Izzy: Book Four of the Maison de Danse Quartet

By Greg Jolley

What do you do when the legal system refuses to deliver justice? Izzy knows.

Conducting her own investigations and trials, she's out on the hunt, righting wrongs in honor of the victims and their surviving families.

Outlaw revenge has its perils and she's soon in the fight of her life.

Sometimes a killer's own survivors also go

• Language: English
• Publisher: Épouvantail Books, LLC
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087999210

Greg Jolley

Greg Jolley earned a Master of Arts in Writing from the University of San Francisco. He is the author of the suspense novels about the fictional Danser family. He lives in the Very Small town of Ormond Beach, Florida.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Taco Bell

Chapter Two - Roof Korean

Chapter Three - Bosa

Chapter Four - Maison de Danse

Chapter Five - The Sentence

Chapter Six - The White Dragon

Chapter Seven - Sentencing

Chapter Eight - Zhanna Aetós

Chapter Nine - The Trials

Chapter Ten - Verdict

Chapter Eleven - Killing Jerry

Chapter Twelve - The Third Letter

Chapter Thirteen - Swimming with Jangles

Chapter Fourteen - Giselle the Stripper

Chapter Fifteen - Matanzas Inlet

Chapter Sixteen - The Partner

Chapter Seventeen - Cosmo

Chapter Eighteen - Ruben Santos

Chapter Nineteen - The Ruben Santos Verdict

Chapter Twenty - Wedding Day

Chapter Twenty-One - Midnight Nuptial

Chapter Twenty-Two - Jailed

Chapter Twenty-Three - Milonguero

Chapter Twenty-Four - Dorothy Spinner

Chapter Twenty-Five - Silueta Portena

Chapter Twenty-Six - Cop Killer

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Betrayal

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Tit for Tat

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Ash

Chapter Thirty - Dead Wrong

Chapter Thirty-One - Whistling Theo

Chapter Thirty-Two - The Last Dance

Chapter Thirty-Three - Keeping Your Enemies Close

Chapter Thirty-Four - The Best Medicine

About the Author

The treacherous voice that exists inside all of us, demanding

that we destroy our lives and go back to the freedom…

~ Ryan Green, Man-Eater

Chapter One

Taco Bell

The first time I killed with a car was at Taco Bell, the one on West Granada, a few miles inland from the island. It was just after sunset, the western sky a vibrant orange, another hot and sticky Florida night. I had followed him there from the courthouse, where his public defender worked a sleight of hand, a dance of words and documents in the best magician’s tradition, getting him off on, yep, technicalities. All he needed was contrary ballistics data and two witnesses to vanish into thin air. Ta-da—the killer walks. His crime? Armed robbery and murder in the nasty back streets of Daytona. His name? Who cares?

I ordered at the drive-thru as he went inside. Do you love Taco Bell? How can you not? I paid for three crispy tacos and a cup of ice water. With my car backed into a spot, I watched him through the large plate glass window, placing his order, looking all pleased and relieved, laughing and chatting up the girl behind the counter. When he came out the side door, bag in hand, he was sucking on the straw in his drink.

Leaning hard on the gas pedal, careful not to burn the tires and warn him, I got up to thirty-five miles per hour before he looked my way. Instead of fear, his tiny eyes gave a challenging glance in my direction. He was throwing his shoulders back and puffing himself up when the front of my car struck, smashing him into the brick wall.

On impact, the middle of his body was crushed. Blood sprayed as his arms were thrown back, his face a mask of anguish.

I was slammed hard against the steering wheel, clouting my chin. The taco in my hand exploded. There were no airbags in that old junker, a thirty-year-old Buick four-door. Backing up, there he was, on the opposite side of the spider-webbed windshield. His tough-guy expression was gone. The center of his body was a crushed and bloody mess. He slid to his knees, his last meal at his side, a smushed greasy bag.

The front of the car was badly crunched, the engine sounding terminally wounded but still clattering. He was trying to scream but failed, spitting blood through red bubbles instead. Putting the car into gear, I floored the accelerator, and he got a face full of the car’s grill. If he had a last thought, I hope it was of fear or regret.

Backing up the second time, I turned the headlights on. Only the left side worked. I studied him for any movement, for any sign of life. I knew all about the magic that could be performed by EMS and emergency rooms. His legs were thumping and twitching. It lasted less than a minute. When his last dance concluded, he resembled a dead possum, like the kind you see on the side of the highway.

Engine parts were thwacking, and steam was pouring out from both sides of the buckled hood that was splashed with his blood. Sitting there, I looked left and right. So far, no witnesses were gawking or pointing at me. My chin and teeth ached, and shredded cheese, greasy meat, and bits of tortilla lay in my lap. My dress was likely ruined.

I limped the car out onto West Granada, turned to the right, and headed west. It was time to find somewhere to ditch the car. Taking two more right turns, I was on Yonge Street, driving past strip malls, used car lots, and cheap hotels. A few miles south was the town of Holly Hill. It offered more of the same but added pawn shops, wandering derelicts, and boarded-up shop fronts.

