 
Seven Years After

by

Marvin K. Perkins

A smashwords edition

Published by Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by Marvin K. Perkins

Chapter One

The morning sun brilliantly appeared on the horizon to usher in another beautiful San Diego morning. A few joggers and hard-core hikers plotted along the pathway at Mission Trails, going through their morning routine. In the distance a merchant ship could be seen lumbering down San Diego bay, heading for the open ocean and to ports in a far away land. Birds in the trees along the trail had awoken and started to sing their morning songs to the few exercise fanatics dedicated enough to be out at such an ungodly hour.

A figure in a jogging suit lie half on and half off the pathway, as of yet unnoticed by any of the other early morning visitors. In his stillness, he seemed to be dead, breathing very shallow, features white as a ghost. The sun shone on his face, but he did not awaken. Birds sang to him sweetly but he did not heed their call. The ocean going vessel in the bay blew its horn loudly, but he did not hear.

The man was young, in his late thirties, and blond with a long golden goatee. He was of average height and weight, but with unusually large feet that were covered by hiking boots that showed the many miles of ground he had covered in them.

Jogging intensely, pumping her arms furiously to gain maximum training value, a lady flew by at first not noticing the young man languishing on the trail. She stopped in her tracks, turning around in horror to see him seemingly dead on the ground. Cautiously and carefully she approached him, not knowing what action she should take.

"Are you okay?" she inquired, shaking the fallen comrade of the trails. "Young man are you all right?" He did not stir or acknowledge her presence. "Help, help, somebody," she yelled at the top of her lungs, interrupting the solitude of peaceful morning. Her cries, at first, fell on deaf ears. She yelled again frantically, still shaking the man on the ground, who she feared was dead.

At long last another lone jogger happened by. He stopped, huffing and puffing, attempting to catch his breath. "What's wrong?" he panted.

"I think he might be dead." She cried pointing at the lifeless victim on the ground.

"Is he breathing? Does he have a pulse?"

"How the hell would I know? I'm not a doctor."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." The male jogger came over and kneeling down, he felt the man on the ground's chest and observed it rising up and down. With the first two fingers of his right hand, he found a pulse on the victim's neck, although a very faint one. "He's breathing. He's got a pulse, just passed out. You got a cell phone?"

"Uh, yeah," the lady said pulling one out of her pocket.

"Call 911, this man needs an ambulance."

Chapter Two

Valerie Smithson, a petite, attractive, Afro-America lady of thirty, with big brown eyes and a dimpled chin, at first took the disappearance of her estranged husband in stride. He had vanished before, living in a tent in a midtown beach community. So she at first didn't give his latest exploit into the unknown a single thought. Valerie had her career as a paralegal and her five year daughter Brittany, also know affectionately as Muffin, to occupy her time.

"Mother scratch-er," she said in her quirky form of profanity. "The freck with him. I hope he's dead. At least I can collect on his life insurance. Be the only money that bum ever gave Muffin and me." She folded a pair of her daughter's little pants and stared aimlessly out the kitchen window of her tiny, modest apartment. A next door neighbor shuffled by carrying a basket of laundry, nodded her head and smiled. "Poor Muffin, I know she is going to miss her old worthless daddy. I'll just tell her he went on vacation. I'm sure he'll be back soon," she said to herself as she folded a shirt and put it into the clothes basket.

"Hello Pete?" she inquired of her brother-in-law on the other end of the phone in L.A. "Have you heard anything from Charles?"

"No, not a word. I hope he's gone for good this time. He's impossible. No one could get along with that guy Valerie, God knows I tried. But you know I have a temper and so does Charles. I had enough of his crap." Pete answered starting to get a little upset.

"Well okay. Let me know if hear anything."

Pete didn't say anything, he just slammed the phone's receiver back down on the cradle.

Valerie looked at her phone's receiver questioningly and hung up herself, wondering what she had done to upset her brother-in-law so badly.

It was Saturday and Muffin was still asleep, a perfect time for reflection. She poured herself a second cup of strong coffee and sat down on one of her two kitchen chairs and let her mind wander.

She was a girl of twenty once again, shy and vulnerable. Although in the body of a woman she was still childlike, very much the school girl that she was in every respect. Valerie had been a student at Washington State University and living on campus. After a particularly ugly incident of sexual harassment and assault by a male faculty member, she had moved back home to live with her mom, Mary, and her step-dad Michael, five miles outside of the sleepy little Washington town of Snohomish.

Her new home was serene and quiet, just what she needed to recover from her traumatic episode at the school campus. She had not pursued or elected to press charges in the matter, opting to just put the whole terrible thing behind her. She decided to drop out of school and find a job. Maybe pursuing her dream to be an attorney would just have to be put on hold. She was still young, there would be time.

Having no real experience and only her schooling to find employment, she took a job as a bank teller at the Sea First Bank in Seattle, Washington. Fate is a funny thing, but it was in this capacity that she met her future husband, and father of her child, Charles Randolph Smithson. He was employed at an establishment close by teaching chess and working as a sales person in the store.

Valerie had been noticing Charles and he had been noticing her as well. Being shy, she had not said anything to him but, "thank you, have a nice day." Though a voice inside her was screaming, "say something to him. He's cute." But she never did, being an old fashioned kind of girl who thought the man should make the first move.

Finally Charles did muster up the courage to make the first move. "Hi, I'm Charles," he said looking shyly at the floor.

"I know. It's on your deposit slip."

"Oh yeah, I guess you do know my name."

They both laughed, breaking the tension of the situation.

"I'm Valerie," looking down at her name tag. "Connors."

Feeling a little bolder Charles followed suit. "I'm Charles Smithson, of the Seattle, Washington Smithsons. I would be honored to accompany the lady to dinner tonight at a restaurant of her choice, if she so desires."

They both laughed again.

"You're funny. Okay. I get off at six. I'll meet you in front of the bank. I'll even let you pick the restaurant."

From this small seed, the flower of their love would grow. Charles was Valerie's first love, her only love. They had some good years together and some not so good. But out of their love a beautiful baby girl came to be and it was all worth it.

Brittany, Muffin, as she was always called, was Valerie's life and reason for living. She brought joy to an otherwise joyless life with a man that was never able to rise to the challenge of being a father.

Muffin came into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, bringing Valerie back to reality. "I'm hungry mommy. Can I have some cereal?" She said and plopped down on the other dining room chair. "What you doing mommy? You thinking about daddy? Where did you say daddy went?"

Valerie didn't even answer, but just got up and fixed her little girl a bowl of cereal. She grabbed a clean spoon out of the drawer and almost threw it on the table in front of her child. "There's your cereal," Valerie said almost in disgust. She sat back down in her chair and took a sip of coffee that had become almost too cold to drink.

