Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (30 page)
Read Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles Online
Authors: Terry Odell
Tags: #Mystery: Thriller - Police Chief - Colorado
I hope you enjoyed reading this book. One thing readers can do to let an author know they’ve enjoyed a book is to pass the word along. If you’re willing to let your friends know you think they might like the book, or tweet about it, or post it to your social media sites, that would be wonderful. Also, the best way to help readers find authors is to post a brief review. If you have a minute, I’d appreciate it if you’d go to the site where you bought this book, or any review site such as Goodreads, and let others know you liked it.
Be sure to read on for Bonus Content.
Thanks!
Terry
First, thanks to Dan who tolerates my neglect when I’m spending time with my characters.
I’d like to thank everyone whose generosity sharing their expertise has helped make this novel as accurate as possible. Errors are either mine, or they’re liberties taken for the sake of the story. The beauty of fiction is we can make things up.
First and always, my critique partners, Karla and Steve who keep me on the straight and narrow.
To Frank and Susan Ganzhorn, Dr. Thomas Cummings, and CJ Lyons for medical advice.
To Wally Lind and the gang at Crimescene Writers. Wes and Orb, you stepped up as well. Same goes for Tom Fuller. I can always count on you guys. You, too, Lee Lofland.
Brian Harris, thanks for the CSP help. And more thanks to Sherryl and Dick Nelson for their help with the snowshoe scenes. More thanks to Greg Lafelice and Joe Collins for sharing their firefighting knowledge. Detective Sean Goings also helped with police procedures.
And lastly, I’m grateful for the sharp editorial eyes of Brittiany Koren, and the creativity of my cover artist, Dave Fymbo.
A peek at Finding Sarah, book 1 in the Pine Hills Police series.
Sarah Tucker
’s hands shook with anger as she fumbled the keys into the lock of That Special Something. Bad enough the bus driver stopped beside a puddle the size of Crater Lake, which she cleared despite the restrictions of her skirt and pumps, thank you very much. But when that headbanger in the heavy metal-blasting SUV had sped by, any satisfaction at her nimble footwork disappeared in a dousing of muddy water.
The cheerful jingle of the
boutique’s door chimes did nothing for her mood. Sarah rushed to her small office behind the glass sales counter and shrugged out of her coat to assess her wardrobe damage. She had an appointment with Mr. Ebersold at the bank to discuss her loan application. She couldn’t go home and change, and the last thing she wanted was to look like she actually needed a loan. If you needed money, you couldn’t get it, but if you had it, they’d give you whatever you asked for. She dampened some paper towels and daubed at her mud-spattered shoes and stockings.
Enough negative thoughts.
Sarah hung up her keys and tossed her instant soup packet into the basket by her coffeepot. Another gourmet lunch. At a knock on the door, she checked her watch. It wasn’t quite ten, but she’d open for a possible sale. Patting her windblown hair into place, she hurried to the front door.
Christopher Westmoreland stood there, looking impeccable as always. No headbanger would dare splash water on his perfectly creased
black trousers. His strawberry-blond hair wouldn’t dare blow in the wind.
“
Chris. What brings you to town?” She stepped back into the store and toward the register. “I’m getting ready to open, but if you need anything, I’ll be glad to get it for you.”
As if he’d actually buy something.
“
Not today. I’ve got some appointments over in Salem. Thought I’d say hello before I head out.” He strolled to the counter and leaned over its glass top, close enough for Sarah to smell his sandalwood aftershave and the cinnamon gum he chewed. “You haven’t returned any of my calls. I know things have been tough since David … died. I want to help. Why won’t you let me? For old times’ sake?”
Memories of David crashed over her. It had been more than a year, but the pain lay right beneath the surface, waiting for her to drop her guard. She shoved her emotions back into that metal strongbox in her brain, slammed the lid and turned the key. She was no longer Sarah, David
’s wife. Or Sarah the daughter, or Sarah the high school sweetheart. She was Just Plain Sarah.
Sarah met his pale green eyes, the ones she
’d found so irresistible in high school. “We’ve been through this before. I need to do it on my own. I can manage without your money.” Even though he’d promised “no strings”, Sarah knew if she took a dime from him, she’d be attached with monofilament line. The kind that cut when you tried to break it.
“
Are you sure? You look like you haven’t slept in a month. And your hair. Why did you cut it?”
