Double Homicide

by Jonathan Kellerman, Faye Kellerman

Genres: Anthologies; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Faye and Jonathan Kellerman. Wife and husband. Each a best-selling author on her and his own. Now these masters of the crime novel are writing together for the first time, thrilling us with two riveting tales of murder and suspense.Double Homicide: Boston
Basketball is an obsession in Beantown, producing emotions that run hot even in the coldest winter. This time, a flagrant foul during a college match leads to a fatal shooting. With the life of its star forward cut short, the entire city is putting pressure on Detectives Dorothy Breton and Michael McCain to find the perpetrator.

For Dorothy, who's raising two teenage boys on her own, the case hits close to home. She knows the victim's mother; their sons played on the same team. To Mickey, who's given up the fight against his bulging waistline, the investigation is poor consolation for being alone this holiday season. Together, they're looking to make an open-and-shut case, until startling evidence comes to light. Now two experienced cops can either keep it simple...or do what's right.

Double Homicide: Santa Fe
It's Christmastime, and police officers Darrel Two Moons and Steve Katz are expecting the usual gang assaults, feuding spouses, and alcohol-related misdemeanors. Then the call comes in from the Historic District: the reported death of an art gallery owner whose bludgeoned body stretches across a bleached pine floor like a big, nasty still life.

When he was in the NYPD, Katz saw more homicides weekly than he's seen in Santa Fe in three years. Two Moons, an Army brat and ex-Marine, is discovering his roots among local Indian potters. But everything personal goes by the wayside as they unearth the victim's enemies and follow a trail of motives that lies buried like layers of paint. As biting winds blow through town, Two Moons and Katz enter a dangerous world where murder has been perfected to an art form.

Release date: October 1, 2004

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

It wasn’t that Dorothy was nosy. She was going through the backpack because it stank. Five days’ worth of rotted food leaked from brown lunch bags—a microbe’s dream. After carefully extracting the olfactory offense with her fingertips, she saw something at the bottom, partially buried beneath crumpled papers and textbooks. Just the merest wink of metal, but it spoke to her with malevolence.

Her heart slammed against her chest.

Gingerly, she pushed away the junk on top until the object was completely exposed—a Smith & Wesson revolver, an old one. Taking it out of the knapsack, she examined the weapon. Nicked, scarred, rust around the muzzle. Poorly maintained. Six blank chambers, but that was meager comfort.

Her face registered shock, then the rage set in.

“Spencer!” Her normally deep voice had turned shrill. “Spencer, get your sorry ass in here right now!”

Her screaming was futile. Spencer was down the block, shooting b-balls in the Y with the gang: Rashid, Armando, Cory, Juwoine, and Richie. The fifteen-year-old had no idea that his mother was home, let alone that she (a) was in his room, (b) was going through his personal belongings, and (c) had discovered a gun in his book bag. She heard the stairs creak under heavy footsteps. It was her elder son, Marcus. He stood at the doorway to the room like a sentry—hands across his chest, legs spread apart.

“What’s going on, Ma?”

Dorothy whirled around and shoved the empty gun in his face. “What do you know about this?”

Marcus grimaced and took a step backward. “What are you doing?”

“I found this in your brother’s backpack!”

“Why are you going through Spencer’s backpack?”

“That is not the point!” Dorothy spit out furiously. “I am his mother and I am your mother and I don’t need a reason to go through your backpack or his!”

“Yes, you do,” Marcus countered. “Our backpacks are personal. There are privacy issues—”

“Well, right now, I don’t give a good goddamn about privacy!” Dorothy screamed. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing!” Marcus screamed back. “Nothing at all, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay! I find a revolver in your brother’s backpack and that’s not okay, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Damn right okay.” Dorothy’s chest was sore and tight, and she gasped for each intake of breath. It was hot and sticky and smelly. The heating in the building was erratic and unreliable, the temperature vacillating between Saharan scorcher and arctic freeze. Unceremoniously, she plunked herself down on Spencer’s bed and tried to regain composure. The mattress sagged under her weight. She had a too thick layer of fat, to be sure, but it did cover a body of strong, steely muscle.