"Are you mad with me mommy?" Muffin asked through a mouthful of Captain Crunch.

"No honey, I'm not mad at you?"

"Where did you say daddy was?"

So it went through the years. Muffin kept asking where her daddy was and still there was no answer Valerie could give to the child.

Losing her job as a paralegal, Valerie went on unemployment and eventually moved back in with her folks again, who by this point were living in San Diego. Things had gone full circle back to when she was a girl. Two years later she finally found work for the state of California, in the unemployment office of all places. She hated her job, it was very stressful, but she had to work. She dreamed of the day when her and Muffin would have their own place again.

The police had put a missing person's report out on Charles, but nothing became of it. Valerie even went to the city morgue a couple of times to view the remains of "John Does," but they were not Charles.

She was in the process of talking to an attorney about a divorce decree and eventually claiming him deceased. She desperately needed Charles' insurance money to start a new life for her and Muffin and she more than anything wanted to put him out of her life for good. Valerie's indignation for her long since departed husband had grow overpowering through the years. Muffin blamed mommy for sending her daddy away and it was tearing Valerie apart. She, deep down, felt in someway she had contributed to his departure and maybe even his death. She lived in a frantic state of mind, constantly wondering how and when her nightmare was going to end.

Day by day was the only way she was able to survive these trying years.

Chapter Three

The hospital monitor beeped, pacing Charles' vital signs as he lie in his bed not knowing the life that he had lived for the past seven years was going to be suddenly smashed into his present existence in a matter of a few minutes.

A nurse stood over him checking his vitals, seeing everything was okay, she started out the door.

"Nurse, where am I?" a groggy Charles said in as loud of a voice as he could muster.

The nurse, somewhat shocked that he was awake, returned immediately to Charles' bedside. "You're in the hospital, hon. You were found passed out on the hiking trail. Apparently from a thyroid malfunction of some sort. That's what your chart says. The doctor will have to fill you in on all the details."

Charles just looked at the nurse in disbelief. "How long have I been here?"

"For a few hours?"

"Was there a cell phone in my pocket?"

"I don't know, I'll have to check for you. By the way, we need to contact your next of kin. Do you have someone you would like us to call, a wife perhaps?

Charles looked perplexed and confused at this seemingly basic question. He thought for a minute. "I have a sister whose a college professor in Boston. I don't know her number. I had a wife and a daughter, but they're dead."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," the nurse said feigning concern. "I will try to reach your sister, somehow. You try and get some rest."

Chapter Four

"Valerie? This is Maria."

"Hi Maria, what's up?"

"Are you sitting down. You better brace yourself for this one. They found Charles!"

Valerie wasn't sitting down but she all but fell out on her bed from the shocking revelation. "What?" was all she could say, as the room whirled round and round like a nightmarish carnival ride.

"I said, they found Charles. He was passed out on Mission Trails and a couple of joggers found him and called 911. He's at Scripps in Chula Vista, room 892."

"Why did they call you, Maria?" I'm his wife." A confused Valerie inquired, still whirling.

"The nurse who contacted me got my name from a Google search. She said Charles told her his wife and daughter were dead."

"Dead?"

"That's what Charles told them."

"But why?" Valerie replied, still shocked at the thought of Charles professing his wife and daughter were dead.

"I don't know. Listen I'll be there tomorrow. Charles wants to see me. Let me see him first and decide whether it is a good idea for you and Muffin to see him, due to fact that he thinks you are dead. The shock might be overwhelming if he actually, in his mind, believes you are in fact dead," Maria proclaimed in her brand of psycho-babble. She after all was a psychologist, even if she was a genuine flake.

"Okay, call me when you get to San Diego." They hung up and Valerie lie on the bed virtually pinned by the weight of the situation that had just been thrust upon her. "Oh, dear God. What am I going to tell Muffin? I know she's gonna want to see her daddy. But he thinks she's dead. I can't tell her that. God help me."

Chapter Five

Charles lie in his hospital bed almost petrified with fear, but he was hooked up to too many tubes and miscellaneous gear to get up and make a run for it. That's if he could walk or even stand, "What if they're watching me? These people have eyes everywhere. They must not find out about my wife and daughter. They will use them against me. You don't know these people. They kill whole families. I've got to get out of here." He pulled at the tubes in frustration, they increased his already agitated state.

The nurse and doctor appeared, at least to Charles, out of nowhere, beaming big smiles that made Charles want to puke. "And how is our patient this morning?" Said a young resident of unknown declivity, but short and dark with wavy black hair and brown eyes that twinkled when he spoke.

"I think I'll live, doc. How long do you think I'm gonna be stuck here?"

"I still need to run some more tests. You have a very unusual thyroid condition. That's what caused you to pass out. If the test comes back negative, I don't see any reason you can't leave later on today."

"Oh, by the way. I asked the nurse but she never said. Did I have a cell phone in my pocket when you found me?"

"No, there was no phone as far as we know. Just get some rest, I'll keep you apprised of the status of your tests. The nurse will need to draw a little bit more blood, I'm afraid."

"Are you sure you didn't find a cell phone? I need my phone!"

"No, quite sure," the doctor said with a placated look on his face, opening the door to leave.

Charles was still frantic as he watched the doctor disappear out of the door.

The nurse drew a couple of tubes of blood and left, leaving Charles in a frenetic state of mind. "They must have taken it. Oh my God, if that phone falls into the wrong hands, all hell is gonna break loose. I've got to get out of here and find that phone. Maybe it fell out of my pocket on the trail."

He tried in vain to get up, struggling with his balance, but only succeeding in falling back down on the bed. The room spun around uncontrollably and Charles thought he was going to hurl. He tried again with the same result.

He could just see them with his phone and all the contacts it contained. It was a gold mine of information and incrimination, if the cops got their hands on it. He had to find it. But at that moment he could only lie helplessly in his hospital bed. "It was easy. It was all too easy," he mumbled as he let himself succumb to much needed sleep.

Chapter Six

The sun awoke the next morning to find Valerie prostrate in her bed, blood shot eyes wide open and staring at her bedroom ceiling. She hadn't slept at all, feeling the overwhelming burden of the latest bomb shell her sister-in-law had dropped on her the day before. "Charles is alive, but he thinks me and Muffin are dead. Why? Why does he think we are dead. Are we dead to him? Is that what this means? What am I gonna do?" The questions whirled around so violently in Valerie's head she was certain her fractured brain was going to explode.

Her cell chirped, looking at it through blurry eyes she noticed it was Maria calling. "Hello."

"Valerie, it's Maria."

"I know, caller I.D."

"I'm boarding my flight right now, I'll be in San Diego in five hours. I'm going to rent a car at the airport and drive straight to the hospital to see Charles. I'll call you after I've seen him. Got to go now, bye."