“
Well, thanks for making my morning.” Sarah fluffed her cropped do-it-yourself haircut. “It’s easier this way.”
“
How about dinner tonight? Come on, Sarah. We’re friends, right?” His eyebrows lifted in expectation.
Dinner with Chris or five-for-a-dollar ramen noodles at home? Accepting dinner wouldn
’t be selling out, would it? “Maybe. Call me later, okay?”
“
Great. See you.” He turned to leave, a broad smile on his face.
“
I said, ‘maybe’, remember?” Sarah walked him to the door and flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open”. She rearranged the crystal in the front window to catch the light and dusted the brightly colored pottery, shifting a pot, turning a vase so its pattern was visible from the street. Once she was satisfied with the effect, she meandered through the shop, adjusting animal carvings and moving a display of stationery to a roll-top desk.
An hour later, Sarah refused to let the lack of customers bother her. Easter was approaching, then Mother
’s Day, and throngs of people would descend upon That Special Something to find the perfect gift. Throng? Right now, she’d settle for a trickle.
The door chimed. Sarah assessed the well-dressed woman who entered the shop. Probably in her sixties, with a large designer purse draped over one shoulder. A hat with ribbon trim and black leather gloves made her a bit old-fashioned and out of place for the tiny Oregon town
, but a customer was a customer. Sarah gave the woman her biggest smile and stepped out from behind the counter. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to That Special Something.
Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“
My niece is getting married. I thought I might find something out of the ordinary here.” Her voice was clipped, with a touch of sophisticated arrogance that said she was used to getting her way.
“
Unique gifts are my specialty.” Sarah motioned to a display of crystal. “Perhaps she’d like these hand-painted wine goblets? Or some of these Egyptian perfume bottles?”
“
Thank you. I’ll browse for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“
Take your time. I’m Sarah. Feel free to ask any questions.” Fighting the urge to follow her customer around, Sarah retreated and let the woman roam the shop.
The way Chris had referred to David
’s death churned through her thoughts. That horrible pause. The same one everyone used. But Sarah knew it had been an accident. David would never commit suicide. This afternoon, she’d get a loan from the bank and rehire the private investigator, or find a better one. The investigator would get the police to reopen the case and they’d find out it wasn’t suicide. Then she’d get the insurance money, which would pay off the loan and the shop would be safe. It made perfect sense. And maybe it would eliminate some of the guilt.
Sarah dragged her thoughts to the present, straightened her shoulders
, and found her professional smile again. Her customer was studying some silver picture frames. Expensive ones. She thought about how hard it had been to get Anjolie to display her work in the shop, that her creations were
too good
for a
mere boutique
.
She telegraphed mental messages to her customer—
Please, show Anjolie she was wrong. Buy one. Buy six.
The woman set the frame down and turned away.
Sarah wouldn’t let her disappointment show. “Can I show you something else?”
The woman strolled back and fingered the frames again.
“You know, I like this one.” She picked up the most expensive one, the one with the lacy pattern of roses and leaves. “And I think I’ll take the matching vase over there.”
Not good to let a customer see you jumping up and down clapping your hands. Instead, Sarah called up her most professional tone.
“Excellent choices, ma’am. Would you like them gift-wrapped?”
“
No, thank you. But if you have gift boxes, I would appreciate it.”
Sarah ducked beneath the counter for the boxes, calculating what the sale would mean to her bottom line. When she rose, she stared into a gun barrel.
Buy the book at
Amazon
Keep reading for a look at
When Danger Calls
.
Here’s a look at When Danger Calls, Book 1 in the Blackthorne, Inc. series
Some cakewalk. A routine mission turned into a straight-to-video movie. To Ryan Harper, it smelled rotten—even more rotten than the garbage piled in the alleyway they’d trekked through to get here.
Senses on alert, Ryan cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. He waited beside Alvarez while the wizened man unlocked the warehouse door. Alvarez clicked on a light. Two feral cats yowled and hissed, then bolted outside.
Ryan stepped into the hot, stuffy room. Grime covered the sealed windows, and the ammonia stench of cat piss filled his nostrils. Why didn’t any of his assignments include rooms with air conditioning? Instead, they sent him to a deserted neighborhood in Panama—one the jungle desperately wanted to reclaim. “Where are the files,
Señor
Alvarez?”
