Murder in Buckhead: A Jack Ludefance Novel

By Behcet Kaya

Behcet Kaya's "Murder in Buckhead" follows PI Jack Ludefance in his latest case. The story resonates with Kaya's knotty narrative, interesting characters, and the realism of basic human aspirations. Buckhead, a district within Atlanta with high-end residences and businesses, is the scene of the discovery

• Language: English
• Publisher: WorkBook Press
• Release date: Apr 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960752390

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Copyright @2023 by Behcet Kaya

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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ISBN-13: 978-1-960752-38-3 (Paperback Version)

978-1-960752-39-0 (Digital Version)

REV. DATE: 01/31/2023

ALSO BY BEHCET KAYA

NOVELS

Voice of Conscience

Road to Siran

Murder on the Naval Base

JACK LUDEFANCE PI SERIES

Treacherous Estate

Body in the Woods

Appellate Judge

Murder in Buckhead: A Jack Ludefance Novel

Reviewed by: Tripti Kandari

Review Date: June 20, 2022

Bechet Kaya’s book four in the Jack Ludefance series, Murder in Buckhead, follows PI Jack’s all-action mysteries proceedings, resonates with the author’s knotty narrative, sparkling characters, and the ever-still place of realism as to the basic human aspirations.

Buckhead, a district within Atlanta that boasts many high-end residences and businesses, is the scene of the discovery of a body. As the meticulous detective Shamir Turner assesses the circumstances of the alleged suicide of Casey Ray Olmsted, the son of the influential US Senator Bartholomew Jeremie Olmsted, he is certain of foul play (all shreds of evidence are contrary to the suicide claim). In the wake of Senator Olmsted’s request not to proceed with the investigation of his son’s death (since it’s a suicide), Turner has no choice but to do nothing (well, just officially...). Meanwhile, in his mid-40s, private investigator Jack Ludefance from Florida receives a phone call from Scarlet Olmsted asking him to look into the ‘real’ deed behind her son Casey’s death. Blaire Olmsted, Casey’s widow, issues a second exhortation, pleading with Ludefance to probe the senator (her father-in-law) who is after her life.

Amidst the seemingly well-heeled proceedings of the murder-mystery investigation, Ludefance makes some unexpected discoveries about the case that goes against his reasoning. Blaire puzzles him with her switch between slyly seductive innuendos and her innocent persona, genuinely concerned about the senator and the threats he makes (a devious diva or an innocent suspect?). Additionally, not only has Blaire become a thorn in the motive of concealing the true story behind Casey’s death, but Jack has also become part of the follow-ups and death threats. In a bind, Ludefance must deal with two situations that both get in the way of the corrupt and wicked Senator, who believes in getting rid of any weeds that might stand in the way of his objectives. With Rudy, the young expert hacker, Turner, the ever-ardent detective, and many incidental characters on board, the plot follows Jack’s adventure to unravel the mysterious death of Casey – suicide or murder, or is there an entirely different angle to the case?

Through the luxury settings of Atlanta, the criminal underworld, and (not to overlook) the various eateries and human basic appetites for delicacies and meals, the author weaves an interesting tale that goes beyond a mere murder mystery riddle. All of the characters reveal their true selves in their own sexuality, backgrounds, and social positions, whether expressing natural human passion, appetite, or wrestling with their inner conflicts. Despite being a minor force behind the propagation of the murder mystery, the plot’s plethora of characters, including Rudy with his subtle fatherly relationship with Jack, Cindy, Jack’s sexual interest, as well as Turner and County Sheriff Lawson (aka Hiker), the ideal professionals and boon companions, provide enrichment to the plot with their unique presence and personalities.

MURDER

IN

BUCKHEAD

By

Behcet Kaya

A JACK LUDEFANCE NOVEL

The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations are mentioned, but all the characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.

Copyright @ 2022 Behcet Kaya. 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.

Cover design by MiblArt

To my wife, Nancy

Edited by Lisa J. Jackson

Power does not corrupt.

Fear corrupts…

Perhaps the fear of a loss of power.

John Steinbeck

CHAPTER 1

Monday, March 4, 2019

Buckhead, also known as the ‘Beverly Hills of the South,’ is an uptown commercial and residential district in Atlanta, Georgia, covering approximately one-fifth of the northern part of the city. It’s also the third-largest business district within the city limits of Atlanta, following behind Downtown Atlanta and Midtown. Within its confines are numerous high-end homes, condos, booming businesses, shops, and restaurants; almost every known business, including a Mercedes Benz dealership, is upper scale in quality as well as price.

