Alpha: A Mallory Petersen Mystery

By Stephen L Brayton

How well do we ever know anyone? Even someone we might be falling in love with...

On a rainy October morning, Mallory Petersen, private detective and martial artist, discovers the corpse of her boyfriend, Bobby Furillo, in front of her office in Des Moines, Iowa.

Bucking police authority and continually attac

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tuxtails Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957211121

Book preview

1

Now...

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Tell me a story about one of your toughest cases.

I glance behind me at the man who spoke, and he offers an anticipatory smile. My eyes need a moment to adjust from the firelight to the face the flames illuminate. Between shifting shadows, I admire his strong chin, kissable mouth, and the reflection of the fire in his deep chocolate brown eyes. One errant sandy lock dangles sexily over his forehead.

I’ve been nestling in his arms on the couch, our legs covered by a blanket. The wind howls around the corners of the house. A week before Christmas, Iowa’s bipolar weather has decided to shift toward the polar side. Snow began three days ago, light and feathery at first, but you couldn’t miss the ecstasy upon the television meteorologists’ faces as they cheerfully predicted how much worse it would get. My capital city became a bull’s eye for a slow-moving arctic front slogging through the state. Five to seven inches depending on where one lived, with a possibility (oh, how the forecasters wrung their hands with glee and their eyes glistened in delight) of up to ten or twelve inches in select areas.

The dreams of a white Christmas looked to be a reality.

Lawrence Cameron, Quad Cities cop extraordinaire, fabu-lishious hunk of a man, and my boyfriend, had braved the ice and snow-choked interstate to spend a weekend with me. Since next Saturday is the holiday and we will be with our respective families, we thought we’d spend a little time together before the holiday rush. Granted, driving around the metro probably isn’t on the agenda, but cuddling indoors is just fine, especially with as fine a specimen as Lawrence.

We met a few weeks ago when, in my role as a private investigator, I worked a case where I traveled around Des Moines, down to south central Iowa, and finally to the Quad Cities. Lawrence played chauffeur for a day as we searched for a kidnapped little girl and in the end I helped shut down a child pornography ring.

I’d been attracted to Lawrence at first sight and what sane woman wouldn’t be? He possessed cool, calming inner and outer strength and reciprocated the attraction.

As much as I would love to drag him to my bed and ravish him for hours, I have been cautious and hesitant in our relationship. The miles between us are a big factor. We squeeze in a day here and there, a dinner date in Iowa City, roughly halfway between our hometowns, and a slew of conversations via email and Skype.

He has his Special Case Squad buddies, his parents, and his siblings. I have my private investigator’s cases and my martial arts school. Building a relationship with everything going on…well, I’m just happy Lawrence is courteous, respectful, and caring enough not to push for the role of Alpha Male.

Physical distance isn’t the only reason I hold back. Yes, I’m comfortable in his arms in front of a crackling fire on a dark and cold December night, but a wall still exists, blocking me from allowing my heart to go deeper. He’s just pressed against that wall.

Throughout the evening, we’ve been quietly discussing some of Lawrence’s adventures as a metro police detective. Having met his co-workers and partners in the Special Case Squad, I understand better how they tackle cases, as well as the empathy felt when the seriousness of the crime is at the forefront.

Now, he has lobbed the ball into my court. I could try to change the subject and regale him with taekwondo tournaments or the list of more than my fair share of goofy clients. What pops to the forefront, however, is the other reason for my hesitancy in our relationship.

My mood, once content, turns somber. My body, warm and comfortable, tenses ever so slightly.

Lawrence notices the change. Mallory Petersen, what tale of derring-do are you keeping from me? he purrs into my ear.

I smile at his attempt at levity.

Come on, out with it, he urges.

I…don’t know, I stall. It’s a long story.

He inhales audibly and turns his wrist toward me, showing a nonexistent watch. We have all night. Unless you’d rather go outside and build a snowman.

No, thanks. I pause a moment more, then snuggle a little deeper into his body. Okay, you asked for it.

I close my eyes, collect my thoughts, then tell him about Bobby Furillo.

Then...

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Murder takes but a single bullet.

I later learned a .45 caliber ended the life of Bobby Furillo, but I could have provided a reasonable guess upon seeing his body.