The tiny room was closing in on her: twin beds pressed so close together a nightstand couldn’t fit between them. The closet was open and overflowing with T-shirts, sweatpants, shorts, socks, shoes, books, CDs, videos, and sports equipment. The blinds hadn’t been dusted in a month. The boys had a hamper, but dirty clothing was strewn over what little floor space existed. The area was littered with papers, candy wrappers, empty bags and boxes. Why couldn’t the boys keep the place at least minimally clean?

Marcus sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am not all right!” She knew she was snapping at the wrong person. She was overworked, worn-out, and disillusioned. She dragged her hands over her face. Rubbed her eyes. Forced herself to soften her voice. “You don’t know anything about this?”

“No.”

“Good Lord,” Dorothy said. “What next?”

Marcus looked away. “He’s going through a rough period—”

“This is more than a rough period!” She clutched the firearm. “This is illegal and potentially lethal!”

“I know, Ma. It isn’t good.” The twenty-one-year-old regarded his mother’s face. “But if you’re going to handle it, you can’t be hysterical.”

“I’m not hysterical, goddammit. I’m . . . I’m maternal! With maternal concerns!” Again, she snapped, “Where’d he get this?”

“I have no idea.”

“I suppose I could run it through the system.”

“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

Dorothy was silent.

“Why don’t you talk to him first?” Marcus looked at his mother. “Talk, Ma. Not scream. Talk.” A pause. “Or even better, I’ll talk—”

“You are not his mother! This is not your job!”

Marcus threw up his hands. “Fine. Have it your way. You always do.”

Dorothy bolted up, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just what does that mean?”

“It’s self-explanatory.” Marcus kicked his backpack over, then brought it up to his arms by hooking a shoe under a strap and flipping it upward. He rummaged through the contents and took out a book. “In case you didn’t already know, I’ve got a game tonight plus two hundred pages left in European History. Not to mention I’m doing the morning shift at the library after five-thirty a.m. practice tomorrow. Do you mind?”

“Don’t you sass me.”

“I’m not sassing anyone, I’m trying to get my work done. Jesus, you’re not the only one with obligations.” Marcus got to his feet, then plopped down onto his own bed, nearly breaking the sagging springs. “Close the door on the way out.”

It was time for Dorothy to reevaluate. She remembered to keep her voice down. “So what do you think I should do? Just let it go? I’m not going to just let it go, Marcus.”

He put down his book. “No, I don’t think you should let it go. But a little objectivity might help. Pretend he’s one of your suspects, Ma. You always brag that you got the soft touch in the department. Use it.”

“Marcus, why is Spencer carrying a gun?”

He forced himself to look straight at his mother’s eyes. Big brown eyes. Big woman; her no-nonsense cropped kinky hair made her face loom larger. Prominent cheekbones. Lips compressed into a pout. She was a half inch shy of six feet, with big heavy bones, yet she had long and graceful fingers. A beautiful woman who’d earned the right to be respected. “I know you’re worried, but it’s probably no big deal. It’s a rough world out there. Maybe it makes him feel secure.” He focused in on Dorothy’s eyes. “Doesn’t it make you feel secure?”

“For me, it’s standard equipment, Marcus, not boasting rights. And we’re not talking about a cigarette or even marijuana. Guns are killing machines. That’s what they do. They kill people. A young boy like that has no business carrying a weapon no matter how threatened he feels. If something’s wrong, he should talk to me.”

She eyed her elder son. “Has he said anything to you?”

“About what?”

“About what’s troubling him so bad he feels the need to pack iron.”

Marcus bit his lower lip. “Nothing specific. Look, if you want, I’ll go by the Y and walk him home. But he’s going to be pretty pissed that you went through his things.”

“I wouldn’t have done it except his book bag was stinking up the place.”

“Yeah, the room does smell like a big fart.” He laughed and shook his head. “Mama, why don’t you go out, catch a quick dinner with Aunt Martha before the game? Or maybe do some Christmas shopping.”

“I don’t feel like spending money, and I don’t feel like hearing about Martha’s GERD.”

“She’s just spouting off ’cause you don’t say nothing.”

“I talk.”

“You grunt.”

Which was just what she was about to do. She checked it, forced herself calm. “I’ll go get your brother. This is an issue between the two of us, and I have to deal with him. You just concentrate on your studies, okay?”

“Is this going to be loud?”

“It may get . . . emphatic.”