On this early March afternoon, a cold front has dipped down from the north with blustery winds gusting to 30 mph. At noon, the temperature is hovering in the upper 30s, but with the wind chill factor it feels more like the lower 30s. Amid the unusually cold weather, a terrible tragedy has taken place.

At 1:19 pm a Mr. George Ingly, along with his 70-pound Irish setter named Jasper, exits the elevator into the posh lobby of the expensive high-rise on Peachtree Road where he resides. He is 77; a widower, five-foot-nine with bushy eyebrows, a balding head with wisps of fuzzy white hair, and a visible twitch in his watery left eye. In his left hand, he is holding his wool cap; in his right hand, he tightly grips Jasper’s leash. He is surprised to see a new security guard on duty.

He gruffly asks, You new?

Yes, Sir. Just started today. I’m Ted Masters. My apologies for not knowing your name.

It’s Ingly. George Ingly. Unit 4002.

I’ll remember that, Sir. Have a nice walk.

Nice walk? Hardly, young man. It’s 34 degrees and windy out there. I wouldn’t be going out if Jasper didn’t need to do his business.

Well, the upside is we only get a few days a year like this.

Humph.

As Mr. Ingly pushes the heavy glass front door open, a gust of cold air blows into the lobby. He turns back to the security guard.

Where’s our doorman?

Not here today, Sir.

"That’s obvious. Something wrong with him?’

He called in sick, Mr. Ingly.

Sick, eh? That’s a good one.

Mr. Ingly pulls his thick wool coat collar up around his neck, tugs his herringbone wool Gatsby Cabbie Cap firmly to his head and steps out into the blustery day; his dog pulling hard on the leash. As they turn the corner, Jasper starts barking and pulls the leash out of the old man’s hand. Ingly stops in mid-step. In front of him, a man is sprawled on the sidewalk lying face down with his left arm above his head; his right arm at his side; a pool of blood spreading around his head.

Starting to shake uncontrollably, Mr. Ingly cautiously approaches and stoops down to take a closer look while his dog runs around the body barking frantically. The body is that of a tall, slim young man he does not recognize. He looks up at the condo balconies above him trying to see if anything is amiss.

What do I do? What do I do? He utters out loud.

Standing back up, Ingly holds on to his cap and starts to rush back towards the lobby door. After taking three steps, he turns back around and tries to grab Jasper’s leash. The dog eludes him and Ingly, still holding tight to his cap, walks as quickly as he can back to the lobby.

Panting and out of breath all he can get out is, Body! Body!

Mr. Ingly? Slow down! What’s the matter?

Dead body!

Ingly, still panting and out of breath, sits down heavily in one of the cushy lobby chairs.

Didn’t you hear me? There’s a dead man…lying on the sidewalk…just around the corner! Call the police! My dog is there. I couldn’t catch him!

Masters rushes out of the building as he dials 911, heading in the direction of the sound of the barking dog. As Masters stands over the body, he gives what little details he knows to the dispatcher. He is instructed to guard the remains until the police arrive.

Within seven minutes police sirens are heard approaching; tires screech and brakes squeal as three units arrive on the scene.

As the police approach the body, the security guard grabs Jasper’s leash, leads him back to the lobby, and hands the leash to Mr. Ingly. Immediately, police set up metal stanchion posts with yellow crime scene tape around the victim. The police photographer begins taking pictures from every angle while the coroner stands by ready to start his prelim.

In that short period of time, a small group of pedestrians who dared to brave the cold blustery day are gathered on the sidewalk in front of the high-rise. Bundled up in their rarely used winter coats, hats, and gloves, they are watching intently and talking quietly amongst themselves, waiting on any scrap of news as to what has happened. As they talk, wisps of smoke escape from their mouths, not from cigarettes, but rather condensed cold air due to the cold temperatures.

Detective Shamir Turner of the Atlanta Police Department Zone 2 has been assigned the lead detective position on the case. Plump, with a protruding belly, a double chin, and with blondish hair, he is known to be meticulously efficient in his job. His first task is taking a detailed statement from Mr. Ingly who has started to calm down.

One last question, Mr. Ingly. You’re sure you don’t recognize the victim?

I said I didn’t. Pretty damn hard to identify someone who’s lying face down in a pool of blood. Besides that, I don’t have any reason to mix with the other residents.