I stood on the sidewalk under a dirty white protective awning as the October sky dumped enough rain on which even Noah would have commented. I did not envy the score of officers, forensics experts, and paramedics moving in haste, trying to protect both the corpse and the crime scene from the elements.

Dressed in jeans and a sweater under a Sam Spade trench coat and hat, I shivered, horrified, but I couldn’t stop staring as it all unfolded before me.

Bobby’s body lay crumpled upon the wet asphalt in the parking lot next to my office building. Blood from the massive exit hole in his back disappeared in thin colored streams. Red-tinged water-saturated and darkened his jeans, a leather jacket, and a striped button-down shirt. The expression on the once handsome face showed a combination of surprise and shock, blended to form an image too tragic for anyone to want to remember, but one I’d never forget.

Rain battered the half dozen roses thrown aside at the moment of death, detaching petals at random, sending them swirling into the gutter and on down the street to disappear in a soon-to-be-overflowing sewer entrance.

Bobby had stopped by my office to take me to lunch, and he wanted to bring me flowers.

Instead, when I drove into the parking lot, I discovered he’d brought me death and heartache.

I walked into the lobby of the building where I have my private investigator’s office. My business was on the second floor, the first taken up by Gunther Mendelssohn’s unique art gallery. He sold kitschy statues, abstract sculptures, and other eclectic art. He’s also my landlord.

Gunther was a loving soul who has lived a hard life, worked for, and deserved every success. He’s happy, save for an ever-present longing for a departed wife and caring for a daughter with mental problems due to an abusive ex-husband.

The homicide detective who trailed after me shook water from his hair and coat, sniping and griping at Mother Nature all the while. Despite the tragedy a few yards outside the door, I smiled at his attitude.

Harry Reznik was less than a decade older than my twenty-eight years, a couple of inches shorter than my six feet, rich, woody colored hair as opposed to my blonde locks, dark brown eyes contrasting sharply with my blue, and a seemingly natural fit and healthy stature whereas I made a habit of regular workouts to stay strong but not heavy.

I was proud of my good relations with the Des Moines Police Department, befriending various patrol officers and many investigators in the different divisions. Reznik and I didn’t socialize, but whenever we met, we found some mutual topics of interest to discuss. At the start of this year, his wife took one of my S.H.A.R.P. classes. The Sexual Harassment, Assault, and Rape Prevention course for women and girls gives them a sense of empowerment, confidence, and practical self-defense techniques without having to enroll in my regular taekwondo classes. Reznik had thanked me several times since for the class and has been instrumental in scheduling further sessions for area women’s groups.

I only wish my efforts could have helped prevent the violent attack upon his wife in May and her subsequent death a few months later. From what I’ve heard, however, nothing but a miracle could have saved her.

Despite his loss, he still retained a cynical but likable nature and loved his job. Today, however, he could have been happier without the current downpour.

After I shed my hat, he sighed, curled his lips, and muttered, Hell of a mess, Petersen.

I nodded, knowing he referred to both the weather and the murder.

I take it you know the victim?

I moved my head affirmatively again. His name is—was—Bobby Furillo.

Reznik waited and in a low voice, I answered his next unspoken question. I knew the script. He was my boyfriend.

His turn to nod. From somewhere in the depths of his clothes, he produced a small rectangular spiral notebook and pen. He flipped a page, clicked the silver cylinder on top of his pen, and started scribbling notes. Known him long?

A few months.

Employed?

An auto accessories dealer, I answered. Based in Kansas City.

Reznik paused in his scratching and glanced at me. What’s he doing in Des Moines?

It’s part of his regular route. I saw him once or twice a week.

Did he ever mention a company name?

Elite Automotive.

Know any enemies he may have had?

No.

He sighed, sneered again, but I figured he didn’t like the upcoming questions, even though the job required them. All right, you know the next few lines. How was your relationship? Any problems or arguments? Did he get too pushy and you had to nail him in the nuts with a front kick?

I allowed a half smile to form, a slight shake of my head my answer. No to all. I had a fine relationship with him, detective. I only wish I could have seen him more often.

Reznik perused his notes. Not much here, Petersen. Nothing to explain the nature of the violence.

I don’t know what to tell you, I replied. The shooter must have just driven away and no; I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary before or after I found Bobby.

