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Overview
A green-as-grass PI cracks the most disturbing murder case in Denver history . . .
Delusional and believing he is called by the Lord to sacrifice women to atone for his sins, champion bull rider Clint Barlow wins the buckles, beds the buckle bunnies, and murders women until his life is upended by someone from his past…
Brand new Private Investigator Claire Callahan is working on the city's messiest divorce in decades, while her mentor, Denver homicide detective Rafe Brewster is working on a puzzling series of murders.
It doesn't take long until they realize their two cases are linked, and they must move fast to end the killings.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780996844543 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Patricia Headstream Turner |
| Publication date: | 05/10/2019 |
| Series: | Claire Callahan mysteries , #1 |
| Pages: | 322 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.14(w) x 9.21(h) x 0.72(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The girl at the end of the bar was a perfect specimen. Cupid lips with red gloss. Pert little body all tight and toned. A crop top showed a flat belly, and a silver ring piercing her navel. Long legs and a nice ass in a pair of worn Wranglers made him hard. He couldn't notstare.
She noticed and batted her eyes, propping her chin on her hand. Then she slowly sucked on her little finger while watching his reaction. A seductive smile broadened into a grin, and she strolled over to him.
"You lookin' for company, cowboy?"
He nodded without taking his gaze off her.
She sat on the stool next to him and brushed against him, making him even harder.
This woman would be even easier once he flashed enough cash and a baggie of coke.
See, boy, his mother chided in his head, it'll be easy, even for a loser like you.
The bartender approached and pointed at the bar, silently asking if they wanted another.
He nodded, and a few moments later, two frosty bottles were in front of them. She favored a fruity beer that smelled like apricots, and the bartender kept them coming. The more she drank, the more she fawned over him, hanging on his every word.
There were only two other customers in the place, both old men looking like they had nowhere else to go. Country music played from overhead speakers, but no one was listening.
They chatted about nothing, and she giggled way too much. She grabbed the bottle — her third or fourth — and when she drank, beer dribbled from her lips, leaving tiny golden teardrops on her breasts.
He squirmed on the bar stool.
This woman needed punishing.
"You haven't told me your name, sweet thang." She batted her eyes again, one fake eyelash springing like a coil from her eyelid.
"Clint. You?"
"You can call me Tiger. You interested in a private party?"
He smiled. Just another buckle bunny hanging in a dive near the Denver stockyards, hoping to hook up with a cowboy and spend his cash.
"You ready to ride?" she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She managed to get off the barstool without falling but stumbled on the way to the door. She grabbed a chair to keep herself from sprawling on the floor.
He threw a couple of bills on the bar, got his leather coat, and sauntered out after her, watching her sweet little ass sway.
His thing was bull riding. He earned his pro ticket by busting his ass on every bull near his hometown of Stephenville, Texas. Willing buckle bunnies like Tiger sweetened the rewards, and this one would help him atone for his sin.
I'm nearly cleansed, Lord. My time to be with You is soon.
Clint caught up with her on the sidewalk outside the Kickin' Ass Bar and cupped her tight little bottom.
She wiggled her rear against his hand, and he knew this would be easy. Too easy.
"You stayin' near here?" she asked, slurring a little.
The flashing pink neon sign of the bar — a kicking mule — cast soft light on her pretty face.
"Walk with me, babe," he said, deliberately sounding drunk even though he wasn't. "I like how them hips move."
He guided her to the end of the block, where the streetlights were spaced farther apart, several broken out, providing the darkness he craved.
She snuggled under his arm. "Where you takin' me?"
He took in the scent of her cheap perfume. "You'll see. Ain't far, and we'll have a goodride."
He kept her upright for two more blocks, past shuttered storefronts, to the end of the pavement. Across an expanse of rough ground was a rusted, corrugated metal building. Now empty of hay, the three-sided shed would give them enough privacy.