"Maria, I need..." Valerie started to say, but noticed the call had disconnected.

She wanted to go to the hospital and confront her estranged husband that had put her and her daughter through a living hell for seven years, only to show up and complicate her already complicated life. "I need this crap, right now. I still have to tell Muffin. God knows what she's gonna do, probably freak out. I know she's gonna want to see him. She hadn't stop talking about him the whole time he's been gone. I can't understand her fixation on that freaking loser."

There was a tap on her door. Her mom, Mary, was cooking breakfast and wanted to know if she wanted some. "No, I'm not hungry right now, Ma." She still hadn't told her mother about the reappearance of Charles. That was going to be a conversation like no other over a couple of cups of strong coffee. She could just imagine what her mom was going to say. She always hated Charles. She had told Valerie many times to declare that idiot dead and move on with her life.

Appearing in kitchen like a dark ghost, Valerie drug herself in and fell on the comfortable love seat in the din where Mary was drinking coffee, eating some bacon and eggs and watching an old episode of "Murder She Wrote."

"Hi Ma," Valerie sighed, looking like she wanted to say more but didn't.

Her mom could tell from just these two simple words that something was troubling her daughter. Not just some little thing like a problem at work she was always dragging home and making subjects of long conversations, but something major was in the works. "What's wrong? Trouble at work again?"

Breaking into tears, Valerie fell on the floor and went over to hug her Ma who was sitting on the couch adjacent to her. Mary just held her child for a while like a baby needing comfort. After all Valerie was her baby girl and always would be. "It'll be all right. It'll be all right. What's wrong, baby?" She said as she continued to rock her.

"They found Charles." She said looking at at her mother's face that was now in a state of shock.

"What?"

"Charles is alive. He's at the Scripps Hospital in Chula Vista. What am I gonna do, Ma?"

"Oh dear Lord," Mary said shaking her head, trying desperately to choose the right words of guidance for her distraught daughter. "What happened?"

"They found him passed out on Mission Trails. Someone called 911 and they took him to Scripps. Here's the crazy thing, if him being alive is not crazy enough. I found out about it from Maria. Charles is telling everyone that his wife and daughter are dead. He told them he had a sister, they Googled her and ended up calling Maria.

"You still need to go on with your divorce. You need to distance yourself and Muffin from that nut case. Nothing has changed. I wouldn't even go to the hospital. Seven years without a word."

"Ma, I've got to tell Muffin. You know she's gonna want to see her daddy. You know how she is about Charles. What am I gonna say to her, Ma?"

Mary was unusually lost for words. She hated Charles but loved her grandchild more than she hated him. "You're right, you have to tell her. No other way than just come out and tell her. But I wouldn't say anything about Charles saying she was dead. I sure would like to know what that loser's been doing for the pass seven years."

"Yeah, that is a mystery. Maria is on her way to San Diego. She thinks she should see Charles first because the trauma of seeing me and Muffin might be devastating to his mental health if indeed he thinks we are dead. You know Maria." Valerie got up and fixed a cup of coffee to fortify herself.

"I guess you should wait until Maria sees him. In the meantime, you'll have to break the news to Muffin somehow. Lord, why of all times did he pick now to show up?"

Valerie just sipped her coffee and shook her head in agreement, not knowing what else to say or how she was going to break the news to Muffin.

.

Chapter Seven

"It was easy, so easy," Charles muttered repeatedly to himself as he slipped off into the land of nod. His eyelids fluttered and he twitched slightly as long past images appeared in his tortured mind, running like a movie across the film screen of his brain.

It was seven years ago and he was walking down the bustling streets of downtown L.A., smelling the food and the coffee from nearby restaurants as he walked by, wondering what pathway he should take in his life. He walked for what seemed like hours, the neighborhood getting seedier as his sojourn continued. Card board box city, blankets, shopping carts, the strong smell of urine and feces flooded his mind; he was there, really there.

A homeless unkempt vagabond urinated against a grimy wall covered with gang graffiti, a surreal old lady rummaged through a shopping cart full of plastic bags, an old Afro-American bum dressed in a tattered army fatigue jacket preached and praised the Lord at the top of his lungs. Welcome to your new home Charlie, and these are your new friends, get acquainted. Pungent odors of unknown origin titillated Charles' nostrils, he whirled round and round as he viewed a real life carnival freak show playing out before his very eyes.

The reality of the situation flowed over him like a suffocating river. "I can do this," he proclaimed victoriously, like he has just had some type of of Epiphany, where he was the conquering hero, ruler of all he sees. A new found confidence overwhelmed him as he stood and surveyed this new and uncharted land. A calm like he had never known, soothed him to the point of almost being orgasmic.

A shopping cart, pushed by an overzealous can and bottle collector, slammed into Charles out of nowhere, breaking his train of thought and almost catapulting him to the trash laden concrete. "Watch where you're going. Do you know who I am? The nerve of some people." The collector didn't break stride but continued on with his mission seemingly unaware that he had almost knocked poor Charles to the pavement or maybe he just didn't care.

"I must find a place suitable for my new residence. A home with a view. That's what I need. I don't want any of these bums sneaking up on me and taking what is mine. But first I need a suitable box. One not too big or pretentious, but adequate. And of course I will need a blanket and an old shopping cart."

The nurse came in to check on Charles and was pleased to see that he was sound to sleep. She adjusted his pillow, covered him up all snug and warm, took a quick glance at his chart, and left the room.

"I must find a card board box," Charles slurred in his sleep, making a motion with his arms like he was walking.

His new home set up, he stood back and admired it from a far. "Pretty cool, nice view." He surveyed his new neighbors. They looked harmless but one could never tell in these matters. Charles pulled out the old "Rambo-style" knife he had just purchased at the army surplus store and thumbed the blade checking for sharpness. "Yeah, this baby should do the trick if any of these good people should decide to try and take what belongs to me." He smiled sadistically as he replaced the huge weapon in its sheath and put it under his new army green blanket. He settled in and made himself to home in his new found world.

Sleepless, but dream filled nights haunted him for days without end, wandering in a sea of disgusting rubbish that confronted him at every juncture. Dead rats, and even more terrifying live ones, shared his neighborhood along with the vile filth of the L.A. underbelly. Paranoia gripped him like a steel hand, he was helpless to break free from its grasp. These were the early days.

Death was around him, it swept over him like a tidal wave of revulsion. A man died of an unknown malady in an adjacent card board box structure, the smell choked Charles to the point of suffocation. The nights, the nights were the worst. That's when they would come. Those who would try to steal what was his. He must not let them have their way with his goods or even worst, with his very body and soul. "You will survive," Charles proclaimed, steeling his resolve to exist in this bizarre world of his choosing.

