Murder in Germantown

RAHIEM

BROOKS

MURDER

IN

GERMANTOWN

THE FIRST RAVONNE LEMMELLE MYSTERY

PRODIGY PUBLISHING GROUP

Philadelphia, PA

http://www.prodigypublishinggroup.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are no words to express what it takes for an author to truly complete a novel. From the writing itself it’s a daunting task to create something to appease a target audience. I thank my graphic designer, Gregory Goodwin, for creating a cover that effectively conveyed my vision. Jenetha McCutcheon, my editor, kept my wordiness in line and checked that I had crafted a masterpiece.

I have.

ARC Book Club, Inc. I would not be the force that I am without your encouragement. And that is the actual members, and the FaceBook group members.

MURDER

IN

GERMANTOWN

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

Actively engaged in a debate about the details of his wife's 40th birthday party on his cell phone, Mark Artis walked to his car in the parking lot of the downtown Philadelphia Gallery mall. Not paying attention, he dropped his keys. He put his shopping bag on the ground as he bent over to retrieve them.

"Sue, I am telling you. She'd adore white over pink. She's not..."

In mid-sentence, he was jabbed in his rib cage with a handgun. He paused and lost his concentration on the call and focused on breaking the wrist of the gunman, who dropped his pistol. Before he could gather himself, another goon placed an automatic weapon inches from the bridge of his nose. He didn't kill him. They wanted him alive.

February temperatures had been declining. Doppler radar claimed it was 35 degrees, but the weather felt more like minus 25 degrees. Mark used a wireless device, so that he could keep his hands warm in his pockets. He was a bulky man, not fat; made of muscle. He had a thick neck and strong, broad shoulders, and was enveloped in pale skin from a lack of sunlight.

"Come with me, Mark," the thug ordered. "I dare you to use any more jujutsu because I would have quite the time ending Samantha's beautiful life."

In the mist of the attack, his smart, confident secretary on the other end of the call, wanted to assure him that help was on the way.

"Mr. Artis, I'll contact the police. Maybe they can locate you using the tracking device in your phone."

Good
girl
, Mark thought, as the gunman snatched the earpiece and tossed it. Mark still had his secretary, as his clandestine ally.

At the outset of the attack, Mark thought he was being robbed, but the gunman knew his wife's name and that he had jujutsu training; he was a black belt. His mind spiraled uncontrollably searching for the place or date that he had wronged someone. There was no way he would be so negligent. He valued his life and the lives of his family, so he followed the man's orders and climbed into the back of a dingy van.

Mark rode with a black bag over his head and handcuffs on his wrists for 15 minutes, and his supposition was verified. The van door opened and the bag was removed. Mark was in the garage of a chop shop. He was escorted past ten or so exotic European vehicles to a doorway that led to an office. Everything in the office looked bland and resembled a legitimate mechanic's office. He knew it wasn't.

Mark was forced to the floor as an emaciated woman in need of tit-raise appeared. Her hair was slapped into a chignon, and she walked over to him and planted a military boot on his chest. She puffed a long fag and steel-gray smoke bellowed into the air. Certainly, he was not invited to meet her. He did not recall gangsters handing duties down to women.

The woman informed him, "I see you're quick with your hands. Broke Mikey's wrist. That's why I invited you. I hope you respond as hastily to my $200,000 question."

She
invited
me
.
Really
!
It
was
more
like
a
warrant
for
my
arrest
, he thought. He elected to keep that confidential.

"What is the question?" he asked the bitch sincerely. He could be sincere.

"Shut your cum dumpster mouth!" the man who brought him to the little
tête-à-tête
suggested.

Mark would bet that man’s tone would change if he weren't handcuffed.

"Lex, you're free to go," the hostess told her flunky.

She then squatted over Mark, ass on his crotch, and warned him, "Do not patronize me, Mark Alexander Artis."

A thick cloud of smoke fulminated into his lungs to punctuate her point.

"The name is Jewel."

"Okay, Jewel. Why am I here?" he asked getting down to business.

She stood and threw him a sardonic grin.

"Here's the deal," she said and then added, "your wife Samantha has been kidnapped."

"No! No! No!" He barked.

It was more of a scream than a masculine yell. Mark began to rise from the floor and Jewel flashed a chrome Colt .45. Mark thought long and hard about getting up off the floor. Hopefully, Sue was recording all of that. The thug had activated the hand set when the ear piece had lost signal.

"It's 10:30 in the morning, Mark Artis. I shall have 200,000 unmarked, non-sequential, American dollars in my possession by the close of the banking business day. That's traditionally three p.m. And I adore tradition, Mark."