She tossed her empty bottle into the weeds. He handed her his beer. She threw her head back and chugged it, lost her balance, and staggered.
He pulled her tightly to him. "I think you're 'bout ready to party."
She looked up, excitement sparkling on her face.
He backed her up several steps until she was well inside the shed, and then pushed her gently to the ground. He straddled her, then lowered his body onto hers.
Her chin jutted up expectantly, and she puckered her lips for a kiss. Her hand slid up his thigh.
"Come on cowboy, show me what you got in those Levi's."
He grabbed both wrists and tugged her arms above her head.
She squirmed and tossed her head away from him, frowning. "I don't like it rough."
He planted a hard kiss on her lips, and she relaxed beneath him, dropping her guard. It gave him the chance to slip the kerchief from around his neck. When he pulled his lips away from hers, he jammed it into her mouth.
That was when terror bloomed in her eyes.
She tried to throw him off, but he outweighed her.
He leaned down close to her left ear.
"We're gonna play a game — the Eight Second Game. Just like I gotta stay on the bull eight seconds to get a score, you got eight seconds to tell me why you deserve to live. I'm gonna take the gag out of your mouth. You're not gonna yell, or I'll snap your neck."
He kept his hand over her mouth and squeezed until she struggled to breathe.
"Understand?"
There was a moan. It might have been a yes.
He pulled out the gag, keeping one hand firmly on her throat, the other stretching her arms far above her head.
"One ... two ..."
"Because — because —"
"Three ..."
Her eyes widened with fear. She struggled for a deep breath, but he scooted forward, seating himself directly over her lungs, pushing the air out of her.
"Four ... five ..."
"Baby — gotta child," she wheezed.
"You with the kid's father?"
"No." She gasped.
"Six ..."
She tried to get purchase with her legs to buck him, but he was heavy and bulked with muscle.
"Seven ..."
"My b-baby needs me ..."
"He needs a family, you bitch. Eight."
He shifted his weight, and she sucked in a lungful of air.
She tried to raise her hips, but she was no match.
He stuffed the rag back in her mouth.
Lord? It's me, Aaron. This gal is my sin offering.
He looked down into her terrified eyes and sang in a little kid sing-song voice, "The Lord is waiting to meet you, to meet you, to meet you ..."
Her screams were muffled.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket.
She struggled to twist her arms out of his hand at the same time she raised her hips, but she had weakened.
"Be still. You're laying on the Lord's altar."
He whipped out a short truncheon and raised it above her face, so she could see it, so she could anticipate the arc of the descent.
The first blow knocked her unconscious.
The second blow smashed the cartilage in her nose and crumpled her cheekbone on the left side of her pretty face, but she still looked like his Ma.
He struck again and again. Blood spattered the weeds.
His arm grew weary and his breath ragged by the time he looked down at her with satisfaction. Her face was unrecognizable.
Out of his pearl-button shirt pocket, he withdrew a pinch of finely ground incense and sprinkled it over her ruined face in the sign of the cross.
"You can't sin no more, and your blood washes away my sin."
He whipped out his pocket knife and cut off the ring finger of her left hand, sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.
He stood above her, a foot on either side of her body.
A quick look around satisfied him the area was deserted and silent.
He straightened her legs and crossed her hands over her stomach.
A light, cold rain fell as he gathered a few bedraggled oxeye daisy blooms and tucked them into her hands. Then he walked off at a fast clip to his pickup stashed in a leaning run-in shed that hadn't housed a horse in years.
In the vehicle were plastic bags for his bloody clothes and a pair of fresh jeans and a shirt. He got naked and, just as God had commanded Aaron to cleanse himself after he made sacrifices on the Day of Atonement, Clint toweled off with bottled water and wiped the blood spatter from his boots before he put on the fresh clothes.
See Lord, no mistakes. I was smarter with this one.
* * *
He headed for the Night's Rest Motel, a rattletrap tourist court from the 1940's with two rows of ramshackle cabins forming a half-moon around a potholed parking lot.