Marcus kissed her cheek and got up from the bed. He threw his heavy down jacket over his shoulder and tucked his textbook under his arm. “I think I’d be better off at the library. You comin’ tonight?”

“Do I ever miss your games?” She stroked his face. “You need money for dinner?”

“Nah, I still got pocket change from last month’s stipend. Wait.” He let his jacket fall to the floor and handed his mother his book. “I’ve got coupons.” He sorted through his wallet and took out four slips of paper. Kept one and gave the rest to his mother. “They were giving these out at practice yesterday.”

Dorothy looked at the scrips: Each was worth up to five dollars of free food. “Who gave these to you?”

“Local sponsors. They give them away to everyone at the doors. God forbid the NCAA should think we’re getting a freebie.” He shook his head. “Man, a crummy coupon is the least they could do for exploiting us. Last week’s game was a sellout. Because of Julius, of course. He’s the star. We’re just the sideshow—his own personal valets. Asshole!”

“Don’t swear.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dorothy felt a pang of maternal defensiveness. “That boy couldn’t do nothing without the rest of you feeding him perfect shots.”

“Yeah, you try and tell the hog that b-ball is a team sport. If me or anyone else says anything to Coach, Julius gets mad and next thing I know I’m out on my ass. And there’re like three hundred homies waiting in the wings, thinking that Boston Ferris is their ticket to the NBA. Not that it’s bad to dream . . .” He sighed. “Shit, I dream.”

Tenderness welled inside her breast. Dorothy said, “There are dreams, Marcus, and there are pipe dreams. Like I always tell you, a good sports agent with a Harvard law degree can make lots of money without killing his back and knees and being a washout at thirty.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re not listening.”

“I’m listening, it’s just . . .” The young man scratched his head. “I don’t know, Ma. I fall for it the same as everyone else. I’ve got the dream. But I also know reality. I’m trying to live in both worlds, but I just can’t keep going at this pace. Something’s gonna give.”

Dorothy threw her arms around her son. “I know you love the game, Marcus. I love the game, too. And I would never be the one to want to spoil your dream, but I just want what’s best for you.”

“I know you do, Ma. And I also know the Ivy law schools just love the big black boys with good test scores and the high GPAs. I know I’d be a jerk to blow this kind of opportunity. Still, you think about things.” His eyes became distant and unfocused. “It’s all right. When the time comes, I’ll do the right thing.”

Dorothy kissed her son’s cheek. “You always do.”

“Yes, that’s true.” He paused. “Good old reliable Marcus.”

“Stop that!” Dorothy frowned. “You’ve been given gifts from the good Lord. Don’t be an ingrate.”

“Absolutely.” Marcus slipped the jacket on and tossed his backpack over his shoulder. “I know where I come from. I know where you came from, Mama. I know how hard you work. I don’t take anything for granted.”

2

Slumped in the driver’s seat of the car, drinking coffee that was too strong and too hot, Michael Anthony McCain squinted through the foggy windshield as his brain took a trip down memory lane, back to the time when he had it all. About ten years ago. When he was in his early thirties, around the time he’d been promoted to detective one. One hundred and seventy pounds of pure muscle on his five-eleven frame, he’d been able to bench-press three on a good day. His hair had been thick, light brown in the winter, dirty blond in the summer. With his sparkling baby blues and his dazzling white smile made possible by thousands of dollars’ worth of dental work, he’d been a hell of a pussy magnet. Even Grace had forgiven his occasional indiscretions because he was an incredible specimen of the male species.

Now she had no tolerance at all.

If he was home a minute late, she’d get all snitty on him, giving him the cold shoulder for days even if he didn’t do nothing. Which, unfortunately, was all the time, unless he went hunting, which he wasn’t inclined to do, being too broke, too busy, and too tired.

Even then, it’s not like he went after women. They just came to him.

McCain made a sour face.

It had been a long time since someone—anything—had just come to him.

Fucking-A long time.

He turned on the defogger for the zillionth time, which blasted cold, then hot air, until the interior of the Ford was as hot and humid as a rain forest. As soon as he killed the switch, frigid air seeped through the cracks and crevices, exposing the shoddy fit and finish of the car. He shifted his weight, trying to stretch his legs as best he could, given the cramped conditions. His right toe was numb and so was his butt. Sitting too long.