"I do not have that kind of cash," he warned her earnestly.

"Then you no longer have a fucking wife!"

CHAPTER 2

Mark Artis drove his Jaguar XJ8 to his Victorian manse on Presidential Boulevard in suburban Bala Cynwd. The small area was 20 minutes from downtown Philadelphia. He pulled into the rotund driveway, disembarked, and was greeted by FBI and the Lower Merion PD locals.

Communication specialists from the FBI hastily equipped his home with enough devices to converse with Pluto denizens. One device assured the conversation between the FBI and Jewel would be made available to everyone in the dining room. Another device would record the suspect’s voice. A third whatchamacallit would trace all incoming calls to the callers’ location within minutes.

All of that transpired while Mark was in the picture-less family room. A woman joined him and identified herself as Jane Duval, FBI. She assured him that the FBI would lend their expertise to him. She said it as if he should bend over and smooch her ass. His tax dollars had insured this service.

"Ms. Duval, I appreciate the blessing, but my wife is missing. If she is harmed, I'll find the sons-of-bitches and I'll annihilate them one-by-one. And the result is not my concern. This is unimaginable."

"You're venting, Mr. Artis. That is to be expected."

"Venting!" He hissed venomously.
The
good
old
, FBI, he thought.

"They want money. By three. Period! Didn't you hear the recording from my secretary? I am not rich. This place is time-shared. I am here on business. The Jag is from Hertz."

"Don't worry about the cash demand. Our Wells Fargo crisis liaison is prepared with the cash."

"It better not be booby trapped, because if my wife is harmed due to your chicanery..."

The telephone rang and interrupted him. Mark raced to the telephone along with a half-dozen suits. The FBI Special Agent in Charge instructed Mark to keep the napper on the line as long as possible. He handed Mark a script to follow.

Mark said, "Artis residence." He wanted the caller to know they had the correct number.

A Brooklynese female voice: "I see you've made it home safely in your car." The word car sounded like "caw".

"Where's Samantha?"

"Sammy's fine."

"Where do I find you to exchange the cash for my wife?"

"We will get to that, but first..."

"I want proof now!" Mark demanded.

He hadn't heard much, but it had been enough. He tossed the script to the floor and dared any one to question him.

"Bam, Love. Drag her over here. Sammy say hello to your hubby."

"Mark, oh Honey..."

"Baby, I'm going..."

"I said say hello. No coo loving quip in my ear," the kidnapper said.

"You better not harm her. I swear..."

"You swear what?" Jewel asked. Her words leaked contempt. Everyone was silent and Jewel went on. "Have the agents tear down their tracking and recording crap. I'll have further instructions for the cash pick up and drop locale when that's been done."

Click!

The call was over. Dead. The end. And not traced. Mark was pissed.

The FBI agents were awaiting a professional to call back. For them a good thing. Maybe Jewel was known to them. No one gave a rat’s ass that some lamebrain had just ordered them to tear down the spyware.

"Tear that shit down," Mark Artis demanded.

"Mr. Artis, we cannot do that. Surely, she or he knows that. They have no way of knowing if we have complied or not. She simply wants us to be martyrs to her caveats. We do not and will not negotiate with thugs. When she calls again simply convince her that we met her demand."

All Mark heard was blah, blah, blah. The phone rang again and Mark was jolted back to reality.

"Am I being traced and recorded, Mr. Artis?"

"Yes," he replied honestly.
Screw the feds
, Mark thought.

The ASIC was infuriated. He snatched the phone from Mark.

"This is..."

Jewel cut him off, "Assistant Special Idiot in Charge Donald Malloy. Thirteen year vet. Yale law. Two boys. One dog. And a partridge in a pear tree. I am colder than a polar bear’s pussy, simpleton. I'll snatch your twins and Toto, too, as my next move, if you obstruct my plan, Mr. Malloy. Now be a good boy and turn on the living room TV."

Click!

The feds and locals rushed to the TV. After a brief inspection for a bomb, they decided to summon the bomb squad prior to touching it. Too bad. Mark grabbed the remote and turned it on. The ferocious
surprise was contagious. Everyone looked distraught. Each expression on par with being delivered the news their baby was still-born. They all watched themselves on the TV. The picture quality was pristine.

The telephone rang.

The kidnapper was chuckling.

"Why so glum, chum?" she asked no one in particular. "Now that the cat’s out of the bag, we are clear who the boss here is. Let's get down to business. You know what I mean by that," she said in a South Philadelphia Italian mobster drawl.