He whistled as he put the truck in park and smiled when he stepped out into the cool night air in front of the motel office.
His mama had always said he would come to no good, claiming he was like his father, meaner than a snake and crazy.
You see what I done, Ma? Won't be long till I'm atoned for my sin.
"Hey, you!" a voice yelled at him. "Clint Barlow! Get outta here. You done tore up the room the last time you stayed here."
The owner of the motel stood outside the office smoking a cigarette. His comb-over blew in the breeze, standing straight up in long thin wisps before settling like a half-built bird's nest on his scalp. He flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and ground it out with his boot. Had his hands on his hips as Clint approached.
"Lookee here," Clint said. "Earl Allen Jacoby. You still alive?"
"You got eyes, doncha boy?"
"I got money, old man. Keep your britches on."
"And doncha call me Earl Allen. You call me my rodeo name — Wild Dog. I earned it."
"You old bastard, you ain't rode a pony on a carnival carousel in thirty years. Your bronc bustin' days were over before I got born." Clint pulled a few bills out of his wallet and waved them at Wild Dog.
At the sight of the money, Wild Dog turned and hobbled into the office.
Clint followed into an over-heated room with peeling paint and brown-edged posters advertising long past events. The place never changed. Always smelled of the greasy food Wild Dog fried up.
Wild Dog's rubber-soled shoes made sticky sounds as he crossed the dirty vinyl floor to the desk. He sat on his stool and pulled himself closer to the countertop. He held out one hand, making the gimme gesture to Clint. With the other hand, he shoved the dog-eared guest register across the desk.
"Fifty-two dollars. Cash."
Clint counted out the cash. He slid the money over and then scribbled his name in the beaten-up book.
Wild Dog clutched the cash with one hand and gave Clint an old-fashioned metal room key with the other. "You're in early tonight," he said. "Couldn't score any tail, huh?" Clint reached over the counter, seized Wild Dog by the throat and shook him until his glasses fell off.
"Don't insult me, old man. I ain't payin' you a dime for the room." Clint gave him one final shake before grabbing the cash.
Wild Dog gave a half nod and slid his hand along the top of the cracked Formica.
Clint reached over the counter and got there before Wild Dog did, yanking out the shotgun. He racked the slide of the twelve-gauge.
"Always liked this piece."
Wild Dog backed up to the wall behind him.
"Didn't mean no harm. It's cool man. I need my gun. You know how it is here. Gimme my gun."
A smile flitted across Clint's face. "Naw. I'm keeping it. And you know what?"
Wild Dog shook his head.
"Anyone asks you when I came in tonight, you tell them you saw me go into my room before five o'clock and not come out."
"Why would I do that? You cheated me out of the room rent and stole my gun."
"Because you screwed the Kingpin outta his cut of that last load of coke, and if a little bird tells him, he'll cut your throat."
Wild Dog's face paled, and he held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, man. Take the gun."
"And I was in my room by five, right?"
"Yeah, I swear. You was in by five." He cocked his head towards the window. "What happened out there?"
"How would I know? I been asleep in my room all evening."
Clint strolled out with the shotgun slung over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 2The DJ warned of a crash at the entrance ramp to Interstate 25, but at the rate she was going, the tow truck driver would be having lunch before she got there. The torrential rain didn't help, and probably caused the accident.
If she was late to her first meeting, her launch of Claire Callahan, Private Investigator might be over before it officially started. Marsh & Whitley, LLP may be understanding of a traffic snarl, but the important client they wanted her to meet may not be so forgiving.
A new song came on, and she took her eyes off the rain-drenched road to glance at the thick, black clouds gathering on the horizon.
It just isn't getting any better.
As if to confirm this, the DJ interrupted the song, warning that the rising waters of the Platte River threatened the closure of the bridges, including the Alameda Bridge near downtown Denver. If that happened, she'd need to find another route to get on I-25. That would guarantee she'd be late.
