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  Copyright

  Brotherly Love

  Brotherly Love (An Anthony Carrick Mystery)

  by

  Jason Blacker

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Lemon Tree Publishing

  Copyright © 2016

  Jason Blacker

  Visit www.JasonBlacker.com on the web to stay up to date

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  Brotherly Love

  What I like about living in The Big Orange is the number of people. The city has around 4 million lost souls. And when you have that many lost souls bumping into each other, sparks are gonna fly. And when the sparks fly, the knives and the guns come out to play. That means there’re a lot of murders in this juicy orange. It keeps a guy like me busy. Last year for instance, 203 lost souls took the boat to the other side. Every forty-something hours another one bites the dust.

  There’s plenty of work in this seedy little city of mine if you make your living off the dying. Which is what I do. Indirectly. I’m a private investigator for hire. But there hasn’t been a lot of work coming around for me lately. In fact, this past week was as dry as the empty bottle of scotch that stood on my kitchen counter.

  Seven days of nothing to do but cultivate belly button lint. I was getting bored. Hell, I was even contemplating committing a felony, just to have something to do. Don’t get your knickers all in a bunch, I joke, okay.

  But, here I was sitting at my kitchen table staring at a day old strudel so tough it was staring me back. I dangled a finger around my coffee cup, the steam still dancing up from its mouth. I was thinking about the last seven days. I figured a quick back of the napkin run of the numbers meant I’d missed out on about 4 murders.

  Not that I always enjoy this line of work, you understand. But somebody’s gotta take out the trash. And well, might as well be me. I’m not that good at much else. Ask Pirate, he’ll tell you. He was lying there flat out on his side in a square of warm sun that had tossed itself on the kitchen floor. My mobile started vibrating and I picked it up to have a look at it. It was my good friend John Roberts.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” I asked.

  I heard a chuckle on the other line.

  “Sorry, wrong number. I was looking for someone who could actually help.”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call all week, Johnny Boy, where you been?”

  “I’ve been looking at dead folk mostly. Listen, Anthony, how are you doing?”

  “Bored to tears actually, John. You have something for me to alleviate my boredom?”

  “Funny you should ask. I’m standing here in De Neve Square Park and I’m looking down at a dead man. Would you care to join me Anthony?”

  “Love to, but I have no idea where De Neve Park is.”

  “You’ve got one of them fancy new smartphones, right? Find it on a map. You were a detective, right? I mean, we did work together, or am I thinking of somebody else?”

  “You must be thinking of a different Anthony Carrick.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in about, what, fifteen or so? I’ll give you a hint ’cos I’m feeling soft. It’s in Holmby Hills.”

  “Right, just down the street from my house.”

  “If you say so, pal. Listen, the coroner’s gonna be here any minute so get down here as quick as you can if you want to take a look at the corpse.”

  I hung up with a huge grin on my face. I was getting back in the game. Now, I was hoping for a private gig. A private gig pays double the rate that I can get as a contractor with the LAPD. But beggars can’t be choosers. Two hundred and fifty a day is better than a kick in the teeth.

  I did as John suggested and I searched for De Neve Square Park on my app. It wasn’t going to take me more than fifteen minutes or so to get there. But I had a breakfast to finish first. I took a bite of the strudel and it wasn’t too bad for a day old. But I wasn’t gonna fight with it to get it down into my belly. A swig of coffee helped wash it down and I was ready to greet the day. If not with a grin on my face, at least a bit of pep in my step.

  I left my apartment, giving Pirate a scratch behind his tattered ears before I left. It was a fall day and I grabbed my jacket and hat as I left. The morning was cool, and as I got into my LeSabre it was warm, sitting there sunning itself in the parking lot.

  Traffic was steady on my way up the hill to De Neve. It was around eight twenty-five when I got there. What should have been a fifteen minute drive had turned into a twenty five minute slog in smog. I parked on North Parkwood Drive and as I got out, I didn’t see the coroner’s van anywhere. I was grateful for small mercies. I was at the southwest corner of the park, where the sign and main entrance gave its name.

  De Neve Square Park is a small park of about 100 feet wide, almost square. Its perimeter is thick with trees except for an opening on the west side. I looked around and found John in the middle of the park on the east side. I walked up to him. His guys had already taped off the whole park as a crime scene. He was talking with lanky Mike Cardigan, one of LAPD’s best crime scene techs.

  As I drew up on them Mike adjusted his steel framed glasses and grinned at me from his freckled face. He elbowed John.

  “Look what the cat brought in,” he said.

  “That the best you got this morning?” I asked.

  “Hey, what can I say, it was supposed to be a day off, but unlike you, John here wanted to bring in one of the best techs. Can’t blame him.”

  “If you’re considered one of the best now, boy, they must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  I grinned at him and he smiled back.

  “Good to see you again, Anthony,” he said.

  “It sure is.”

  John offered me a coffee.