Across the street from the Fast Lane drive-thru liquor store was Krystal’s fast food diner. I pulled in and found an open space across from the side door. After wiping off the wheel and all with Handi-Wipes, I climbed out, leaving the motor running, door open. It wouldn’t be there long, no matter the damage and a hood looking like it was splashed with crimson paint. Let the next criminal ass-clown explain that.

There was a bus bench under a street light in front of the drive-thru liquor store. Crossing to it with my purse, I sat down, knees and ankles together, elbows in, my body drawn up, saying strange old church woman. I had chosen my look carefully, complete with a ratty old fur coat and boots with dazzling rhinestones, no matter the heat.

Taking my phone out, I saw the grease stain on my dress and bushed off a lingering dab of oily meat. I put on my tinted pair of Google glasses, not to launch the apps inside them but to give a final touch to my crazy old-woman disguise.

Cars and motorcycles streamed past in both directions, racing here and there with urgent and probably meaningless destinations. Two sheriff units blasted by, heading north, all spinning red and blue lights and sirens.

This kill had been well thought out and more than deserved. When I planned it, using a car resonated with me. I wanted to feel the kill, even if it was through five thousand pounds of crunching metal. While more than satisfying and a visual delight, I decided no more cars. This execution had left a trail of automobile parts, oil, and liquids.

A bus came and went, leaving me behind in a cloud of diesel fumes. The air was thudding from rap music pouring from passing open car windows. Sweat ran down my temples from inside my curly brunette wig. I endured it all, sitting there in the hot evening, thinking of the only thing that mattered.

Justice had been served.

Sitting through the six-day trial, the evidence screamed loud and clear, the rabid dog’s guilt resounding, tolling like a bell. When the trial ended with that offensive twist of legalese, he walked out a free man, all buddy-buddy with his court-appointed lawyer, yukking it up. At the same time, the victim was left to molder and decompose in his grave with no way to balance the scale. Offended and outraged, I left the courthouse and bought the Buick with a fan of hundred-dollar bills.

As you’ve surely have guessed by now, I’m a walkin’-talkin’ judge and executioner. And a deadly sociopath, at least according to my textbooks. How did I get to this place? Father’s own escape from a trial and date with a sparking electric chair or lethal injection. If he hadn’t been taken down in a well-deserved fiery explosion, he certainly would’ve run with an insanity or diminished capacity defense. He had lived like a steel-toothed thresher, clearing a path to riches through a field of innocent lives.

When his charred and faceless corpse was buried into a hole, I was inspired again. What other criminal miscarriages were going on out in the strange wide world? It didn’t take long to answer that. All I needed was a subscription to FlaglerNow and the Daytona Beach News-Journal. Week after week, I read about the legal antics playing out, the victims shoved off the side of the stage, and the perp shucking and jiving under the lights. His or her dance partner was typically an underpaid and overworked public defender who looked shamed by the performance and was degraded by their role in demeaning the legal system.

When I began attending the trials, I did so under the guise of a stringer with a homemade press pass. This allowed me a bird’s eye view of the evidence. Taking a seat behind the victim’s family, I studied them as well. Their loss, grief, and confusion were ignored as the legal arguments went back and forth like a game of tennis. Clever and twisted words were used instead of a ball. Scoring points was all that mattered, the survivors and the question of right or wrong irrelevant.

It only took a few months of observing this to see that justice was rarely served, and a game change was needed. Not bothered with the why, I turned to the how. I had the time and resources. All I needed were the opportunities, and these were easily available as these snakes and vermin returned to their filthy nests and took up as before.

Each swing of the blade of justice was sweet and satisfying. I marked each one with a deliriously painful celebration. As I sat there on the bus bench in the cruel heat of another hot Florida night, it was time to do so again.

Inside that heavy and ugly coat, I hiked up the front of my dress and rode it high around my tummy. Taking out my antique shaving razor, I unfolded the recently sharpened blade. There were two fresh scars on my mons pubis, my Mound of Venus, my shaved little hill right above the fun parts. With a steady hand, I sliced a third mark, a half-inch deep and an inch long. As the flesh parted, blood flowed. The pain was excruciating, not unlike that felt by victims’ family and friends.

Pulling the front of my dress down over my knees, I could feel the blood wetting and smearing my inner thighs. Feeling dizzy and lightheaded, I pictured the surviving family’s faces as they learned of the killing earlier in the night. Their expressions were the same as mine, satisfied and pleased. The scale was back in balance.

Putting the razor back inside my purse, I took out my cell phone. A drunkard was passing behind me, the wheels of his shopping cart rattling. I waited until he was a few yards down the sidewalk when I could hear again.

Pulling up Lillie’s number, I called for a ride home. She was my housekeeper and personal assistant, always caring and helpful. She answered on the second ring, sounding irritated until she heard my voice.

Hi, ya, I said, Can you give me a lift?

Sure, she offered, Where are you?

Bus bench in front of a drive-thru liquor store.

Which one?

I looked to the street sign on the corner, Mason Avenue in Holly Hill.