She gripped the wheel of her Volkswagen Bug, thinking about how proud Grandma Callie would be of her. Though her parents dumped Claire on Callie's front porch and then disappeared, Callie had taken her and raised her — and Claire grew up to be the spitting image of her grandmother when she was a young woman — tall, redheaded, and stubborn as a mule.
You'll get there, don't freak out. With any luck the proposed client will be even later.
Landing a contract to provide investigative services to a major law firm like Marsh & Whitely would give her a leg up, and money from this gig would tide her over until she could add to her client list. Well, if she had a client list. With her savings drained and credit card nearly maxed out, she needed to impress Mr. Marsh.
After eighteen months training with a private investigator at the Davis Law Firm, she'd passed the licensing exam and struck out on her own. She'd made her share of gaffes, but she'd honed her skills and learned some pretty salty language to boot.
She trained under a retired Irish cop, Mac McNally, a private eye with the Davis Law Firm. Without his recommendation, she wouldn't have landed this new job. She was ready ... if she wasn't turned away before she got to the meeting room.
During her training, she'd pursued an ex-husband suspected of killing his six-year-old daughter, and found enough evidence for Rafe Brewster, a detective with Denver's Sixth Division, to step in and make the arrest. Cops needed a warrant. She didn't. He was impressed, and she made an important friend.
A light went off as if someone took her picture, and a moment later, thunder exploded overhead. The thick smell of ozone filtered through Bug's asthmatic heater.
A row of red taillights stretched before her. As she crept toward the Alameda Bridge, the normally placid river was racing over the bridge and raging between the bridge struts, creating white caps in the brown water. The car in front of her slowed to make an awkward U-turn and backtrack west. She followed suit and joined the line of commuters running from the rising Platte River.
A detour led her across the Platte and once she crossed the Sixth Street Bridge, traffic thinned. She released her death grip on the wheel. She was on the same side of the river as her new job.
Marsh and Whitely, Attorneys at Law, purchased a historically-significant building as a project and created office space that made their legal competitors green with envy. The firm's reputation as hard-working straight-shooters was now mirrored in a prestigious headquarters — stone-faced and oozing style.
She had wanted to be a lawyer once, but her plans for pursuing a career in law died the same summer her grandmother had. Alone in the world, she decided she had a choice: Hide under the covers or get out of bed and finish college and find a job.
Claire turned onto East Union Avenue and pulled into the parking garage of the imposing three-story office building with the original ornate bow windows marching across the facade in perfect symmetry. She made her way to the carved double doors covered by a portico and entered the lobby.
Reception and record archives were located on the first floor while the associates toiled in cubicles on the second, dreaming of making partner and ascending to the third floor where the big bucks were made. Exactly where she was headed.
On the ride up, she tucked her white shirt into her best pair of black pants, an outfit she'd bought in a resale shop. Once she had whittled down the balance on her student debt, she'd be able to buy new clothes and maybe even some decent furniture for the apartment.
Hoping she looked more confident than she felt, she stepped into a large open space lined on two sides with private offices and conference rooms. The west wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, showcasing a view of downtown with the Rockies as the backdrop. The walls were a soft gray and the luxury leather furniture, and the oil paintings made an impressive show sure to wow the big money clients.
Mr. Marsh's legal assistant, Jenny, looked up from her desk. "You okay? Several people are stranded at home."
At least no one could fault her for being late if some of the employees hadn't even made it in.
"I'm fine, thank you."
"He's waiting for you in the smaller conference room." Jenny winked and gave a nod of encouragement.
"Thanks." She remembered the room from her interview. This time there wouldn't be six sets of eyes boring into her.
After turning a familiar corner, she found it. Charles Marsh sat at the table, looking every bit the elder statesman of the Denver legal community.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Unspeakable Grudges"
by .
Copyright © 2017 P.H. Turner.
Excerpted by permission of P.H. Turner.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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