Then one day he came out of the shadows as a lighted pathway shone brilliantly. He knew immediately it was his destiny.

Chapter Eight

"Maria, don't let anyone see you. They're watching. They're everywhere. I've lost my cell phone. I told everybody here Valerie and Muffin are dead. Play along. They're watching. Please!"

Poor Maria just sat shell shock in the chair next to Charles' bed listening to him ranting. She tried to gather her thoughts to say something, but she didn't know what to say. Who was this person lying in the hospital bed? It certainly wasn't her brother. She didn't even recognize the man who called himself Charles anymore. "Now calm down Charles. Tell me what has happened."

He began again. "They're watching. Don't tell anyone Valerie and Muffin are alive. Tell them to stay away."

"But they will want to see you, especially Muffin. She loves and misses you Charles. Don't you want to see your daughter?" Maria pleaded her case, but Charles acted as if he didn't even hear.

"Don't you get it Maria? They'll use them against me. Tell them to stay away. They are in great danger. Danger!" Charles almost jumped out of his bed with these words.

Maria was speechless. She just stared out of the hospital window as Charles raved on, wondering what to do. What should she tell her sister-in-law Veronica, and worst of all, how would they explain the situation to poor Muffin. She adored her daddy, even after all these years of not seeing him.

Charles finally stopped his rambling and there was silence. He stared at Maria who was still looking out of the hospital room window. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Who are these people that are watching you? What are you talking about? Tell me what has happened," Maria almost pleaded.

"It's best you didn't know. It's dangerous for you to even be here."

"How can I help you if you won't tell me what's going on Charles?"

"No one can help me, and if I don't find that cell phone and it falls into the wrong hands, I'm a dead man."

"That's not true. Don't say things like that Charles. You're scaring me. It's going to be all right. Surely you're not serious about all this?"

"Oh, great, you don't believe me."

"You'll have to admit it sounds like you're making this whole thing up. I know how you love to play games."

"This is no game Maria, this is real. You've got to believe me!"

Having heard enough, she patted Charles on the shoulder and said she understood. "You get some rest. I'm going to talk to your doctor, in private. Let's see if we can get you released."

"Thank you, Maria."

Maria headed out of the door, down the hallway to the nurses station in search of Charles' doctor and hopefully some answers.

Chapter Nine

A frantic Valerie sat at her desk at the office trying to get some work done, but the cloud threatening to rain on her life about the whole Charles reappearance thing was overhead, occupying her mind to the point that she was almost a vegetable. She fumbled with a box of pens and pencils on her desk top and stared at the latest picture of Muffin in her ballet ensemble. She had become such a beautiful young lady, only recently turning thirteen. "How do I tell you they have found your daddy?" she said, talking to the picture of her daughter, who seemed to have fixed a cold stare upon her somehow. "Should I tell her at all?" These thoughts had Valerie dizzy at her work desk.

Valerie's boss Elaine, stopped by to see how she was holding up. Elaine was also a close confidant who knew the whole Charles saga including the the latest bizarre chapter. "Why don't you just go on home honey? You have some personal time coming. Take a few days and sort things out. What a situation. I've never heard a story like yours. Go home. I insist."

As Valerie was preparing to leave, her cell phone vibrated. Looking at the caller ID, she noticed it was Maria. "Oh God, what does she want?"

"Valerie, it's Maria. We need to talk, in person if possible. Can you meet me somewhere?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm leaving work right now. Do you know the Denny's in Chula Vista?"

"I'll find it."

"Meet me there in thirty minutes."

"Okay, bye."

Maria was there when Valerie arrived already sipping on a cup of steaming hot tea and looking like the college professor that she was, peering over the top of her glasses at Valerie who plopped down in the booth across from Maria with a sigh. "Cheer up Valerie, Charles is back."

"Cheer up? Are you frigging kidding me? My life was bad enough. My job sucks, Muffin is driving me nuts, I'm grown and live with my folks, and now this crap. Cheer up?"

"Well, anyway. I saw Charles this morning. He is quite delusional I'm afraid. I talked to his doctor and his tests came back negative. Physically he is fine the doctor said, however... They would like to give him a psyche evaluation, if he consents to one. He needs one, that's for sure. He kept talking about somebody was after him, and seemed really fixated on his cell phone. He even said that if his phone fell into the wrong hands he was a dead man. He also said they must not know about you and Muffin or you would also be in some kind of danger. Like I said totally deluded."

Valerie just sat looking at Maria the whole time with her mouth wide open in amazement. The waitress showed up to break the mood, bringing Valerie the cup of coffee she had ordered.

"But what should I do about Muffin, Maria? She needs to know her daddy is alive. She loves that idiot. I think she is just in love with the idea of having a father, like her little friends at school. To be honest I don't want to see him at all. He has caused Muffin and I so much pain through the years, seven years, not a word." Valerie pounded her fist on the table causing a few of the other customers to shoot her a curious glare.

"Maybe I can set up a secret meeting with Charles, so Muffin can see her dad. I think it is in the best interests of the child to see her father. A child needs their father to be a well rounded individual. In the meantime, you have to figure the best way to tell her Charles is alive. I know it's hard Valerie, but I know you can do it." Maria spoke in her college professor voice which Valerie always found so condescending. Maria was pale white, but with dark black hair and almond colored eyes, that hid behind old fashioned black-rimmed glasses, making her look like an old time elementary school teacher. Tall and thin, she towered over Valerie as she spoke, flapping her arms like a bird wishing to take flight.

"Okay, I'll tell Muffin, some how. In the meantime you talk to Charles and figure out some place safe we can meet him. You don't think someone is really after him, do you Maria?"

"No, it's all in his mind, I'm sure of that. I wouldn't put you and Muffin in danger."

"Well... If you're sure. I guess it'll be all right."

They finished their beverages and left the restaurant without further conversation other than to say goodbye and see each other when the meeting was arranged. Valerie had a bad feeling about the whole thing as she drove home that day. She tried to put it out of her mind. She had more important things to dwell on. Charles was alive, and she had to tell Muffin.

Chapter Ten

It was early evening, the sun sneaked behind the horizon for some much needed rest after a long day of shining. A few joggers and hikers took advantage of the remaining remnants of the day along the three mile stretch of trails, finishing up their daily exercise routine just as the sun was setting. A cell phone hid behind a group of bushes as of yet undiscovered. It vibrated and played a lively ring tone that fell on deaf ears that particular night. Its database held Charles' life, hopefully he would be the one to discover the treasure that lie in the sand, not those who wanted to do him harm.