Does he have any family?

Just then, a footstep scraped above me. Darren, my secretary, descended the stairs, acting as if he possessed a mystical talent for timing, but I suspected the little imp had been eavesdropping.

Darren was a few years younger than I, with light brown hair, hazel puppy dog eyes, a surname-defying pronunciation, and an uncanny ability to seemingly not be doing anything yet have everything done. We’d worked together for several years, and our relationship had deepened beyond basic employer/employee, stopping short of the romantic line.

He proffered a manila folder to Reznik. Upon opening it, the detective gave a curious glance at Darren and then scribbled more notes before passing the folder to me.

The information included a printed bio on Bobby, listing a Kansas City address and a south side Des Moines address for an Antonella Furillo.

His mother? I asked.

My secretary nodded.

She lives in town?

Apparently, Reznik replied. I take it by your response you didn’t know this?

I figured his mother lived in Kansas City.

A silence settled over our little trio. The first tingles of something not right about the case tingled inside. No, Bobby and I hadn’t known each other long, but I had found myself very attracted to him. Had the high of a budding relationship blinded me?

As in, to not knowing Bobby had a mother who lived only a few miles from where we stood?

Before I’d even acknowledged it, I developed an undeniable resolution to see this murder case solved and to be involved with the solution as much as possible. My curious investigator’s nature was not going to let this go. Besides, it was personal.

I asked Reznik if I could follow him to the mother’s house. He narrowed his eyes, but I offered a valid explanation for my presence. It might be better if someone who knew Bobby broke the news.

I don’t know if Reznik suspected an ulterior motive, but Darren knew, and I knew he knew. I sent him a sharp, short, steely glare commanding silence.

Aw, what the hell, Reznik groused. I shouldn’t be the only one to go back out in this rain.

We agreed he’d come collect me after some door-to-door inquiries up and down the avenue. He returned to said deluge muttering incoherent curses all the way.

I schlepped upstairs followed by a silent Darren. In the reception room, I morosely shed my outerwear and dropped them on the visitors’ chair. At the door to my office, I stopped and gazed at the cavernous space. The room used to be part of Mendelssohn’s art gallery before he decided to pare down his selection. The gilded walls and ceiling remained, and the room resembled an empty overdone cathedral.

My desk, accompanying chairs, coat rack, file cabinet, and mini-fridge, located at the far end, only added to the amusing irony. Usually, I don’t mind the vastness of the office, and I always get a kick out of the clients’ reactions.

Today, however, the emptiness loomed cold and hollow, like my heart. As I trudged to my desk, my footfalls echoed and faded, lonely and somber. I slumped into my chair, the last tenacious drops of rain clinging to my hair piddling on the desktop. From the high windows, red and blue swirls from the emergency vehicles flickered weakly around the walls. With each monotonous flash, the ache in my heart stabbed a little more. The battering rain on the roof competed with ocean-like waves crashing in my ears.

Bobby’s death began its journey by eating into my thoughts and my soul. If he’d suffered a heart attack or even an aneurysm and collapsed dead on the pavement, his death still would have been heart-wrenching. But a drive-by? Why such destruction? Why such violence? Why Bobby?

Why Bobby?

I admit I had fallen hard for him. We’d met in August, but I missed him whenever he left town. I thought of him during the cool fall evenings when all I had to occupy my time was the new season of television programs. A mental picture of his handsome face kept intruding upon my concentration while instructing my taekwondo classes, and I ached for class to end so I could call him, just to hear his voice, to learn when he’d be returning to Des Moines.

I won’t admit I loved him, but I was nearing that emotional state. With his death not an hour old and my heart squeezing the breath from me, some part of rationality struggled to the surface. A mental finger poked me, making me pay attention.

Bobby Furillo. What did I know about him? We talked, but did we ever converse?

Head bowed and eyes closed, I tried to remember our times together. He enjoyed listening to me talk taekwondo and about my private investigator cases. I loved hearing about his…

Job? He told me a few stories about some of his customers, about his route from Kansas City to Des Moines and the smaller towns south.

Kansas City. I knew about the Royals and the Chiefs and the casinos and, of course, the barbecue. I had never visited as a tourist although I’d driven through every summer on my way to Little Rock for my taekwondo organization’s World Championships. Bobby liked to talk about KC and threw me some interesting trivial tidbits.

