Fostering Death
Authors: KM Rockwood
Title Page
Fostering Death
A Jesse Damon Crime Novel
KM Rockwood
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An imprint of
Musa Publishing
Copyright Information
Fostering Death, Copyright © KM Rockwood, 2012
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
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Musa Publishing
633 Edgewood Ave
Lancaster, OH 43130
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Published by Musa Publishing, August 2012
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-1-61937-319-8
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Editor: E. Schraeder
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Content Warning
This e-Book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.
Dedication
In memory of Pat Staten,
who always had a book
tucked in the seat of the forklift
to read during down time on the overnight shift.
Chapter 1
“S
HE
D
IDN’T
H
AVE
T
O
D
IE
.” Mr. Coleman, aged considerably in the twenty years since I’d last seen him, lifted a crisp handkerchief to dab his eyes. Blue veins snaked over the back of his trembling hand. “Especially like that.” His voice was thin.
A plump lady in a big hat took his other hand and patted it gently. “Your wife will get her reward in heaven. She believed in the Lord. And she helped so many unfortunate children!”
Trying to be as invisible as possible, I eased myself back among the flower arrangements on easels, choking on the cloying scent of chrysanthemums. I rubbed my freshly shaved face with my rough hand. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.
“The mortician did a good job,” the lady said. “She could be asleep. Quite natural.”
Mr. Coleman glanced into the coffin, then quickly looked away.
Straight at me.
His already pale face went paler.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his reedy voice rising.
Other conversations ceased as all eyes turned toward me.
I’d been right. I shouldn’t have come.
He looked me over, head to foot. “And you couldn’t even dress properly.”
Inwardly, I winced. I clutched my jacket to my chest, folded so its worn black lining showed instead of the garish red plaid. I’d worn my darkest flannel shirt and clean jeans. The work boots were the only footwear I owned.
“When you wrote that letter to her from prison, didn’t I write back to tell you she never wanted to hear from you again?”
“Yes, sir. I never tried to write her again.”
“What made you think you’d be welcome here?”
I had been among the dozens of foster children who’d passed through the Colemans’ house over the years. Mrs. Coleman was the closest thing to a mother I’d ever known. I said, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no disrespect. She meant a lot to me.”
His quavering voice grew even louder. “I find that hard to believe. You were a huge disappointment to her. She looked on you almost as her own, keeping you for all those years. She thought she
saw
something in you. But she was wrong, wasn’t she?”
I had no answer for that. I inched toward the door.
“She cried after she read about you in the newspaper. Did you know that?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t quite cut it, does it?” Fury blazed in his pale eyes. “Since when do they let killers out of prison, anyhow?”
Everyone was staring at me. I didn’t think this was a good time to start explaining about parole.
Two burly men in somber suits were bearing down on me. I turned and strode out of the viewing room to the entry hall.
As I skirted a stand by the door, the lady standing next to it chirped, “Don’t forget to sign the visitor’s book!” and tried to hand me a slim gold pen.
I ignored her and kept on going, out the front door and down the granite steps, which were getting slippery from the falling sleet.
Angry at myself, I swiped my face with my sleeve. For the first time in years, I couldn’t will away the tears that stung my eyes.
I stumbled at the bottom of the steps and turned into the alley next to the funeral home, anxious to get away from everyone. A few feet down, I stopped and took a shuddering breath. After the overheated air in the funeral home, the fresh air felt good as I gulped it into my lungs. Maybe it would help clear my head.
How could I have been stupid enough to have come here? What did I think was going to happen? That I’d find a connection with my past, and we’d all link arms and sing “Kumbaya” together? All I’d managed to do was upset Mr. Coleman when he could least afford more grief. And make myself feel crummy in the process.
I shivered and shifted the jacket in my hands, trying to unfold it.
“Well, look who’s here, Detective Montgomery. Jesse Damon,” a voice said behind me.
“Interesting indeed, Detective Belkins. I have to admit I hadn’t expected to see him here,” came the answer.