Two men, Latinos, combed the trail with a metal detector. They looked somewhat out of place in the fading light. Their search had been in vain at that point, but they were not men who were easily dissuaded. Could they be the hombres who sought the cell phone and its important list therein? Or perhaps they were just looking for pocket change or jewelry items that had been carelessly dropped along the trail. As their search continued they grew more impatient and frustrated. These were clearly desperate men. Maybe their boss had demanded they find the phone in peril of their own lives.

Charles stirred in his hospital bed as if he somehow was aware of the duo on the trail looking for his cell phone. "Got to get out of this bed. I must find my cell. They're looking for me, Danger, danger," he mumbled. He suddenly awoke with a start, sweating, although the room was cool. He tried to go back to sleep but there was no use, as his fear took a hold of him, he shook uncontrollably.

"How are we feeling this afternoon," the doctor beamed, as he came in snatching Charles' chart out of its holder and making a few notes. "I have good news, Mr. Smithson. All your tests came back negative. So you are clear to go. I have been asked to order a psyche evaluation on you. This is voluntary, you understand. I can't force you to submit to it."

"No, no psyche evaluation, I refuse to submit to any more tests. Just give me my clothes and let me the hell out of here. I have important business."

"Very well, I will make a note on your chart to that effect. We will process you for release immediately.

Chapter Eleven

The meeting was set at a park behind the civic center in Chula Vista. One o'clock in the afternoon was to be the time. Valerie should park her car on the street and her and Muffin would stroll casually down 3rd ave. as if they were window shopping for a few minutes. Then they would saunter into the park area, find a seat on one of the concrete benches and wait until Charles arrived.

He said he would be in disguise and in stealth mode. He would check out the entire park for a tail before cautiously approaching them. It was very important to everyone's safety that their little clandestine meeting not be discovered by his enemies.

Valerie did as prescribed by Maria when she called, as bizarre and even ridiculous as the whole thing sounded. "Sounds like a scene from an old spy movie on late night TV," Valerie had remarked laughing nervously, but the whole thing was just plain creepy and not funny in the least.

Her and Muffin walked slowly down the street looking in the various windows, hoping to appear to be window shopping. "Look Muffin, like that chair. It would look good in my room. Hey, an original Batman comic book, that would be a good collector's item." Muffin didn't understand what her mommy was doing, all she knew was she was going to see her daddy.

"You think daddy will recognize me mommy? Can we go out to eat and to a movie?"

" Yeah, he'll recognize you but I don't think he'll want to go out, but we'll ask your daddy when we see him"

After playing this charade for a few minutes it was time to execute the second phase of the master plan. The park was coming up. They hung a left, entered the park and found a bench over in the corner and sat down to await the grand entrance of the guest of honor.

Valerie surveyed the whole park, but still no Charles. Minutes had past and she was growing more anxious to get this whole dreadful ordeal over with. A few more minutes went by and then out of nowhere a figure wearing a hoodie and dark glasses resembling "The Unabomber" appeared out of thin air and materialized right in front of them.

The apparition pulled his glasses up and quietly said, "It's me, Charles."

Muffin started to jump up off the park bench to give her daddy a hug but he waved her back down. Valerie just stayed frozen on the bench shocked by his bizarre appearance and demeanor.

"Don't acknowledge me. They're might be people watching us."

"Charles, what is this all about? You're scaring your daughter, and me as well."

"It's a long story, I don't have time right now to tell you, we are in great danger. This place is not safe. All I can say is that I got myself into some deep trouble, with some bad people. I have to disappear again. Muffin, I love you. I just wanted you to know. When this is over, I will be back and we can spend some time together, I promise."

"Daddy!" Muffin got up to hug her dad but he was gone.

Valerie again sat speechless on the verge of breakdown as she watched her child searching in vain and calling in the park for her father who was long gone.

He had vanished again. How long would he be gone this time? Ten years or perhaps forever.

Someone was following Charles, but he was unaware that he had picked up a tail. A man in a red Chevy pickup was pacing him as he walked down 3rd ave.

Chapter Twelve

Life resumed a somewhat normal pace after the meeting with Charles. Muffin questioned, even interrogated Valerie for days about the whereabouts of her precious daddy. Valerie was at her wits end with the whole matter. She couldn't eat, sleep or even concentrate on her job. She finally took family leave from her job to deal with the matter and with Muffin. She grew darker day by day. She slept too much and took way too much Ambien, hoping just to sleep through her day and not have to deal with the whole horrible ordeal.

The brothers, Pete and Joe, had been told about the return of Charles and were none too happy about his refusal to see them. They hated Charles but still felt slighted. They thought he was a nutcase, who needed to be institutionalized, but he was still their brother. This latest story about someone being after him just further added fuel to the fire of their feeling towards their younger sibling.

Charles' dad, Roger, was also quite upset that he had not got in touch with him. He was his father, he should have been the first one Charles should have contacted, he felt.

So in the wake of the brief return of Charles Smithson, all that was left was heartache and bad feelings. The whole family, with the exception of Muffin, felt they had been better off thinking Charles was dead, they could deal with that, and move on with their lives. But this latest development had them all at a loss as to how to proceed with their lives. Valerie was the main one that had been adversely affected. She wanted to move on with her life, a life that had already had a shadow cast upon it during the seven years her husband had been missing. Now this reappearance, and the bizarre fashion in which this whole scenario had played out really had her in the doldrums.

Chapter Thirteen

In a new high rise building under construction in downtown San Diego, a startling site was waiting to be discovered by the hard hat workers when they came to work that morning. In the corner of the fifth floor, a badly beaten body with two gun shots wounds to the head, lie in a bloody heap on the floor. There was a thick pooling of dried blood underneath the head and the victim's face and hair were covered as well. Such was the brutality, the corpse no longer looked to be human, but only a bag of sanguinary bones as a glint of sunlight revealed the horror.

A group of electricians finally reported for their duties around seven, joking and eating donuts, washed down by mugs of Starbucks coffee. At first the horror remained unseen, the workers being intent on their coffee and pastries. They joked about the events of the past evening at a downtown bar they patronize after their long work day ends.

Finished with their "breakfast of champions," it was time to go to work. Ralph Peterson was pulling cable in the corner when he all but stumbled on something on the floor and felt the stickiness that only coagulating blood can cause on concrete. He looked down in horror and surprise. "Holy crap!" he yelled, recoiling from what appeared to be a dead body. "Help, somebody, help!"

He stepped back and stood trembling as two of his fellow workers came to see what Ralph was yelling about like a frightened school girl. He pointed at the floor. " That's a dead body, oh my God."

The newly arrived two workers stood momentarily shocked, but one finally came to the revelation, "Somebody call 911!"

A swarm of emergency personnel ascended on the high rise building in a matter of minutes. Police, paramedics, coroner's office, and CSI, took their prospective places in a dance they were all too familiar with; the dance of death.

