars and was often heard threatening to kill him.

Jake Harmony is the one guy on the Force who will prove them wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796060935

P. Hankin Title

I am a New Yorker who has lived in Los Angeles for twenty- six years. I have a BA in English and an Interior Design certificate from the New York School of Interior Design. While I have been writing all my life, I’ve also worked as a model, an Interior Designer, Advertising copy writer and volunteered at the Lighthouse while I lived in New York. In L.A.I volunteered at Cedars Sinai for two years and for nine years was a docent at the Los Angeles County Art Museum. I am a museum junkie, an avid reader, theater and movie goer. When I lived in Manhattan, I was a member of The Mystery Writers of America and have completed two mystery novels featuring the homicide detective, Jake Harmony: Who Killed Mona? and To Die For. The third in that series, 911, is on hold while I complete The Dance of Life, a saga in two parts that follows the lives of the Lehrman family. I have two children: David, a retired teacher who lives in Longmont, Colorado, and Daena, an artist, here in Los Angeles, three grandchildren and a charming Brussels Griffon, Babe.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I knocked on the door to my mother’s house. Waited. Inspected the rose trees that flanked the entrance in ornate lead pots. Stripped off a couple of dead leaves. Jingled some coins in my pants pocket. Knocked again. Bam. Bam.

My brother Phil opened the door with a sneer, You’re not wanted here, Jake. You can’t come in. I pulled my gun and shot the sneer off his face. Stepped over his fallen body and went inside where Ma hugged me, and my stepfather Henry greeted me as usual with his curt nod, Jake.

Maybe I’d shoot him too.

Then Phil was standing in the doorway with his bloodied face, Look what Jake did, Ma.

He was always running to our mother to complain about me.

Sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows woke me and I checked the night table. My gun was lying undisturbed in its holster, next to my gold detective’s badge where I’d left them the night before. I leaned back into the pillows. A dream. I hadn’t shot my brother.

I got out of bed, showered, shaved, dressed and pulled silver studded cowboy boots over my jeans. They add an inch to my five foot six and three quarters, making me as tall as Robert Redford. I faced the mirror, not happy with what I saw. Gotta lose twenty pounds. Only my hair is thin.

Eating breakfast, Sugar Pops and Special K doused in diet Dr. Pepper, I thought about my dream. I’ve been angry at Phil my whole life. Three years older, he’s always felt entitled to grab anything he wanted from me, grabbed Henry’s daughter, Laura. I was sixteen, Phil nineteen, and Laura twenty, when Ma and Henry were married. I’d tumbled headlong into love with Laura at first sight, with all my adolescent heart. I know now her kindness and her light kisses were meaningless. I was just an eager puppy begging to be petted. When she and Phil were married, I went off to college, fled to Berkeley, as far away as I could get. Gradually the calf love and the jealous pain faded, but never completely.

Shave and a haircut pounded on the door. I opened it to Billy Kingsley all in black, from his black sneakers to the black baseball cap on his dyed black hair. He’s the prize-winning designer my stepfather, Henry, hired to introduce a high-end menswear line, Kingsley for Slater, two years ago. Henry’s Miss Chic line brings in millions, but it’s a cheap Seventh Avenue operation and Henry hungered for prestige. What started out as a happy honeymoon was teetering on divorce these days, and the tennis game Billy was invited to this morning was a cover-up for Henry and his two partners to ambush him.

Hey, Jake, Billy bent forward and kissed me on both cheeks. He grew up on the streets of New York’s lower East side, but since he started living in Milan six months of the year, he greets men, women, children, and probably dogs, with double kisses.

My nose twitched at the smell of him, sandalwood tinged with sweat.

I said, How was the game? Did you whomp Henry?

Shellacked him. I never had a tennis racket in my hand until a year ago, but I’m a natural athlete. I ran his ass off. Billy bared the Chiclet white teeth, teeth he’d capped in his days as an actor, before his success as a designer.

In an eyeblink, that smile became an animal snarl, They’re after my kishkes and my balls, but I’m a street guy. Fights are right up my alley. He eyed me up and down, Ya lookin’ good, Jake.

Could lose a couple of pounds.

Yeah. You’ve got a little flab. He pointed to his stomach, Hit me. Go ahead, hit me, hard!

I took a swing at him.