  “It might be cold by now. I’ve been waiting for you for the last hour.”

  He chuckled.

  “What the hell, I thought I was at a crime scene, not the Laurel and Hardy show.”

  “Nope,” said John, “wrong on both counts, the is the Roberts and Cardigan biopic.”

  I took a sip of the coffee. It was creamy and sweet, just how I liked it. And warm too.

  “Cheers,” I said. “I needed this.”

  “Rough night?” asked Roberts.

  “I went a few rounds with a mean Scotsman last night,” I said.

  “That so,” said Roberts.

  “Yeah, Johnnie Walker’s a mean sonofabitch.”

  “You’re getting soft Carrick,” said Cardigan.

  “Are we gonna just hang around here in this park spinning yarn, or are you guys actually gonna give me something?” I said.

  “Yeah, sure, come on over here and take a look at our victim.”

  John led us to the closest clump of trees to him. Under the spindly branches lay a man face down in the dirt. There was a detective squatting down next to the body taking notes. The victim’s hands were down by his sides, palms facing up and his head was looking off to his right. His legs were out straight with his toes pointing inwards.

  He had on a pair of white sneakers and dark blue jeans. His pants weren’t on fully. They were slightly bunched up to one side as if someone had tried to put them on after he was dead. On his upper body he was wearing a navy windbreaker. There were no signs of struggle, from what I could see just looking at him from this vantage point.

  I walked over to the right side of the body, bending down under branches. I squatted down and took a sip
of my coffee. The victim had pale blue eyes that weren’t closed and his face was swollen. It was hard to tell if he was once handsome or not. The mask of death will do that to you. Rob you of any dignity. He had a thick mustache. I think they call it a chevron mustache. The kind gay pornstars wore in the seventies.

  It was a good looking mustache if that’s your thing. Personally, I like to present a naked face to the world each day.

  “I’m going to say you found him like this, right?”

  John nodded. He was standing down by his feet.

  “Yeah, we found him like this. But as you know Anthony, we’re often not the first to find victims.”

  He grinned at me, always the cad.

  “Thanks for the homicide 101 lecture,” I said. “Who found him and how did he look at that time?”

  I got back up and came back over to John, bowing my head, not so much in reverence, but because I didn’t want to get smacked in the choppers by errant branches. John turned his head towards the detective still squatting down on the left side of the victim.

  “Hey, Glenn.”

  Glenn looked up and then stood up and came over to us.

  “You met my old friend, Anthony Carrick?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “This is Detective Glenn Blackstock.”

  He reached out his hand eagerly. I took it and gave it a shake. It was tough like overcooked steak. He was a round fellow and on the shorter side. I’d put him at around five eight. He had ginger hair and a gap between his two front teeth as he smiled at me. His eyes were close together and small.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you Anthony,” he said. “It’s my pleasure.”

  “Thanks, Glenn, you’ve got a good gig here with your Captain.”

  Glenn nodded and then looked back at John.

  “Who called this in, you got that down?”

  John looked at Glenn’s notebook. Glenn couldn’t have been older than mid-thirties, if that. Obviously a rising star in the LAPD. I didn’t think it’d take the brass long to tarnish his enthusiasm. Glenn flipped back a few pages in his notebook. He was wearing a brown suit that he bought with foresight. I reckon he could grow into it another twenty or so pounds. His blue tie was knotted just below his first button which was undone.

  “That was Ms. Naomi Antonucci, Captain. She called it in at 7:37 this morning.”

  “Did she say how she found him?” I asked.

  “She was on her morning jog around the neighborhood when she came into the park to finish up and stretch. Said she saw some sneakers and then when she went to look further she saw it was actually our vic.”

  “Speaking of vics, what’s our guy’s name.”

  “Ray Hope,” said Glenn.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No sir.”

  Glenn looked puzzled.

  “Well, no more ray of hope for our vic, then.”

  Poor kid, hadn’t been around John long enough to pick up on his macabre sense of humor. John chuckled and saw Mike smirking out of the corner of my eye.

  “Anthony, put these on, and I’ll let you take poke at the guy’s wallet.”

  Mike handed me some latex gloves. I passed my coffee over to John and put on the gloves.

  “Terrific, fit me like a glove.”

  “Groan,” said Mike.

  It was early still, I was just warming up. Mike passed me a bag that had Ray’s wallet in it. I opened it up and took the wallet out. It was expensive looking, probably soft calf or something. I opened it up, it was a bi-fold. There was a thick wad of bills in it.

  “How much?” I asked, not looking at Mike.

  “Hundred and thirty five,” he said.

  There were a couple of credit cards inside. An American Express Centurion and a J.P. Morgan Palladium Visa. There was also a debit card and a couple of photos. One was of a young boy, kneeling behind a soccer ball and the young lad was wearing soccer gear. The background was dotted with kids playing soccer. The other was a family portrait. Posed against a painted gray background. I recognized the vic and I assumed the woman was his wife. She might have been attractive once, but not when the picture was taken.