Sam Tomas from the city coroner's office examined the body as the remainder of the team waited for their chance to be called into action. "My God, what a mess," Sam said as he turned the victim's head to get a better look. "Multiple blunt force trauma to the head and virtually the entire body. Two gun shot wounds to the front of the head, right between those baby blues, nasty. Looks like .22 caliber, can't be sure though". He turned the head to the side so he could check the back of the victim's skull. "No exit wounds. Somebody, worked this guy over but good. Could be drug cartel related. Looks like something they would do."

Just arriving on the scene were two of San Diego's best and brightest homicide detectives, watching the examiner do his thing. John Carson, fifties, graying hair, Afro-American, somewhat overweight, and chewing on an unlit cigar and his partner Chuck Brown, white, athletic, sporting a stylish ensemble, waited for the chance to take a look at their latest stiff.

Finishing up, Sam Tomas motioned Carson and Chuck over. "Gentleman, how are you doing this fine morning.? Good to see you. How have you guys been?"

"Cut the small talk Tomas. What you got?" Carson grumbled.

"Damn Carson, get up on the wrong side this morning?"

"Sam, please!"

"Very well. Male Caucasian, two to the head, small caliber, probably .22. Somebody beat the hell out of this guy first. Didn't find a weapon at the scene, more than likely a baseball bat. Seems to have been beaten somewhere else and then the killer or killers dragged him here, then shot him. Blood is present but not the kind of castoff splatter on the walls and floor you'd have with bludgeoning. Due to the state of rigor, I say he's been dead around ten to twelve hours."

"More than likely, he knew his attackers then?" Chuck chimed in, but Carson shot him a glance like he wanted the next question instead.

"Yeah, yeah, he knew his attacker or attackers and from the looks of him, he got to know them if he didn't already. They find any ID on the body doc?" Carson had to ask but knew the answer before he asked the question.

"Nope, no ID," Sam said trying to hide a chuckle.

"That figures. Do murder victims ever have identification these days?" Carson almost spit around the cigar that dangled from his lip.

Chuck was taking a look at the victim's hands and noticed something odd. "His hands are not bruised. No defensive wounds. That's kinda strange isn't it? Me, if someone was beating the heck out me with a bat, I'd be trying my best to cover up."

"That is odd," Tomas concurred. "Most of the time in these types of cases, there is considerable damage to the hands and the forearms. But you're right Chuck," Sam said taking another look at the victims arms and hands. "There doesn't seem to be much damage. Very curious. I'll have to see about that when I get him on the table."

"Okay, Doc, go ahead and tag and bag him, Nothing more to see here. Let forensics take over and see if they can give us a hand on this thing." Carson waved at Tomas to take the stiff away. "We need to talk to the workers who found the body."

The threesome that were involved in the discovery of the body stood over in a corner waiting patiently. Ralph Peterson, being the one who actually stumbled across the corpse would be the main one the detectives would want to talk to first.

"So did you touch the body at all?" Chuck asked a still shaking Ralph.

"No, no sir. I've never seen a dead body before. It scared the hell out me. I just yelled for the other guys to come over."

"Did any of you guys touch the body?" Carson growled.

No, was the consensus of the group. They all said it was too gross to touch.

"Okay, did any of you guys see anybody suspicious hanging around the work site this morning when you came in or last night when you left."

"No," they all replied almost in unison.

"Okay, you guys can go. If we have any further questions for you, we'll let you know" Carson said, giving the workers the word they wanted to hear.

"As usual, we got nothing Carson," Chuck opined.

"Yep, you're right. Let's do a canvass of the area and see if anyone saw this poor gentleman being dragged in here or heard a couple of gun shots." Carson said, motioning towards the door. "I just hope CSI and the coroner come up with something."

"I'm sure they will Carson, they always do,"

"Let's get to work."

Chapter Fourteen

Just as expected the canvass turned up nothing. It figures no one would have seen or heard anything in the middle of the night, at a secluded work site. So, the detectives weren't discouraged, not really thinking the canvass would turn up anything anyway. But they had to do the leg work.

Sitting at their beat up old desks, in their dingy downtown office, with dozens of other detectives, Carson and Chuck reviewed the information they had up to that point.

"Tomas claims the victim was beaten at one location and shot at the job site where his body was found. Why would our killer do that? Why not just shoot the victim at the same location where the beating took place?" Chuck asked, but really didn't expect an answer.

"Maybe the killer was afraid the gunshot would be heard, so brought the victim to the job site to finish the guy off."

"Could be. But why not beat the victim at the job site as well? Maybe our killer has some ties to the high rise."

"You know what that means Chuck? We have two crime scenes instead of one. The problem is we don't know where the other crime scene is right now."

"Once we establish the victim's identity, maybe we might get a clue as to where that second scene might be."

"Yeah, if we're lucky, which we usually aren't. "

"Well let's not be too negative Carson, it could happen."

"In the meantime, let's go back to the scene one more time. It's not far, hell we could walk it. Beautiful day, a little fresh air would do us both some good."

"Okay, I'll buy that. What are we looking for when we return to the scene?"

Carson, chewed on a fresh unlit cigar butt, spit in a nearby trash can. "I'm just curious as to how our killer or killers got our victim up to the fifth floor. Did they take him up some stairs, a service elevator, or what?" We could find something we missed on the route they took to the victim's final destination"

"Oh, I got you. Could be some blood, hair, DNA, or other forensic stuff our bad guys left that might give us a clue as to their identity." Chuck said, scratching his head.

"You got it." Let's get to hoofing."

A few minutes later the duo arrived at the crime scene, which by now was alive with workers of various sorts coming and going. Surveying the building from afar, the detectives tried to envision how the killer or killers had approached the building. "Had to be in some type of vehicle," Chuck said finally breaking the silence.

"You think," Carson replied mocking the statement his junior partner had just made. "Of course they were in a vehicle, but hell, by now there must be a hundred fresh tire tracks around the joint"

"Not going to be able to get a make on the vehicle by now from the tire tracks is what you're saying?"

"Duh."

"Okay, let's check and see if there is a service elevator that could have been used."

"Yes, now you've got the idea my friend."

After walking around the high rise under construction and talking to several of the workers, they came to the conclusion there was no service elevator. "Had to use the stairs," Carson finally conceded.

"So somebody or perhaps two people, carried this poor sap up five flights of stairs and shot him?" Chuck said with a look of disbelief on his face.

"Well he didn't fly up there, so he got up there somehow."

"That's a long climb carrying a bloody, beaten up guy, possibly out cold at that point."

"Yeah, that's true Chuck. That's why I'm thinking it must have been at least two. One guy would be hard pressed to carry our stiff up five flights."