Harder.

I obliged, and his eyes glazed over for a second.

Didn’t feel a thing. I’m hard as a rock. You should work out more. He looked around the room. This is where you live, huh?

I like Billy, and like him more every time we meet, in spite of the dyed hair and the whorish smell of him. But I heard a put down. I’m 33 years old. Why am I living in my stepfather’s guesthouse? Three years ago, after my wife Paula and I called it quits, I came for the weekend. Today, June 24, 2001, I’m still here, on Henry’s Westbury estate. So, I guess you could say I’m living here.

Henry and Ma were married barely a year after my Dad was killed. He’d, shoved his partner aside and took a burst of Uzi fire that ripped his guts apart, leaving bits of him splattered on a grungy hallway.

O.K. he was a hero cop, but he’s a dead cop. It’s been seventeen years since he died. and it’s my opinion Ma married Henry so she could take care of us. Henry bought Ma. Bought her with trust funds for Phil and me written into their pre-nup. She couldn’t be in love with him. Not after my father. I grew up wanting to be like him, look like him, smell like him, and wear a uniform like his.

But Henry was Ma’s choice.

Phil toadied up to Henry right away. I was the holdout. What does it say about me that I despise Henry, but live on his estate? That the ‘Vette I drive was a birthday present from him? Am I turning into my ex-wife Paula? Two hands full of gimme and a mouthful of much obliged.

Yeah, I told Billy. I’m living here for now, until my bid for a co-op is accepted by the board.

Boards are tough. Billy threw a playful jab at me and danced away. The gang of three is on the patio. I came to get you to protect me. Andiamo.

Nobody needs protection less than Billy. I could almost feel sorry for Henry, and his two partners, Adam Cooper and Lowell Werner.

O.K. I need my morning coffee.

CHAPTER TWO

We crossed a half acre of grass to reach the patio at the north end of the big house. The three guys were sitting on the screened-in porch at a table piled with food. The coffee smelled great.

My stepfather Henry’s little piggy eyes tracked me. Henry and I are no romance. The first time we’d met I was a sullen fifteen. We’d sized each other up, and it’d been instant war. And there’s never been a peace treaty.

Adam nodded hello, and Lowell, amiably half drunk at nine in the morning, offered me the chair next to his. He drinks vodka the way I drink diet Dr. Pepper.

Billy, with a cheese Danish in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, positioned himself with his back against a column. You learn to watch your back on the streets of New York.

I waved `morning,’ and sat down next to Lowell. Of all the people around Henry, Lowell Werner is my favorite. He’s an alcoholic who could drain the Atlantic Ocean and not ripple his southern charm. With his thick mane of dirty blond hair, he reminds me of an aging lion, but one who still has all his teeth.

Henry hmphed at me and turned his attention to Billy, What were you saying before you ran off?

I said your fucking problem is fit.

Henry waved a mottled hand, Pah! My pattern maker knows everything about fit.

Billy flashed his white smile, Your dick pattern maker doesn’t know shit and never did.

For your information, he’s worked with all the top-notch designers in the past.

Top notch designers my ass. I’m the only top-notch designer you ever worked with. The rest of them were hacks not designers.

I listened, enjoying the way Billy baited Henry, Of all you here, I’m the only one who’s a poor man. And I’m the only one with real talent. He smashed his Danish into crumbs.

Henry exploded, Poor! I pay you $300,000 a season. You live at the Mayfair. Am I in a suite at the Mayfair?

No, I thought, you live here on your six acres, with your swimming pool and your tennis court and your four cars and your butler and your maids and your cook and your gardeners… And my mother.

Billy’s eyes sparked with venom, You’re not listening to me, your penny-pinching motherfucker. I designed everything in your fucking men’s collection. Every single piece. Goddamn you, you motherfucking Jew. And Goddamn Lowell and Adam too. The only thing not Jewish about you fucks is your abysmal stupidity.

Billy was circumcised, Bar Mitzvaed, Yeshiva schooled and oversensitive to the least hint of anti-Semitism. What was he up to?

Lowell, cut in with his slow drawl, Just a minute, now boy-

Billy shook him off and thrust his face closer to Henry. I need more money you cocksucking momser. Do you hear me? I can’t work in this penny-pinching atmosphere. I’m drowning in debt. If I put all my energy into worrying about money, I can’t use my talent to design the new collection.