I see. If I have any further questions—

I assure you, there’s nothing more I can add. If you’re done, I need to take Jasper out before he does his business on this hideous carpet.

Turner smiles, nods. Approaching Masters, Call your manager. I need to have a word with him.

Can’t, Sir

Why is that?

Mr. Hill is currently in Japan.

Exasperated, Turner walks outside to find the coroner has started his preliminary examination.

A few minutes later, at 1:53 pm, a woman and her companion arrive. In her mid-20s, she is wearing a mink coat, a thick gold chain around her neck, and a large diamond engagement ring with diamond encrusted wedding band on her left ring finger. She stands five-foot-ten, but looks taller because of her three-inch-high boots. Her long dark hair extends all the way to her hips. She is without doubt a most beautiful woman, with no need of anything more than a touch of light make up. She and her companion push through the small group of pedestrians. Approaching the body, she lets out a scream.

Ma’am? Excuse me. I’m Detective Turner with the Atlanta Police Department. Can you identify the body?

She nods.

Ma’am? Do you know the deceased?

She nods again, sobbing.

He’s my husband, is all she can utter.

What is your name, Ma’am? We need to establish his identity.

She clears her throat, I’m Blaire Olmsted, his wife. His name is Casey Ray Olmsted.

Your husband…I’m very sorry for your loss.

Thank you. But, I don’t understand any of this. He wasn’t supposed to be back so soon from his work in Kazakhstan.

Kazakhstan? What was he doing in Kazakhstan?

My husband works…my husband worked as a chemical engineer for the ExxonMobil Oil Company. His position required thirty days in the oil fields, then thirty days at home for rest. That’s how they work.

The young woman standing next to her starts to steer her away.

Just a moment Mrs. Olmsted, Ma’am. I haven’t finished yet. I need to ask you a couple more questions.

She turned back to face the detective, her tears subsiding.

Could you tell me where you’ve been for the last several hours?

"Where I’ve been?"

Yes, Ma’am.

My husband is lying here dead, and you have the audacity to ask me where I’ve been?

Just doing my job, Mrs. Olmsted. Now, if you’d answer my question, I’d be most appreciative.

Humph…I, uhmm, I left my condo late yesterday afternoon to spend the night with my friend. Today we went to Perimeter Mall for an early lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Then we walked around the mall and I bought some mascara.

What time did you leave yesterday?

She looks over at her friend. Around 4 pm? Her friend nods. We just returned from the mall, and my friend had to park her car down the street as we couldn’t get any closer. Then we noticed the people gathered and the police presence. I haven’t even gone up to my condo yet.

And I am afraid you won’t be able to. Which unit is yours?

1102. Why? You mean to tell me I can’t go up to my own home?

No, Ma’am. We’re in the beginning of an investigation.

Investigation? What will happen with my husband’s body?

After the coroner finishes his preliminary examination, he’ll be taken to the county morgue for an autopsy. You’ll be notified when you can claim his body and have him moved to a funeral home.

Autopsy? Why?

Standard procedure, Ma’am. Again, my apologies for your loss.

Just a moment, Detective. My husband is…uhmm, was the son of Senator Bartholomew Jeremie Olmsted the third.

That doesn’t change protocol, Mrs. Olmsted. And you, Ma’am? Your name?

My name? Is that necessary?

Yes, it’s necessary.

Well, if you must know, it’s Kimberley Lettuce.

Kimberley Lettuce, huh?

That’s correct. Any further questions, Detective?

Not at the moment. But, you’ll both need to leave your names and contact numbers with one of the officers.

They both turn in a huff and start to walk away. Turner watches them, shaking his head. He motions for one of his detectives to approach them and obtain the necessary information.

As soon as Blaire Olmsted and her companion leave, the coroner covers the body, leaving a policeman in charge.

Masters is back at the desk watching the CCTV screens. Security cameras are positioned in the lobby, on the outside of the front door and also on the outside of the back entrance of the building which leads to the enclosed parking lot exclusively for the residents.

Another security guard, David McAlester, who Masters called in to assist, takes several police officers, the police photographer, and Detective Turner up to unit 1102. During the elevator ride up, Turner requests one of the policewomen to contact Senator Olmsted.

Arriving on the 11th floor, the elevator opens quietly. Unit 1102 is to the right and unit 1104 to the left, with the stairway for the building at the very end. McAlester pushes the open button, heads toward 1102, unlocks the ornate door with a gold nameplate, OLMSTED, then returns to the elevator.