They start the climb up the stairs searching for anything that might lead to the identity of the perpetrators. Lots of footprints, debris, and fingerprints, littered the entire area rendering their search all but fruitless. "This ain't getting us anywhere, Carson. These stairs are too contaminated. A hundred guys walked up and down here just this morning."

"Just keep looking. You give up too easily Chuck. There's got to be something."

That's when they saw it stuck over in the corner of one of the steps. Carson, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, fished it out, careful not to smudge any prints, if there were any. He held up a gold bracelet and beamed a big smile. "Look what we got here?"

"That could be anybody's." Chuck replied.

"Yeah and it might be somebody's. One of the killers."

Carson put the bracelet gently into a plastic bag like he had found a buried treasure.

They searched the rest of the stairwell and came up empty handed. They had their first clue, well maybe.

Chapter Fifteen

Sam Tomas had a body of great interest on the cutting table, many mysteries were yet to unfold before this autopsy was concluded. The victim was our "John Doe" found on the fifth floor of the under construction high rise the day before. He noticed something that he hadn't at the crime scene; from the apparent entry of the bullets between the victim's eyes, he was in a prone position when the fatal shots were fired. Also the wounds that were inflicted on the body by some sort of blunt object were also struck while the victim was lying on his back. There was no trauma to the shoulders or the back region or to the undersides of the legs. It was almost like the victim was unconscious at the time the blows were struck.

The teeth had not been shattered even though the face was badly beaten, so Tomas took pictures of the region to aide in identification from dental records. He fingerprinted, took a sample for DNA comparison, and drew blood for a toxicology screen. He would know more when the results came back, hopefully.

It was obvious the cause of death was the two gunshots to the head, that was the easy part. But what led to the victim's demise was quite another story.

"Carson, this is Tomas over at the coroner's office, how's it hanging?"

"Tomas, what's with you and all the chit chat? I don't have time for all that crap. You got something for us?"

"Yes and No."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I need you and your partner to hotfoot it on over here ASAP and I'll explain it to you. Bye."

Carson closed up his cell. "That was Tomas over at the coroner's office."

"Yeah, I got that much," Chuck said with a smirk..

"He wants us over at the lab ASAP as he put it."

"Well, let's go. See what he's got."

No matter how many times Carson and Chuck visited the house of death, it still gave them the creeps. All those dead bodies covered in sheets with name tags hanging from their toes. Creepy, and almost scary they always said. Like out of a horror movie. They couldn't even fathom what it would be like to work in such a place.

"Carson and Chuck," Sam beamed, a little too cheerily for the detectives given the setting. "I'm so happy you could come."

"Sam, how are you," Chuck replied as cordially as he could manage.

"Show us the stiff, enough of the small talk," Carson grumbled in his usual fashion.

"Okay, here is Mr. John Doe #28. That's what he is for right now until I get identification back from the lab guys. Like I said at the scene, cause of death was two to the head, right between the eyes at close range. Also because of the angle of the wounds the victim was lying on on the floor, the shooter stood over him and fired the lethal bullets. I dug two severely damaged bullets out of his skull. Sent them over to ballistics for analysis, appeared to be .22, as I stated also at the scene. Also the other wounds that were inflicted on the victim by a blunt object of some kind appears also to have been done while the victim was in a prone position, probably unconscious or drugged."

Carson and Chuck both were somewhat taken aback and just stood staring at the body for a few moments. Finally, Chuck broke the silence. "So, let me get this straight Doc. The victim was lying down when he was shot as well as when the beating occurred, correct?"

"That is correct, my young friend."

"And at this point you feel the victim was unconscious or drugged at the time the beating took place?"

"Correct again, because of the lack of wounds on the hands and forearms we discussed at the scene. I'm sure toxicology will confirm when the results come back."

"Cut to the chase doctor. What are you really trying to say," Carson growled.

"Well, it is my opinion that someone tried to make it look as if this poor lad was beaten by someone trying to get him to give up some information, but the victim couldn't say anything 'cause he was already out cold."

"So, someone tried to make it look like they were trying to get information but in your opinion didn't do a very good job of it?" Chuck inquired.

"But why, is the question. Why beat an unconscious man, take him to a highrise under construction and put two in his brain bucket?" Carson asked looking from Chuck to Sam and back again.

Tomas laughed. "I guess you guys had better get to work."

"Thanks Doctor. Let's go Chuck. You got my cell number right?"

"Got it."

"You give me a call when you get anything, I mean anything."

"Good luck detectives," Sam said to himself as Carson and Chuck saw themselves out of his lab.

Chapter Sixteen

Back at the office once again the detectives sat aimlessly at their desks. Carson was doodling on a piece of scratch paper and Chuck was playing solitaire on his desktop. "We got crap, Chuck. Until we get the victim's identification we're just pissing in the wind here." Carson looked over at Chuck who seemed to be too engrossed in his game to have an opinion about the statement his partner had just made.

"Well? What do you say ole wise one?" Carson inquired in his tongue and cheek fashion.

Chuck closed up the screen on his computer and seemed to be doing some heavy thinking for a few moments. "I think once we get the name and a good address, the rest of the pieces will fall in place like a jigsaw puzzle. The motive is the key to the whole thing. Once we establish that, we'll close the case. Simple as that"

"Just that simple? God I wish I had your optimism. I hope you're right. I doubt it, but I hope you're right." Carson said biting down on his cigar and giving a little chuckle.

"It's easy, try it some time."

"Try what?"

"Being more positive instead of so negative all the time."

"I've tried it, doesn't work for me. I prefer the realistic approach. Plan for the worst and hope for the best."

"See that's what...

The phone mercifully rang to interrupt. Carson looked at Chuck and he motioned for him to go ahead pick it up. "Detective Carson, how may I help you?" Yes, we've been waiting on your call... No usable prints or DNA materials... Figures... Okay, thanks for calling." Carson slammed the receiver down. "See what I mean Chuck?"

"Not good news I take?" Chuck laughed.

"How'd you guess? That was the lab about the bracelet we found on the steps. No usable prints or material that could be used for a DNA match. So much for that lead." Carson looked down at the floor and shook his head.

"It was a long shot anyway," Chuck joined Carson in his disappointment.

"Yeah, a long shot."

"But look at the bright side. We got some exercise and fresh air."

"No more of the positive stuff, I can't take any more. I like my way better."

The detectives went back to what they were doing; Carson doodling and Chuck playing solitaire. An hour passed before the phone rang and brought them back to reality. This time it truly was some good news.

"Carson, how's it going this fine San Diego day? This is Tomas over at the coroner's office."

"I guessed that Sam, and I ain't doing worth a damn. I hope you've got something."