He was swaddled in layers of clothing that made him too hot in some places and too cold in others. His hands were encased in leather gloves, making it hard to hold the cup, but at least when the coffee sloshed over the rim, he didn’t feel the burn against his hands. His nose was cold, but his feet were warm courtesy of a little electric foot heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter of the Escort. He’d be comfortable—relatively comfortable—until the contraption short-circuited.

Given his history with departmental gear, McCain gave it a couple of weeks.

Through the glass, Aberdeen Street was superficially cheerful. The night was still, the air electrified by blinking Christmas lights strung along the rain gutters of shabby frame houses. Snow left over from last week’s storm still dusted bushes and trees. Icicles hung like tears from the eaves of the houses that lined the block.

Not many single-family homes left anymore in this part of Somerville; most of the houses were leased out and shared. The neighborhood was no South Boston or Roxbury. Most of the residents were decent types—working-class stiffs, born and bred in and around the city. A fair share of graduate students, too, looking for cheaper housing because rentals in Cambridge were exorbitant. But the district had its share of bad guys.

The yellow house McCain was watching was filled with students, including the bad guy’s current squeeze—a pie-eyed sociology major at Tufts. Privileged girl, currently screwing Romeo Fritt, the murderous psychopath. She’d taken her parents’ protests as racism. Idiots never learned; normally, that wasn’t McCain’s problem except that Fritt was wanted for an especially brutal multiple murder in Perciville, Tennessee, and according to an anonymous tip, he was possibly bunking at the pie-eyed girl’s apartment—and that was his problem.

Underneath his parka, McCain had loosened the top button on his pants, giving him more slop-over room for his gut. Used to be he could eat whatever he wanted and a couple hours in the gym four days a week was enough to keep the almighty spread at bay.

Not no more.

About five, six years ago, he’d started running in the morning—couple of miles, then three, then four. That worked for a while. Now? Fergetit. No matter how much progress he logged up and down Commonwealth, his waist kept growing. Then, irony of ironies, around the same time he started putting on the pounds, his head hair started falling out. Then, adding insult to fucking injury, useless hair started growing in his nose and ears.

What the fuck was that all about?

He finished the last dregs of his coffee and threw the paper cup onto the backseat. The yellow house had been lifeless for the last hour. He had one more hour to go before his shift was up. Because of the cold, they were working in two-hour segments, bosses figuring it wouldn’t look good for the department to be sued for frostbite.

Just one friggin’ hour to go, though why he cared was a mystery. Nothing to come home to. Grace had taken Sandy and Micky Junior to her parents’ condo in Florida for their two-week holiday break. He was supposed to join them later on in the week, hopefully for Christmas, but if not then, he’d go for New Year’s. In any case, no one was home right now. Nothing living in the house except a couple of plants.

Sally had died three months ago, and he was still in mourning for her. The one-hundred-fifty-pound Rottweiler bitch had been his best friend, staying up with him nights when the rest of the family went to bed, stinking up his den with her flatulence. Man, she could fart. Had to put her on Beano it was so bad. Congestive heart failure had finished her. Three weeks of fading away.

He missed her like crazy. Lately, he’d considered getting a new Rottie but finally decided against it. It wouldn’t be Sally. Besides, the breed didn’t live too long, and he didn’t know if he was up to another protracted mourning where his eyes hurt a lot and he couldn’t tell anyone how he felt.

Maybe one of those countertop Christmas trees would help—something to cheer up the place—but who had time?

Rubbing his neck, McCain stretched once again, staring across a dark street at the dark house. Nice bones to the place. Ripe for renovation. Somerville had lots of old trees and parks, and on the part that bordered Medford, near Tufts, there were lots of cutesy college cafés. Still, wherever there were college students, bad dogs moved in and did their business.

McCain peered through the binocs. The house remained inert. Fritt’s girlfriend lived in the top bedroom, first decent break the police had gotten since the APB came down from Perciville. But not everything pans out.

Fifty minutes to go.

McCain suddenly realized that he was lonely. Picking up the cell, he punched AutoDial 3. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said into the receiver.

“Hey,” Dorothy answered back. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“No movement at all?”

“As dark as a witch’s tit.”

A pause over the l. . .