It had more freeway miles per thousand residents than Los Angeles.

Its nickname was the City of Fountains.

Charlie Parker and Count Basie claimed the city as home.

Bobby’s family? There I faltered. No, we never discussed his family. Obviously not, since ten minutes ago I learned his mother lived ten minutes away.

He knew about my parents. I told him of my father’s support of my private eye profession even though he thinks I should get a real job. We laughed at my mother’s kookiness when my love life comes up for discussion.

Could what I didn’t know about Bobby’s life be a factor in his death?

I decided to wait for Reznik either downstairs or outside. My hangar of an office seemed unnaturally confining. I needed to move, to do something. On the way through the lobby, donning the trench and hat, I gave Darren a hesitant look and then made a decision.

In a low voice, I said, I want you to discover every scrap of information about Bobby.

Yes, ma’am, he replied.

Everything. I want to know about this Elite Automotive company he worked for, his family, his high school, even what brand of peanut butter he bought. Understand? Everything.

He nodded once, and I marched out of the office.

Officer Gary Nelson ran, hunkered against the rain, to my shelter beneath the awning over the entrance door. The drenching of the world continued unabated. Deflected spray from the sidewalk spattered my pants while Gary looked like he’d taken a shower fully clothed.

He was one of my better friends in the Des Moines Police Department. I’d ridden shotgun as an observer with him several times. Over the years, he introduced me to other officers and detectives on the force with whom he kept good relations. He stayed informed about various investigations and kept me up-to-date on anything beneficial to me and mine.

The man possessed Nicholas Cage handsomeness. A little shorter than I, he kept himself fit, had a working knowledge of most current events, could discuss politics and perverts with equal aplomb, possessed a witty sense of humor, and regularly walked a Boxer named Moose. We shared breakfast, lunch, or just coffee (for him, Dr Pepper for me), a few times per week.

He said nothing but I answered his unspoken question. I’m all right, Gary. Thanks.

He continued to stare at me, and I caught the mental vibes.

You know I have to, I said. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines for this one.

Mallory…

Don’t say it, Gary, I interrupted. Harry knows it, too. You and he can sit me down and tell me to stay out of the way, but as soon as you turn your backs, I’m going to be hitting the streets for information.

Mallory, he said with just enough authority to shut me up. We met each other’s eyes. He sighed. "I’m not going to tell you to stay out of the way, just don’t get in the way. Let Harry do his job. He’s a good detective, and he won’t stop until he finds who did this."

I know, Gary, I said. I know.

Just be careful.

Yeah.

A familiar-looking car caught my attention. The dark blue Chevrolet Caprice idled on the far side of Locust about half a block west of the main congregation of vehicles. Even before I narrowed my eyes to spot the telltale red dot of a burning cigarette through the windshield, I knew who sat in the driver’s seat.

What’s he doing here? I asked.

The car was designated for the Chief of Police, Peter Inis. Unkindly named Chief Anus by his detractors—the number of whom seemed to increase almost daily and included yours truly—he came across as a hard-nosed hardliner, who resented my profession in general and, for some reason, me in particular. I’d met him a few times over the years and a kind word to me he never spoke. Gary once told me Inis referred to me as that karate bitch.

Probably on his way back from a meeting, Gary suggested. Just wanted to observe things.

I said nothing.

You know he likes to keep an eye on some of the investigations.

I snorted in derision. Inis didn’t keep an eye on things, he intimidated. Most of the troops kept their distance whenever possible.

Inis must have noticed our overt attention or had deduced the conversation. He partially rolled down the window and flicked his cancer stick out into the rain. Like a panther stalking the brush, he silently reversed against oncoming traffic to the next intersection and turned south. Only his profile was visible, determinedly not looking my way, as he disappeared.

2

Now...

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Care for some cocoa? I ask.

Without waiting for Lawrence’s answer, I extricate myself from his arms, the toasty blankets, the comfy couch, and shuffle into the kitchen.

As I gather accouterments for cocoa, I cannot but wonder what my new boyfriend must think of me. Not even a month into our relationship and we’re already spending close time together. Moreover, I’m telling of a past beau, pouring out my anxiety. What message am I sending him? What sort of woman does he think me to be?

