SOHO: Decklin Kilgarry Suspense Mysteries, #2

By Faith Wood

A Decklin Kilgarry Novel - Book 2 - SOHO

 

While change is often a good thing, Decklin Kilgarry didn't think it was necessarily so. After returning stateside following a prolonged period of time to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his life, realistic disappointment settled in, leaving him with one, stark realization . . .

Life without purpose wasn't all that swell.

It also became apparent retirement wasn't that great, either. So, when a New York Detective and good friend requested his professional help, how could he refuse? Dragged into the depths of black-market murder, sinuous trails lead nowhere, always bringing him back to square one. Yet, when he least expects it, clues begin to surface, forcing him deeper into a world of desperation, diamonds, and duplicity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wood Media
• Release date: Jul 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201691769

Faith Wood

Conflict Coach and Certified Professional Speaker, Faith Wood is also a Behaviorist, Hypnotist and Handwriting Analyst. Now the author of the Decklin Kilgarry Suspense Mystery Series as well as the Colbie Colleen Cozv. Suspense Mvsterv Series, she lives with her husband in British Columbia, Canada. Her interest in Behavior Psychology blossomed during her law enforcement career when it occurred to her if she knew what people really wanted, as well as motives behind their actions, she would be more effective in work and life. So, she hung up her cuffs, trading them in for traveling the world speaking to audiences to help them better understand human behaviors, and how they impact others. Faith speaks about how to tap into the area of the brain that controls actions which, in turn, have a tendency to adjust perceptions, thereby launching a more empowered life. Faith writes both fiction and non-fiction and she touches lives, leaving a lasting impression. Faith’s website is www.FaithWood.ca

Book preview

Chapter 1

While change is often a good thing, Decklin Kilgarry didn’t think it was necessarily so. After returning stateside following a prolonged period of time to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his life, realistic disappointment settled in, leaving him with one, stark realization . . .

Life without purpose wasn’t all that swell.

As much as he thought he’d return to precinct life after his marriage erupted, time away unceremoniously pointed out nothing would change if that were the course he chose. Yes, it may be more comfortable in some ways, but the truth was life as a government agency detective would smother him once again. Luckily, it didn’t take a genius to figure out the next best thing—but, it was only by circumstance the former D.C. homicide detective considered it. Am I sanctioned, he asked as he scanned the street, then focused on the body in front of him.

By brass?

A nod. Just checking . . .

Always the stickler, Stetson Brookes chuckled. But, to answer your question, the answer is yes. He, too, scanned the scene for the obvious, waiting for his friend and colleague to offer an assessment.

How much is this stuff worth?

Stuff? You’re looking at millions of dollars of artwork, my friend. A pause. I think that elevates it from the ‘stuff’ category, don’t you?

Decklin tried not to smile. First time?

Maybe—I haven’t checked paperwork, that may change my answer. I was only a few blocks away when the call came in, so . . .

Who reported?

A passerby—noticed the door was open slightly. The fact it was six-thirty in the morning . . .

Someone who didn’t mind getting involved? A nice change . . .

So, as morning sun filtered through concrete slices of city life, Decklin Kilgarry and the NYPD’s homicide detective stood in its warmth trying to figure out who decided to slice Marvin Kaplan’s throat with one, smooth swipe. Shards of shattered, blown glass lay in pools of blood beside him, yet nothing else in the art gallery was touched—well, except for blood spatter on a few pricey paintings. Looks as if the glass were on the floor before the kill, Decklin commented, noting how blood was slightly elevated on the side of a large shard.

Exactly my thought, Brookes agreed.

Decklin was quiet for a moment, switching focus from the gallery owner’s body to everything else in the room. The fact Kaplan’s corpse was in the main back office without evidence of being dragged indicated a possible surprise attack. Then, again, with so little to go on, they really had nothing. What about the glass, he asked, trying to figure out if it meant something, or if it were simply the best thing within reach to turn into a deadly weapon.

Not sure I follow . . .

Obviously, it was a piece of art—but, was it a particular piece of art? Something to lead us in the right direction?

Brookes shrugged. Your guess about the weapon and method is as good as mine—and, with the backlog in the morgue?

Let me guess—weeks.

A nod. I’ll keep you posted . . .

Chapter 2

As simple as hanging a new shingle should’ve been, for some reason, Decklin balked at the idea of something so cliché. I don’t know, he commented, pausing. It just seems like a rather hackneyed idea . . .

Oh, please! Cecily grinned, then placed her menu on the table, choice made. Who cares? If it’s something that’ll make you happy, you should do it!

But—a private detective? Really? Again, he paused, considering whether he could get over whatever associating stigma there may be. Although, I have to admit, Stet called me because he knew I was in the city . . .

You jumped right in, didn’t you?

A smile. Well, yes . . .

See! I told you! Suddenly, her teasing grin turned to something more serious. The fact is you’re not happy doing what you’re doing . . .

You mean nothing?

Exactly. How long have you been back in the States? Cecily didn’t wait for an answer. Nearly six months—and, I know you miss it!