I sat, rooted to my chair, listening. If Henry paid Billy $300,000 a season, three seasons a year, that’s $900,000. Plus, expenses. Why was he in debt?

Adam Cooper, Henry’s comptroller, Mr. Ivy League Stuffed Shirt himself, added his two cents, Stop whining, you overpaid prima donna! Your debts are your own problem. It’s the bottom line that counts and we’re losing money on you.

Billy turned on him, You listen, you stupid piece of horseshit. Shut up and listen to me, you dickhead asshole of the first order. You selfish sleazy dumb moron. You’re only interested in gaining advantage for the company not in my needs.

Adam retained his Harvard superiority, but his gray eyes were furious behind gold framed glasses, You’re one hundred per cent right. I look out for the company, not you. Not about what you think or what you feel or what you want. I think about the bottom line.

"I’m not talking to you, you shit-eating shmuck."

Henry shrugged, Let the mashuginah rave.

Shema Israel, for Chrissake, Billy howled to the heavens and aimed a solid kick at the pile of tennis rackets.

I didn’t understand all their Yiddish but it was obvious they were insulting each other.

Henry laughed. "Listen to me, boychik, there isn’t any money for you. Bupkiss. Nothing. Not one cent."

I’m an artist, Billy glanced at me to see if his performance was appreciated, I can’t concentrate on fabrics or make my sketches when I’m worried about money to pay my debts.

Debts shmets. You have a contract, Henry said.

"You cheap shnorer I won’t work if you don’t help me."

Chozzer! Pig! You have a contract!

Sue me.

Dray mir nisht en kup. Don’t give me a headache. You have a contract.

Shove it up your ass.

"You’ll give me a heart attack."

Good, Billy laughed. Let’s get out of here, Jake. Come look at my new Jeep.

Three pairs of eyes with murder in them followed us as we left. Billy couldn’t have cared less, They hate me. But I reamed them, didn’t I?

Maybe you went a little too far. Thumbing your nose like that will get you in trouble one day.

He leaned against the vine-covered wall on the path to the driveway, grinning at me. I won’t change.

Henry won’t give you a nickel. How much do you need?

A hundred would help, five hundred would be better.

I can lend it to you.

Thanks, kid. I’m talking a hundred, five hundred thou. Can you dig that up on your cop’s salary?

I don’t like to mention the trust fund Henry set up for me. It makes my cop’s salary look like subway tokens, but I wasn’t about to give him a hundred thou. I whistled. That’s real money. Who do you owe it to? Was he shoving it up his nose? Did he owe drug dealers?

He enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, let go and kissed my cheeks again. Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ll squeeze it out of Henry. But, shit you’re a good guy.

CHAPTER THREE

I heard the music before I saw them in the driveway - two beautiful barefooted people dancing to a Latin beat that drifted from a parked Jeep. Two sleek heads, one glossy black, the other pale gold, were too engrossed with each other to notice us. Billy whistled at them through his teeth. I always wished I could do that.

The woman’s head turned toward us, revealing a face of such perfection I gasped like a flopping goldfish. I guess she was used to that reaction. Her beautiful face was expressionless as she left her partner and glided toward us moving with the music. She had on white shorts and a white tank top and nothing else.

Mio Bimbo, she crooned to Billy, why have you been such a long time?

Haarh, he said, drawing her to him, nuzzling her neck. This is Tatiana, Jake. I brought her with me from Milan.

Piacere, she lilted.

And this faggot is Peruccio. Thinks he can design. Ha ha.

Peruccio’s face went sullen with resentment. He wore cut-off jeans and a chauffeur’s hat on his golden head. His eyelids were blue shadowed, the curled lashes beaded with mascara. His water colored eyes met mine, until he covered them with a pair of mirrored sunglasses and hopped into the Jeep on the driver’s side. That chauffeur’s hat wasn’t just a vain twerp’s fashion statement. He was Billy’s driver. Was he on Henry’s payroll or on Billy’s dime? His singsong voice was light and high, Hey, padrone, andiamo. Traffic will be brutal.

Billy wrapped a possessive arm across Tatiana’s shoulders and caressed the Jeep’s gleaming black fender with his other hand, showing them both off to me.

Isn’t she a beauty?