He’s seen me motivated, witty, tough, embarrassed, determined, angry, and vulnerable, all within a short span of forty-eight hours. The case in which we met had me hitting the adrenaline overload, and I have had several instances where I’ve found myself wondering if my attraction to Lawrence was a residual result. In other words, what happens when the newness fades? Will my feelings toward him remain? What about his attraction to me?

How will he look at me when I continue my story about Bobby?

I can take charge of a martial arts class of rambunctious eight-year-olds, comfortably discuss with parents the benefits of upgrading their child’s membership, and proudly tout the virtues of honesty, discipline, self-control, and a positive mental attitude. When it comes to matters of the heart…well, I’m a squishy, over-analyzing, worrisome worm. I get caught up in the moment only to come crashing down, heartbroken, and feeling stupid.

With Bobby—wow—I experienced a whirlwind of emotions and confusion and was driven to uncover the secrets.

The secrets…and the lies.

We could play Scrabble instead, Lawrence suggests when I offer him one of the steaming mugs of hot chocolate with a double layer of mini marshmallows floating on top. His words are half jest but leave me an out.

I prop a pillow on the opposite side of the couch. Lawrence shifts his legs to make room for me. We face each other, his countenance bathed in a soft orange-yellow, mine in shadow. An air pocket pops like a cap gun from the chunk of wood in the fireplace and ash sloughs off a smaller piece.

I stare meaningfully into his eyes and sip from my mug. I think you should know, I say through the wafting steam.

It’s up to you, Mal. If reopening the wound will be too much…

No. Yes. I mean, there’s a lot to it.

Well, so far you have a dead body, a mother who lives nearby, and a lurking police chief. I’ll always wonder, but if you want to stop…

I give him a small smile. The list of revelations will grow.

He hikes his eyebrows. I sigh, sip again, and continue.

Then...

---

Antonella Furillo lived on McKinley Avenue, just east of Southeast Ninth. It is one of several thoroughfares spanning the breadth of the south side. Middle-class neighborhoods with apartment complexes, duplexes, four-plexes, and smaller homes sprinkled along the route.

Amid these residences sat a unique house. The intensity of the rainfall had waned enough to allow me to study it in some detail.

My first impression: the builders had played Honey I Shrunk the Castle, transported the manse from some European countryside, over the Atlantic, across half a continent, and plopped it down in Iowa’s capital. Even soaked, the house presented a striking combination of grays and lavenders. Several small spires clustered around a tall, lance-shaped tower. Nearly every upstairs window boasted a balcony.

An extra half lot was required just for the crescent moon driveway. Dormant flower beds lined the drive and nestled against the foundation. Stately sentry pines bordered the back of the property.

I parked my 1970 Dodge Dart behind Reznik’s Buick under an expanded portico, two inappropriate Hot Wheels cars in front of an expensive dollhouse.

I’ve passed this house dozens of times, commented Reznik. I’ve always wondered who lived here. Ten to one a butler answers the door.

No bet, I said.

When Reznik pressed the button, ten seconds of chiming resounded, the kind one might hear in a Godfather movie. Still reeling from Bobby’s violent death, a touch of the surreal swirled in my head. Some of my cases were out of the norm…well, goofy might be a more apt description. I hoped this one wouldn’t turn silly. Surely not.

My next surprise came in the form of the middle-aged woman who opened the door. I had imagined a compact but strong-statured and iron-willed Italian mother. Instead, I received short, yes, but a mixture of Gypsy along with Italian. Late fifties, but her face was a topographical terrain of wrinkles and ridges. Thin graying hair cut just below her shoulders, hair tie choking off a round, tight knob. She wore a simple house dress with a faded flower imprint and black flats. Deep, dark, curious eyes quietly inquired.

Reznik took the lead. Mrs. Antonella Furillo?

Yes, came the gentle reply.

I’m Detective Reznik, ma’am. He produced his identification, then pointed to me and hesitated. This is… Mallory Petersen. Could we have a few minutes of your time?

At this point, most people asked the reason for an unexpected visit from the police. Too often tragic news was delivered upon a doorstep. However, Mrs. Furillo peered at the rain, the wind blowing tree branches, our sodden states, and invited us inside.

After we’d allowed enough time to pass to