You know I’ll never go back.

That’s exactly my point! You won’t! So, how do you create something for yourself that you’ll enjoy equally as much, and work for yourself at the same time? Levelling a triumphant look, she knew she had him.

Well . . .

Oh, c’mon! There’s nothing wrong with being a private detective, especially if you’re a good one! But, if you plan on renting a two-bit office with a fan in the corner for hot summer days, you may have a point . . .

How about this, Decklin finally commented with a grin. What if I think about it for . . .

I’ll give you one week.

What happens at the end of one week?

Momentary silence coupled with a slight smile. I don’t know. But, I’ll think of something . . .

Convo tabled.

So, what changed your mind? Stet paused as he switched his cell to the other ear. I can put you in touch with a few good lawyers . . .

Let’s just say I was coerced, Decklin laughed, recalling Cecily’s threat. But, I think I made the right decision—and, attorney introductions will be great. But, only if you have the time . . .

Hold on . . .

Decklin listened as his colleague and good friend emptied his pants pocket on his desk. Lose something?

I had a few notes . . .

About?

The art gallery murder—a few things I wanted to run by you.

Okay—has there been any progress?

In a word, no. Nothing. No prints. No motive. Not a damned thing . . . Stetson hesitated, trying to recall if he put the notepad in his pocket. But, that’s not the only reason I called—if you’re up for a new client, I know of someone who’s looking. On the Q.T., of course . . .

The thought of a new client so soon after opening his doors hadn’t occurred to him, but it was enough to make Decklin sit up a little straighter. Name? With one, deft movement, he opened his notepad and clicked his pen.

Kaplan. Frederick Kaplan . . .

The art gallery . . .

Before Decklin could finish his sentence, Stetson interrupted. One and the same—the owner’s son. He’s pissed as hell . . .

Rightly so.

I’ll give him your number—and, I suggest you have a separate cell.

Already done. Decklin rattled off the number and, moments later he tapped the screen, watching it fade to black. A new client was the last thing he expected, but as exciting as it was, he knew he’d conduct an investigation with the same method he always used. Nothing’s different, he thought as he turned his legal pad to a blank page. Clicking his pen, he drew a line down the center from top to bottom, then scribbled notes about everything he could recall about the art gallery crime scene.

His new life?

Up and running.

It turned out Decklin didn’t have to wait long for introductions and, by late afternoon, a sizeable retainer was in his bank account, kicking off his first, official private investigation.

Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Frederick Kaplan began. I’m sure you understand the necessity of beginning your investigation quickly . . .

I agree with you—but, it’s only been a few days, so we should be in pretty good shape.

As Decklin spoke, he didn’t take his eyes from the man sitting across from him, wondering if he always looked so haunted. I’m sorry for your loss—and, just so you know, I’ll do everything in my power to bring your father’s murderer to justice.

Frederick nodded his appreciation. Detective Brookes said you’re the best . . .

With only a few more minutes of polite conversation, Decklin finally opened the door. Tell me about your father, he suggested gently. Not so much the early years, but let’s go back as far as ten . . .

Another nod. I understand—well, my father was one of the finest men you’d ever meet. Everyone thought so . . .

Everyone? Surely within the art community there are enemies to make . . .

Of course—but, my father went out of his way to be fair, and his clients adored him for it. Frederick paused, his eyes filling with tears. I’m sorry . . .

No need . . . Decklin waited until his client regained his composure, then continued. As harsh as it sounds— and, I mean no disrespect—someone obviously didn’t think so highly of him.

Silence.

So, let’s start at the beginning—when did your father open the doors to his art gallery?

About twenty years ago.

Investors?

Frederick shook his head. No—he used his own money for everything.

Decklin didn’t say anything, thinking about the ritzy gallery—New York’s Soho District was beyond expensive, and opening anything there cost big bucks. I can imagine that was a costly venture—did he own his own business prior to the art gallery?

Yes.

Doing what?

He was in the diamond district . . .

Although Decklin had no direct communication with anyone in the New York diamond district or anywhere else, there was little doubt the industry was as seedy as they come. Glitz and glam sported an underbelly few would understand and, if exposed, ramifications were dire. Enemies?

Another silence as Frederick figured out how much his new private investigator should know. A few, he finally admitted. But, that was years ago—as far as I know, there’s been nothing since then.

Disputes? Anything in particular?

I don’t know—Father never discussed it with me. All I know is there were people back then who wanted him to fail.

A personal vendetta?

Again, I don’t know. But, I really don’t think . . .

Is there anyone who could tell me about his career in the diamond industry? Your mom, maybe? Decklin watched his client carefully, gauging everything coming out of his mouth.

She died five years ago.

I’m sorry. A pause. Anyone else?

Frederick shook his head, then sighed deeply. Our family is quite small . . .

As Decklin listened, he detected a slight accent, prompting him to wonder if Frederick’s father had international ties. When you speak, I notice a dialect, Decklin suddenly commented with a smile. Did your parents emigrate here? A pause. My family came from Ireland . . .