What happened to your Rolls?

Parked in the Mayfair garage.

When Billy’s Kingsley Collection won the Fashion Designer’s Award, Henry, thrilled beyond sense, had said, Go buy a new car. Any car you want. Charge it to me. Billy bought a Rolls Royce.

You don’t have a driver’s license. You live in Manhattan. Why do you need two cars?

I’m going to the country, to Montauk. I can’t drive to Montauk in a Rolls. It’s a bruta figura.

He flashed his wolf’s grin, released Tatiana, and gave me another crushing hug, Come out to visit one day soon. I’ll take you to Gosman’s for lobster. It’s not your fault your stepfather’s a stupid shmuck.

He and Tatiana climbed into the Jeep, Bene, he rapped the side of the car. They drove off, music blaring. So that was Billy’s world: his people - his lady - his flunky.

CHAPTER FOUR

The quiet vibrated when they’d gone. I started back to the house, one-foot, other foot, one foot in front of the other, kicking pebbles as I went, thinking about Henry. He’d intended Phil and me to be lawyers. He thinks it’s low class to be a cop. But I never wanted to be anything but a detective like my Dad. Or like Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot. Or Sam Spade or Archie Goodwin. In my imagination I’m suave like Archie, smart, tough, a success with the ladies and a great dancer. The reality is that I’m short and overweight with sparse hair. But tough and smart. Yes, that I am.

Back on the patio, Henry was at ease, a tennis sweater draped over his bony shoulders, content in the company of his two best friends. I plunked myself into a sagging wicker chair and a loose piece of wicker gashed my arm. Watching me mop up the blood, Lowell said, Why don’t you fix this place up, Henry?

Henry smirked, It’s a country house. Supposed to be a little run down. Jake will live. He turned to me with a sour, Nu? What do you think of that nogoodnik Billy? I have to murder him, right?

You know better than to say that to me, Henry. Not even as a joke.

His honk of laughter was abrasive as coarse salt, What makes you think I’m joking?

Henry’s always resented my being a cop. He likes to say, `Deal with shit, you smell like shit.’

Last January, I’d been about to sign a lease on an apartment when the murderer on a case I’d been working, tried to filet me. Henry saved my life. He stayed with me until the medics arrived, his hand dug into my artery. I’m glad to be alive, but I hate that I owe him. I had to give up the lease and stay on in the guesthouse during tortuous months of rehab. Henry’d been sure that my career as a cop was over. But the rehab succeeded and now he’s pissed that I’m back at work again.

Lowell’s slurred drawl brought my attention back to them., Henry, you were in love with Billy, and now you want to kill him. The good lord knows, I always said we didn’t need him. He’s as buggy as a Florida afternoon in July, bless his thumpin’ heart.

Henry nodded, All right. Say I told you so. I deserve it. Billy’s the worst mistake I ever made. In my wildest nightmares, I couldn’t imagine such craziness. I wish I’d never set eyes on him.

I peeled a tangerine.

Well, Adam said, You were in love with the idea of yourself in high-end men’s wear.

"That’s for sure. I wanted to be prestigious. Kingsley Designs for Slater is a lot classier than Miss Chic.

I thought. Classy? Henry’s cheesy company, Miss Chic, churns out third-rate imitations of first-rate women’s dresses, The designs stolen and filtered through Henry’s third-rate mind, are priced at $99.95 It’s made millions for him.

Prestige is as prestige does, Adam said, "Kingsley Designs is bleeding red ink and Miss Chic is struggling to staunch the losses."

Don’t I know it? Don’t I always say, sell to the masses, eat with the classes? But this time I didn’t listen to myself.

Lowell stood up to his full six feet two. His blue deep-set eyes are so transparent they look sightless. I wondered if someone with eyes like that registers images the same way my brown ones do. With his chiseled upper lip and high cheekbones, he’s handsome, until, you get close and see the alcoholic’s broken red veins and reddened lids.

Lowell’s non-union factory manufactures a cheapo knock-off of the Kingsley line in Florida. He calls it Kingsley II for Slater. He keeps nine toes just inside the law, but I don’t like to think about what he’s swept under the carpet in his sweatshop.

He reached for his racket with a muscled arm, You comin’ `long with us to dinner Sunday, Jake?

No, I’m not.