As the entourage of police enter a long entrance hallway, they each put on disposable gloves and foot booties. The first thing they notice is a large, battered suitcase with a heavy winter coat and iPhone laying on top. They find the inside of the large unit immaculately clean. The only thing out of place is an open slider door leading out to the side portion of the wrap-around balcony. Cold air blows through the large open space, bringing the temperature into the mid-40s. The police photographer begins snapping photos.

Exploring the rest of the unit, Turner finds the master bedroom’s king-size bed made up with elegant silk bedding and the master bath pristine. Continuing on, he checks two other large bedrooms, one used as an office and the other as a guest bedroom, both immaculate and untouched. In the oversized gourmet kitchen, Turner finds nothing out of place. Checking under the sink he finds two trash bins, one for garbage, and the other for recycling. He calls one of the officers to pull both bins for evidence.

Back in the living room, Turner is unmistakably befuddled. There is not one clue as to what happened.

Detective Turner? One of the policemen is holding a note of some kind.

Where did you find that?

Under the coffee table.

Turner takes it from the officer’s gloved hand and reads what appears to be a suicide note, signed by Casey Ray Olmsted.

Turner is perplexed. None of what they are finding is adding up. Particularly, the still cold can of beer left on the coffee table, along with a man’s wallet, keys, passport, and a pile of foreign change.

Who would open a can of beer and then commit suicide?

Turner picks up the wallet, inspecting the contents which confirms it belongs to Casey Ray Olmsted. He then picks up each item and places them in separate plastic evidence bags.

A female police officer approaches Turner. Detective? I’ve spoken with Senator Olmsted’s personal assistant who informed me that the senator is currently in D.C. The assistant will relay the news to the senator and assured me that he will be returning to Atlanta as soon as possible.

*****

News travels fast, and by 5 pm the story has hit all the local channels. By 11 that night, all the national outlets are carrying the tragic news.

The lead-in is the unexplained death of Casey Ray Olmsted, son of Senator Bartholomew Jeremie Olmsted the third. But interestingly, more of the coverage is about the senator who was born in Savannah, Georgia; the third in line of family descendants. His family is well-known as cotton and peanut growers. In addition, the senator owns many gas stations and 7-11’s in the southern part of Georgia, as well as a factory in Augusta which manufactures and distributes reading glasses sold all over the country.

The gossip about the Olmsted family grows as the story becomes more widespread, taking on a life of its own.

CHAPTER 2

Friday-Sunday, March 15-17

My given name is Jacques Ludefance, Jack for short. Mid 40s, six-foot-two, long face, high cheek bones, dark hair and mustache, and deep green eyes which have always been a big hit with the ladies. On the downside, there’s a deep scar on my right cheek; the slash extending from my eye to my lip that not even my deep tan can hide. When people stare, as they most always do, my standard answer is short and simple. Alligator bite. Growing up in Louisiana, I did some damn crazy things as a kid. Tangling with alligators was one of them.

In my previous life, I was a navy pilot flying the Prowler. Currently, I’m divorced and work as a PI in Santa Rosaria, Florida. My last case, investigating the mysterious murder of an appellate judge over in Tallahassee, wrapped up the end of December and I’ve spent the last few months recovering from injuries sustained during that investigation.

Cindy Hastings, the daughter of the murdered judge, hired me to find the killer of her father, which the Tallahassee police had been unsuccessful at doing. Since the case ended, Cindy has been visiting me regularly; kind of a surprise to both of us.

My daily six-mile walks over on Santa Rosaria Beach have helped to heal my body and put my mind at rest. There have been days when I didn’t want to think about anything or do anything. But it’s now been over two months and I’m getting that itchy feeling again. I need something to feed my brain; something to think about, act on, and solve.

I need a job. Okay. I need a wife, but last time I checked, wives don’t just suddenly appear.

My sister, Margeaux, keeps bugging me to call my ex-girlfriend Lee, but I won’t. That chapter of my life is over. On the other hand, I can’t see me and Cindy in the ‘death do us part’ gig. It’s fine for now, but not anything long term.

Margeaux is determined she will be able to convince me to give up my PI job and look for a more stable career path. Then I can find a wife, settle down, and have a family. Sorry, sis. That’s not me. And it doesn’t happen just like that. It takes time.

I keep asking myself why I’m so bored. I’m not satisfied sitting at home doing nothing. I need to be solving puzzles, finding