Tag: Thriller
The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery) – Chapter 12 – Ed Voss and Tony Morelli at AirCon
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The Alibi – Chapter 12
Tony Morelli reached over the center console to the Impala’s glove compartment.
Ed Voss’ booted feet snapped against the car’s floorboards as he pushed himself back into the passenger seat. “Brake!”
Morelli’s eyes returned to the road. A pudgy-faced, middle-aged, overweight man, long black hair, wraparound Ray-bans and needing a shave stood in front of the Impala in a jogging suit with his mobile up in front of him, his eyes on the mobile’s screen.
Morelli stopped and honked his horn.
The man spread his feet into a power stance but otherwise didn’t move.
Voss opened the glovebox. “What do you need?”
Morelli reached into his pocket, pulled out a badge, lowered his window, and called to an idle patrolman watching the crowd. “Officer? A little assistance, please?”
The man stood his ground as the officer approached.
Voss nodded at the man holding the mobile. “Must be the government plates.”
Morelli held his shield up for the officer. “Mind removing that gentleman from our path and telling the rest of the BPD we’re coming through?” The officer looked at the man, still videoing, and shook his head as he shuffled towards him.
Morelli watched. “There’s a Federal ID in a plastic sheet in there. Mind handing it over?”
Voss glanced at it. Official looking badges and banners stood over legal looking words giving Morelli, the car, and anybody with him access and safe passage to anything they wanted. “Can I get one of these?”
Morelli chuckled as he placed it on his dashboard where everyone could see it. “You wouldn’t want one.”
The officer and the fat man got into a shoving match with the fat man working hard to keep his mobile on Morelli’s car and its occupants. The officer pushed hard and knocked the fat man back. The fat man reached behind him and pulled out a small handgun.
Morelli yelled, “Gun!”
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The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery) – Chapter 11 – Mary Frances Cuccello, Rhinehold, Cranston at AirCon bomb scene
Cranston nodded at the crowd control officers who waved him through. Rhinehold, beside Cranston in the unmarked car, whistled at all the activity. “Wonder what happened.”
Cranston shook his head as he exited the car. “Bomb went off, remember?”
Rhinehold exited the shotgun side. “Yeah, but this looks serious.”
Cranston glanced at Rhinehold over the top of their dark blue Chevy sedan and continued shaking his head.
He walked up behind a petite woman covered head to foot in a white Tyvek forensics suit. “Mary Frances.”
The petite woman turned, removed her right glove, her mask, offered him her hand and smiled. “William.”
“What’s a good looking woman like you doing at a crime scene like this?”
Mary Frances kept her eyes on Cranston and nodded towards Rhinehold. “Who’s today’s Tonto?”
Rhinehold held out his hand. “John Rhinehold. Nice to meet you Mary Frances.”
She locked eyes with him. “Dr. Cuccello.”
“Beg pardon.”
“I’m Dr. Cuccello.”
“Sorry, I thought Bill called you Mary Frances.”
Cucello put her glove and mask back on. “Him I know.”
Cranston watched forensics personnel come and go from AirCon’s garage. “When will you be able to talk?”
“Maybe five, ten minutes. They know what to do. I’m just here for the unexpected.”
“Buy you a coffee?”
“Large double-double. And from the coffee shop around the corner, not from Starschmucks.”
“Meet you there.”
Cranston and Rhinehold sat on a concrete bench outside the coffee shop, a large double-double between them and a bag containing a single maple-cream donut.
Rhinehold sipped a designer water. “Does she know that stuff will kill her?”
“She probably knows more about what happens to it inside her than you do now or ever will.”
Rhinehold sipped his water. “What’s her story?”
Cranston spoke as if reading a report. “Maria Francesco Cuccello, aka Mary Frances, born 1972, lives in an apartment building her great-grandfather first lived in then bought after working three jobs for fifteen years. Graduated double BSc Chemistry and Psychology Tufts, 1990, dual PhDs John Hopkins Pathology and Physiology 1994, FBI Forensics Academy 1998, been a guest lecturer there, Cambridge, the Sorbonne, Beijing Institute – ”
“Pretty knowledgeable, huh?”
Cranston nodded as Cuccello approached sans Tyvek. Now in a pair of comfortable white slacks, red blouse slightly opened at the neck, and a darker red blazer over it. Her short blonde hair and deep, Sicilian complexion set off her color choices well.
Rhinehold whispered, “That can’t be her natural haircolor.”
Cranston laughed into his coffee. “You’ll never know.”
Rhinehold stood and held out her coffee as Cucello approached. Their size difference forced him to look down at her and his eyes caught a delicate, gold glinting anchor chain around her neck. “Hello, Dr. Cuccello.”
“If only your eyes had hands, huh, Tonto?”
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The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery) – Chapter 10 – Naomi Dillinger, Annabelle
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The Alibi – Chapter 10
Naomi Dillinger stood at aisle 7’s Tide end display, the nozzle of an industrial wet-dry vac in her hand. An angry customer slashed six of the gallon-plus ultra concentrated detergent buckets.
She knew they weren’t called buckets but look at the size of them.
Annabelle, the other girl on Naomi’s custodial team, petite and mute, backed away from the spill and wiped her eyes.
The floor manager mused, “Must have been some kind of angry to do something like this.”
Naomi handed Annabelle a tissue. “Must have come prepared carrying a knife that’d do this. Those containers are thick-walled, don’t cut easy. And small. Or concealable. A Karambit or Adamas, probably.”
The floor manager stared at her.
Naomi shuffled through the custodial cart’s supplies. “We’ll need to perimeterize this.”
The floor manager backed away. “You scare me, Dillinger. Perimeterize? Kambit and Adam? Those are combat knives? How do you know that stuff?”
“Lot of reading, I guess.”
Annabelle got the spill kit out of the custodian’s cart. Naomi stopped her. “Not yet. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Annabelle wiped her eyes again.
“Yeah, I know. The perfumes they put in these things could gag a maggot.”
took a small, wire-bound notebook from her shirt pocket, clicked a pen, and wrote in precise, block capitals “Where go?”
“Women’s undergarments? Sure you don’t want to teach me sign language?”
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The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery) – Chapter 9 – Briggs Lane Gets Pissed
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The Alibi – Chapter 9
Briggs Lane stood at the window of his Lane, Cuomo, and Greenberg top-floor corner office. He held a pair of MIL710 Optical Enhancers to his eyes and focused on Innovation Square. “Those stupid bastards. Nobody ever taught them not to shit where they eat?”
He placed the MIL710s back in their padded box, placed that in a desk drawer, closed the drawer, and pressed his thumb against what appeared to be a lock. The drawer hissed. It seemed the desk sucked the drawer in a microscopic inch or two and sealed it into place.
He stepped around his desk – mahogany and large enough to play shuffleboard on – and to an opposite wall. Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa hung there. He smiled, lifted his fingers to his lips, kissed then touched his fingers to the carving’s frame.
The wall opened and revealed what the few privileged enough to see it referenced as variously “the weapons locker,” “the Predators’ trophy array,” and “Elon Musk’s wish list.”
That last one always gave Lane a chuckle.
Musk was such an ass.
Never invited Briggs to any parties, never accepted Lane’s invitations to dinner when he was in Boston.
What a fucking ass.
Lane lifted what looked like a disco dance club’s glitterball from its birth in the hidden compartment to reveal a small, gold nameplate with HIVE engraved on it.
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