Finally, Frederick’s shoulder’s relaxed, and he leaned back in his seat. Yes—many years ago! It was always my father’s goal to make America his home—and, he knew he would be successful.

Good for him! Decklin tossed his pen beside his small notepad, then took a sip of iced tea. It’s not easy starting a new life . . .

So, for the next hour, Frederick Kaplan, III, relayed everything—well, almost everything—about what he knew of his father’s business dealings, ending their conversation with stilled resolve. Find who murdered my father, Mr. Kilgarry, and you’ll be paid handsomely. He paused. And, I never go back on my word . . .

I’ll do my best.

A promise Decklin had to keep.

Chapter 3

Beading sweat dripped from his brow, flames from the torch singeing his eyebrows as well as the hair on his arms—but, no matter.

He was used to it.

A faint fragrance of lavender laced the air, his latest attempt at infusing art glass with perfume—on a good day, his workshop wouldn’t smell like a combination of pungent chemicals and an Irish wake.

Not exactly what one would expect from a sweat box.

Damn it! Aldrich Benedict suddenly cursed a streak, then shut off the torch—a small crack spidered the length of the piece, rendering it completely useless.

Disgusted, he threw the torch on the concrete floor, kicking the bench as he stood and grabbed his jacket. One thing he learned throughout his years as an artist—if things ain’t goin’ right?

Hang it up for a different day.

As he closed the heavy doors to his work studio behind him, frustration escalated, self-loathing rearing its ugly head. In his mind, no matter his wealth and fame within art circles, he would never be good enough to achieve the status of the greats. Was it folly to think he could? Not really. After all, what is a man if he doesn’t have dreams?

Nothin’ but empty.

For those who knew him well, Aldrich Benedict was a polished man, his speech elegant, his manner of telling a story, enthralling. At private parties, guests gathered ‘round to hear him spin a yarn or two, always leaving the private soiree with a comfort of being better. And, though few could put a finger on his sense of presence, there was little doubt Aldrich Benedict was a special man.

In their eyes, and his own.

There was, however, one thing the dignified man didn’t quite understand—perfection wasn’t a thing. No matter how hard he tried, he could never reach the pinnacle of excellence he set for himself. No amount of praise, money, or fame would ever be enough, yet he drove himself with an almost maniacal trajectory, hope and confidence in himself ever-present.

There were, of course, plenty of admirers and critics who thought he was out of his cotton-pickin’ mind. For those on the periphery of his success, there was a consensus Aldrich Benedict was short a few cards in the deck. Such an observation was surely a way to explain his rampant success within the art world, few realizing the effort and pain it took to rise among the ranks. If he weren’t such a self-aggrandizing ass, surely no one would’ve taken notice—but, as it was, he was the darling of the glass blowing set, all of his work striking and fluid. But, the one thing always at the forefront of his thoughts...

How he could be different?

Which is why, naturally, he decided to figure out a way to infuse subtleties into his most recent glass, and it really was too bad the perfume thing didn’t work. Surprising, too—for some glass-blowing studios, it was quite a treat for visitors to have subtle fragrances wafting throughout the space. So, he wondered while enjoying the effects of one martini too many on a New York winter evening, why can’t I infuse the same thing in glass?

A good thought, but a useless one.

Still, the fact he tried was admirable.

As much as Decklin enjoyed scoring his first new client, marketing himself as a private investigator still didn’t sit well. It just doesn’t feel right, he confided to Cecily. I know I’m going to like the work, but . . .

Well—then don’t.

Don’t what?

Turning from the stove with a hot sauce pot in her hand, she carefully laid out a dishtowel, then set it on the island’s countertop. Don’t market yourself as a private investigator.

But, I already have a client . . .

Gesturing to the feast before them, she pointed to his plate. Dig in! Then, she grabbed one of her own. I didn’t say don’t market yourself—I said don’t market yourself as a private investigator.

Silence.

Oh, for God’s sake! You’re an expert! Why are you getting so hung up on what people call you?

Because there should be a level of respect.

Cecily sat at the small table, waiting for him to join her. Okay—that makes a lot of sense, and I get it. She was quiet for a few seconds before a delighted smile. How about you market your new self—your business—as a crime consultant?

Decklin, too, grinned. Now, that’s not a bad idea!

It makes sense, doesn’t it? You aren’t saddled with a possible negative perception, and the term ‘consultant’ adds a certain class . . .

Not only that, no office space expense! I can work from here, only traveling when I need to . . .

Cecily took a bite of her entree, enjoying every bit of it. That right—and, you’ll probably have clients who aren’t allergic to paying. A pause. Like Frederick . . .

So, on a sweltering summer evening, Decklin Kilgarry reinvented himself and his life, unsure of what his future would hold. The whole thing was rather daunting and, if it weren’t for Cecily, he wasn’t sure he would’ve made the same decision. But, he did.

Door opened.

Frederick Kaplan watched as ropes lowered his father into his grave, tears staining his