“Here,” Alvarez said around the cigar stub that seemed permanently clamped between his teeth. He closed the door behind them. “I show you everything. You have the money?”
“After I see the files.”
Outside, a generator hummed. Three cats peered warily around upended tables and a maze of cardboard cartons. Avoiding broken glass, rubber tubing, and other assorted debris, he followed Alvarez across the room. A rusty gas stove stood at the far end next to a small refrigerator, and a Formica-topped table. In a blur, the cats disappeared behind the stove. Opposite, two file cabinets flanked a beat-up wooden desk, and a cracked vinyl armchair. Like an alien presence, a flat-screen computer monitor sat atop the desk.
“One moment.” When Alvarez reached under the desk, Ryan grabbed for his weapon. A button clicked and a hard drive whirred. Ryan exhaled. Maybe this was a cakewalk after all.
The door slammed against the wall. Flash-bang grenades hit the floor. “Get down!” he shouted at Alvarez, who still fumbled with the computer. Covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut Ryan scrambled for cover behind the desk as the room filled with brilliant light and an ear-splitting report.
Deaf and half-blind from the blast, Ryan pointed his Glock near the doorway. Gunfire sprayed the room. Alvarez gasped. Blood flowed from his chest. He turned and pressed a metal tube into Ryan’s hand. The ringing in his ears muffled the man’s words, but Ryan watched his lips. “
Importante
.” Alvarez clawed his way to the desktop. The computer exploded. Ryan’s body slammed backward. Alvarez sagged to the floor, half his face blown off.
Shit.
First Colombia, and now this. Ryan jammed the tube into a pocket of his cargo pants. Blinking to clear his vision, he turned to engage his assailants. Three of them–one of him. Some fucking cakewalk.
The desk and file cabinets provided cover, giving Ryan the advantage. He fired. Two shots to the body, one to the head. Repeat as needed. Two men down.
The third guy, built like a grizzly, bared his teeth in a malicious grin. “You are mine,
señor
.”
“Sorry. You’re not my type.” Ryan pulled the trigger twice. His assailant fell backward, his weapon firing in a broad arc. A searing pain ripped through Ryan’s shoulder. His arm jerked and his gun clattered to the floor, skittering between the file cabinets behind him. He fumbled for the knife strapped to his ankle. Blood, hot and sticky, ran down his arm, and his fingers slipped on the knife’s hilt. He duck-walked backward for the file cabinets to retrieve his Glock.
He groped for the pistol. The man on the floor struggled to his feet.
Body armor. Crap.
Ryan’s gun hand was all but useless. The angle sucked. Holding the Glock in his off hand, he took a head shot. The man twitched, swinging his arm. He went down.
Ryan’s satisfaction shriveled when the grenade rolled across the room, stopping under the stove.
“Fuck.” Ryan burst through the door and dove for cover. He grimaced with pain from landing on his knee as the warehouse exploded in flames.
Dazed, he moved into the jungle. When he didn’t check in on schedule, an extraction team would rendezvous according to plan—three days from now. No sweat. Couldn’t be any worse than survival training hell.
It was. In survival training, no one shot you, and then infected you with some nasty jungle bug. His meager rations were useless—he could barely keep water down. His knee looked more like a melon than a joint. His shoulder screamed and his teeth chattered despite the jungle heat. Hiding by day, traveling by night, Ryan reached the extraction point and waited. He wouldn’t be left behind. He only hoped he’d be alive when the chopper showed up.
The appointed time came and went. He fought to stay conscious. Ten minutes. Another five. He could hold on for one more. And one after that. The world faded in and out. Then from above, the welcome whup-whup of a helicopter sounded. Praying he wasn’t suffering from fever-induced hallucinations, he crawled out of his hiding place to the tiny clearing. He squinted into the darkness at the hovering helo and flashed his light in the prearranged pattern. He’d never make it up a rope ladder. He had to.
The ladder dropped. A body scrambled down. Someone—a face he should recognize despite the camo paint—put a hand on his shoulder.
“Your limo’s here, Harper.” Someone lifted him onto a stretcher. “Relax and enjoy the ride.”
A burst of fire shot through his shoulder as someone ripped his shirt open, then a sting in his arm.
And then nothing.
Buy the book at
Amazon