  She looked bloated. Either by too much good living or too many pharmaceuticals to keep the skeletons at bay. The young boy in this photo looked like the kid in the first photo with the soccer ball. In this pic he was older and more sullen. Teenagers.

  There was also his driver’s license, and from the address I figured he didn’t live more than several blocks from here.

  One other thing I saw tucked in behind the money was a receipt. It was from a local drugstore. Our ray of sunshine had bought a coke, chips and a candy bar as well as a bottle of lube. I closed up the wallet and gave it back to Mike.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Nothing else, except lint in his pockets,” said Mike.

  “No keys?”

  John shook his head.

  “Might have had a car or he might have walked here. If he had a car it’s probably been stolen. But I think that’s unlikely. There’s a good chunk of cash still in that wallet, and those credit cards. Man, you could buy yourself a helluva good time with that kind of plastic.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “What I do know is that I’m buying my credit card company a helluva good time with all the interest I’m paying.”

  John patted me on the back and handed back my coffee.

  “You shouldn’t have left without your pension.”

  I looked at him sideways.

  “You know I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  He nodded his head back and forth as if he were sparring with a partner, weighing the options.

  “You could’ve. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

  I wasn’t going to get into it with him again. I looked back over at the body.

  “So, that’s how the vic was found,” I said raising my paper cup of coffee towards the victim. “On his front like that?”

  “Yup, like I said before,” said John.

  “How’d he die,” I said, sipping my coffee and ignoring John’s snarky comment.

  “Let me show you.”

  John walked back up to the body where Glenn had squatted his round-self next to.

  “Can we turn him over for Anthony?” asked John, looking at Mike.

  “I have everything I need,” Mike said.

  “Glenn, do us a favor and turn the perp over.”

  Glenn grabbed the vic by his jeans and his windbreaker and pulled him over towards himself. Ray’s head lolled all the way to his right side again. This time I could see his left profile. There was a dark and matted burgundy dent in his skull, just above his left ear. The blood had mostly congealed and Ray’s dark brown hair was matted around it.

  “What do you figure did that Mike?” I asked.

  Mike shrugged and looked down at Ray’s face.

  “Bottle of Smuckers grape jelly?”

  He grinned at me.

  “So Ray was out here having a picnic and somehow smeared his face with grape jelly?”

  “Okay, seriously. Probably a heavy blunt object.”

  I looked over at John.

  “Seriously? This is your best crime scenes’ guy?”

  I nodded my head over at Mike.

  “That’s brilliant, ’cos I was thinking maybe it was marshmallow or maybe even a nerf ball.”

  “Gentleman, Anthony.”

  I knew that voice. Like honey on my ears. I was buzzing and my heart was a flower blossoming. I turned to look at the coroner.

  “This is why I get up in the morning to grisly scenes like this,” I said.

  “Can I take him away?” asked Dr. Stratham.

  John nodded.

  “Sure, we don’t need him anymore.”

  I winked at Emily as she walked by in her overalls, two body men with her, carrying a stretcher. She smiled at me as she looked over her shoulder in my direction.

  “Damn, what did you do to earn
the favors of that,” said John.

  “It’s all in my winning charm.”

  Mike rolled over a large rock towards me. It was the size of a softball or grapefruit, but not as smooth or round.

  “You taking to soccer now?”

  Mike grinned from up in the clouds, his height seemingly growing by the minute.

  “Nah, that’s your murder weapon. Well, not that one exactly, but one like it, which I have a hunch the perp left here somewhere in the park.”

  I bent down and picked it up. It had heft. I tossed it in my hand a few times. Something like this would definitely do the trick.

  “Yeah, I like this. Means it was a crime of passion. Something heated happened here that got out of control.”

  John nodded.

  “You wondering why a guy would be out here like this by himself this early in the morning?”

  “Thought crossed my mind,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “Maybe he was out for a morning jog.”

  “In jeans?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t really think he was out here jogging. But I was playing along with John.

  “To each his own.”

  John shook his head.

  “No, Anthony. Guys come out here, married men, to suck cock.”

  I nearly spat out my coffee.

  “Jesus, John, I’m trying to drink here.”

  John laughed out loud. He thought my reaction was extremely funny.

  “I’m just saying. That’s what guys come out here for. The neighbors will deny it, but you wait. We’re gonna get his computer and we’re gonna find him on one of these married-guys-seeking-guys-for-quickies sites.”

  I looked down at my hands. They were still covered with the white gloves, like I was just about to do a prostate exam. I felt seedy, just standing here. The soil stained beneath my feet with God knows what sorts of bodily fluids. The worst of it all being the cheating and lying.

  “Well then, we have a slam dunk,” I said, regaining my composure. “But I don’t see any spent condoms or other garbage around here.”