“Didn’t sound like he was particularly welcome.”
Detectives from the local police force. Of course they’d recognized me. Since my release from prison, Belkins especially had taken it upon himself to make sure I knew I was being watched.
With the cuff of my shirt, I swiped at my eyes again. I wasn’t going to let them know I’d been crying.
Belkins tapped me on the shoulder. Hard. “You know the routine, Damon. Drop the jacket and assume the position.”
I tossed my jacket onto the damp asphalt, trying to avoid the slushy puddles. I spread my feet and leaned on the rough brick wall of the funeral home, bracing on my hands.
“Anything on you we should know about?” Montgomery asked as he stepped up behind me. “Weapons, drugs—anything you want to tell us about?”
“No, sir.” I had more sense than to have anything I shouldn’t be carrying. I wasn’t about to violate parole over something stupid like that.
Quick professional hands frisked me, removing the wallet and key ring with its single key from my jeans pocket, skimming over my clothes, under my arms, and between my legs.
Montgomery’s strong dark hand reached up and grabbed my wrist, pulling my hand behind my back and turning the palm out. I felt the familiar cold bite of handcuffs. He repeated the motion with my other hand, tightening them enough to hurt. I knew Belkins would have put them on even tighter.
“Turn around. Slowly,” Montgomery said.
I turned around, trying to shake the dark curly hair out of my eyes.
Montgomery was pulling fur-lined leather gloves over his manicured hands. My wallet and keychain lay on the pavement next to my jacket.
Both of the detectives were dressed warmly. Belkins wore a squashed fedora on his head, melting sleet dripping from the brim. His teeth clenched an unlit cigar.
Montgomery stood a head above him, his mahogany face handsome above his spotless tan trench coat, a jaunty hat perched on his shaven head. I wondered how he managed to look unrumpled and dry standing out in this sleet.
“Damon knows his place, doesn’t he? Knows there’s no point objecting.” Belkins chomped on the cigar. His watery blue eyes squinted to mere slits above his bulbous red nose.
Montgomery frowned at him and turned back to me. “You’re still on parole, aren’t you, Jesse?” he said, his voice deceptively friendly.
“Yes, sir.” They knew the answer to that. They also knew that if I was on parole they didn’t need a warrant to detain me or bring me in for questioning. Not even reasonable cause for suspicion.
Belkins reached over and jerked up the leg of my jeans. “No black box?” he asked. “When’d you get off home detention?”
“Little while ago, sir.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know what your PO was thinking.”
I saw no point in trying to answer that.
“What are you doing here?” Montgomery asked.
“Mrs. Coleman was my foster mother. Just wanted to pay my last respects.”
“Don’t think that was a particularly good idea.” Montgomery adjusted the scarlet muffler a bit tighter around his neck.
Shivering as melting sleet dripped off my hair and down the back of my shirt, I shook my head.
“How did you know where the viewing was being held?” he asked.
“I saw a funeral notice,” I said. “In the newspaper. At the library.”
Belkins raised his bushy eyebrows. “The library. Did you know he could read, Montgomery?”
“Oh, Jesse’s nobody’s dummy.” Montgomery rocked back on his well-shod heels. “Does some stupid things, sometimes, but he’s smart enough.”
“Not smart enough to mind his own business.” Belkins took the cigar out of his mouth and peered at me. “Do you know how she died?”
I hadn’t thought much about it. She wasn’t young, and all the years I’d known her, she’d never really been in good health. All I’d read in the paper was when the viewing and funeral would be. “Not really,” I said.
Montgomery just stared at me, his dark eyes giving me no hint to what was going on in his mind.
I forced myself not to fidget. It had to have been a natural death. Or maybe an accident.
Who would want to kill Mrs. Coleman?
Belkins looked like he thought he knew someone who would. Me.
“Somebody kill her?” I blurted out. Instantly, I regretted saying anything. I made a mental note to get to the library and check out the newspapers for the past few days, see if I could find anything out.