On my way. Need me to bring you anything? A bottle of water?

I thought about that. My dinner had been ruined, along with the Buick when it plowed into the brick wall, the criminal in between.

Please bring me an egg salad sandwich.

Chapter Two

Roof Korean

The next morning, I was up before the sun, lighting candles as I padded barefoot to the bathroom. With the shower running, I dabbed the fresh incision with a moist washcloth and applied a thick smear of Neosporin. Stepping into the warm streaming water, I washed the dried blood from my inner thighs and upper legs.

All cleaned up and dried off, I entered the next room through an alcove door. This was where I chose the day’s look and personality. The floor was white marble and all four walls were mirrored. Turning the lights on, I saw myself from all directions, my reflection forming tunnels that ran on forever. One could get lost in them if off their medications for too long. Fortunately, I had been behaving and taking my daily dose the past few weeks.

I sat down in the barber’s chair before my glass shelves of Eva and Revlon wigs, rubbing my bristled scalp. I needed a shave and reached for the telephone. It had no outside line and was only used as an intercom.

Dialing one got me Lillie.

Two connected me to Jerry the cook.

Three put me through to Bo and Jangles, my dual-personality brother. Not that either of them ever answered.

I rang Lillie. Good morning. Come on up, please.

On my way. I’ll swing through the kitchen for your breakfast.

You’re a love. Thank you.

I hung up the phone and considered the day’s disguise. When you frequent the courthouses as often as I did, there was the threat of being remembered by bailiffs, attorneys, and the others haunting the hallways. Looking the wigs over always helped me choose. That morning, my eyes came to rest on the raven black, messy tangle of curls. I hadn’t used it before, and it spoke to me, the outline of a persona forming. An edgy tramp, all in black, lost in her fears but chin up with a twitching from street drugs. I thought about the Daytona bikers and their favored pole dancers. She could be my same age—thirty-nine—and look hard-ridden. I saw her sitting in the far rear corner of the courtroom, head down, nervous, arms and legs clenched tight, ridding out a jag. If she was remembered, that was fine. She wouldn’t be me.

Lillie entered the room with a breakfast tray, the mail on the side. She set it on the table next to the barber chair, asking, How’s our Aunt Izzy this morning?

Good, and you?

I could complain. Bet you’re dying to hear.

We shared a smile in the mirror.

She raised the lid off my breakfast of buttered rye toast and three poached eggs, each in its own small china bowl. My pill bottles were beside the glass of orange juice. I took a bite of toast and looked at her in the mirror.

I need my head shaved again, I said. It’s starting to itch. My scalp was covered with a quarter-inch of new growth.

She opened one of the mirrored drawers and took out the electric shaver and a folded plastic robe. While I pulled on the plastic, she placed the cover back on top of the breakfast. Switching on the razor, she started in, up from the back of my neck first.

As always, she was careful around the nub of flesh on the top of my skull. That was where the head of the nail was, fleshed over through the years. When I was a little girl, a badly aimed nail gun had been fired from above. A crew of workers were repairing the ceiling over the ballroom, and seven-year-old me had taken the three-inch projectile in the crown. It was decided not to try to extract it and likely cause brain damage. From that day, it caused me no problems, and I didn’t think of it at all, except when I was reminded during a shave.

While Lillie buzzed me to a shine, I considered my makeup choices. I knew I was going with a deathly pallor, but were brown or black eyes better? There was the choice of lipstick hues, glossy or flat. I decided to go with the chocolate contact lenses and a crimson lip gloss. The overall look would be a ruined vampire. The personality was an easy fit, even if it was far from my own.

Lillie removed the plastic drape from my bare body and opened both mirrored closet doors where I kept my collection of disguises.

I want to go with black and burnt orange and leather, I told her, starting to put on makeup.

While she worked her way through both closets, draping her arm with clothing, I worked from the cosmetics case on the table to my left. I finished a few minutes later, glued the wig, and put it on.

Lillie placed her head beside mine, and we both considered my new look in the mirror.

Know what? she asked.

No idea, please tell.

You look a lot like Eva Green.

Whoever that is.

She’s in movies. Always plays the pouting beauty. Do you need a press pass today?

Yes, please.

Can I pick?

Sure. I watched her open the drawer where I kept them. She sorted through the passes, reading the different printed names.

You’re definitely not a Sandy Clark today. She dropped that one back inside the drawer. She scowled at the next few before finding what she liked, offering me one of her lovely smiles.

Roxanne Marchetti, she handed it over. Sounds Italian.

I tasted the name, whispering it twice. Standing up, more of the new persona came to me.

Roxanne lived in a trailer park with a revolving front door for the stream of rough boys she collected and discarded. She was well-educated with a journalism degree, but bad choices had darkened her past and future. Taking on the part-time assignment with the Palm Coast Journal was her last chance for any kind of a normal life—an opportunity that was sliding away through her trembling hands.

Standing beside the barber chair, I let Lillie dress me, something she enjoyed. Within minutes, I went from naked to sexy Roxanne, the bar troll.

Walking around, studying my new reflection in the four mirrors, I found out