"As a matter of fact I do. I got an ID on your victim. Name's Charles Smithson. That's spelled S-M-I-T-H-S-O-N. He's been arrested a few times apparently, might get a lead on his whereabouts from his arrest record or from the DMV. Also, I was right about the victim being drugged. His tox showed massive quantities of Ecstasy, or X as its called on the streets. The date rape drug. Somebody shot this guy up with enough of the drug to get a whole room of potential victims high. The victim could have died from the drugs alone. I did some comparisons on the blunt wounds to different objects and they were definitely caused by a baseball bat."

"That was Charles Smithson?" S-M-I-T-H-S-O-N, is that correct?"

"That is correct, my friend."

"You said you thought the fatal bullets were .22, is that what you found?" Carson hastened to ask.

"Correct again old and wise one. They were pretty damaged but I sent them over to ballistics. If you find a gun, you might be able to get a match, hard to say."

"So all and all we're looking for a baseball bat and a .22 pistol as far as weapons are concerned?"

"Looks that way Carson. I know that doesn't exactly make for an easy case, but that's what we've got. Also the X, don't forget about that. Somebody had to have a connection to get the drugs and also knew how to administer the hypo."

"So, this is what we've got. A Charles Smithson shot between the eyes with a .22 pistol at close range, after he was beaten a another location with a baseball bat, after he was shot up with X. Does that pretty well sum it up doc?" Carson said rather softly, unusual for him.

"Yelp, that's about it. Oh yeah I did find a tattoo on his lower left calf. It was very odd in a way. The tattoo was of a "Hooter's" Girl, you know the restaurant where the beautiful young ladies wear those delightful outfits. Around the figure of the young lady was inscribed "Lola Forever." Look's like it had been done recently. Don't know if that would be of help or not."

"Could be, thanks,doc," Carson, said as he hung up the receiver.

"Charles Smithson. We've got our ID. Now we've got to find out where this guy was living when he got himself whacked. Sam said he had a record, that's where he matched the prints. Also we'll check DMV and see what address they've got on the guy."

"Yeah, not much but it's a starting place," Chuck said a little too cheerfully.

"Let's just get to work."

.

Chapter Seventeen

A man drove a red pickup truck into a self service car wash in downtown San Diego. He slowly got out of the truck, looked around cautiously as if he thought someone was following him. Satisfied that he was alone, he started to wash the truck, paying particular attention to the bed.

Satisfied with his work, he got back into the truck and drove down the street to a busy parking garage. He pulled in and went to the fifth level, found a spot, and parked the truck. He got out, glanced both ways and strolled on out of the parking facility. He walked down the street a few blocks, got on the trolly and disappeared.

His work was done. He only hoped he had covered his tracks adequately enough so he could get away before the cops came looking for him. He felt regret but had no time for it. He must stick with the plan and worry about his feelings later. There was much to do.

It was now time for his big getaway. Oh yeah, he had a plan okay and it was a good one, as most escape plans are in theory at any rate. The murderer laughed as he thought of the beauty of his plan. No way it could fail. "Everyone thinks I'm somewhere else when the killing took place, no way in hell would they ever suspect me," he said out loud as he got off the trolley, walked down to Broadway and caught the bus heading for the airport. "I'll be on that big bird and gone, before anyone knows what has happened."

The bus rolled up in front of the airport. The killer walked casually in, retrieved his luggage out of a locker he had rented the day before, got his boarding pass and headed for security.

Chapter Eighteen

"Good afternoon, I'm Detective Carson and this is Detective Brown," Carson introduced himself at the Parson's residence. "We would like to speak to Valerie Smithson."

Confused and still sleepy from being aroused from her slumber, Mary Parson inquired of the detectives," What? What is this all about?"

"Is Valerie home?" Chuck interjected.

"I'm her mother, what's this all about?"

"Ma'am, we need to speak to Valerie, is she here?" Carson, growled starting to get a little irritated.

"Oh, no, no. She's at work. But could I help you?"

"Perhaps. We're here concerning a Charles Smithson," Chuck answered as politely as possible.

"What's that no good bum done now? He don't live here. We ain't seen his butt in seven years, then he shows up causing all kinds of problems."

"May we come in, ma'am?" Carson said trying himself to be a little less gruff.

"Sure, come on in. Excuse my appearance, ya'll woke me up, I work nights at the Navy Exchange."

"You guys, want some coffee," Mary asked as she showed the detectives to the den and offered them a seat. "I really need me a cup of joy, as my granddaughter calls it."

The detectives both agreed they too would like a cup of coffee, black, and made themselves comfortable.

Mary, came into the den with the detective's coffee, handed each a steaming cup, and had a seat in an old chair. "So what's this all about detectives?" She said looking from Carson back to Chuck and back again.

"Well ma'am, we regret to inform you that Charles Smithson has been killed. Sorry for your loss," Chuck said solemnly.

"Sorry for the loss? Thanks for the good news," Mary yelled, happily and unexpectedly. "I'd like to shake the hand of the man or woman who rid the world of that trash. That boy was born a burden to the world. Was missing for seven years, we thought he was already dead, but he showed up again, telling some kind of cockamamie story. Somebody was after him and his life was in danger."

"You didn't believe his story?" Carson inquired, surprised by the whole story that was starting to unfold.

"Heck, no. He was a liar from the word go. Brought nothing but misery to my daughter and his whole family. Charles is dead, hot dog. Good riddance, to bad rubbish, as they say."

"Ma'am, who were these people that the deceased said were following him?" Chuck asked, still a little confused.

"I didn't get it from the horse's mouth, you understand, but according to Valerie, my daughter, and Charles' sister, Maria, it was something to do with a cell phone that contained some information that somebody wanted. That idiot had Valerie and my granddaughter, Muffin, as we call her, meet him at a park over in Chula Vista. He was sneaking around like a character out of one of those old spy movies. Had a hood over his head and dark glasses on talking about his life was in danger and their lives would be in danger to if the bad men who were looking for him knew he had a wife and daughter. Just crazy talk, that's all it was."

The detectives looked at each other, not knowing what to think, finally Chuck asked, "What time will your daughter, Valerie, be home Mary?"

"She has to take Muffin to her ballet class tonight. Normally she'd be at home by six, but tonight she won't be home until around nine tonight probably."

"Tell you what, we'll leave you a card and you get her to give us a call and set up an appointment. We, obviously, really need to talk with her," Carson said as they headed out of the door.

Back in their unmarked unit, the detectives sat for a few minutes quietly thinking as they drove to their office in downtown San Diego. "That was kind of bizarre, don't you think Carson?"

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. You never know how people are going to react in these situations. She definitely had no love for the victim, that's for sure." Carson sorta laughed, but the situation was far from funny. They had one dead guy, beaten with a Louisville slugger and shot between the eyes with a .22, and a mother-in-law who just acted like she could have been in on the job.

"You hungry Chuck," Carson said uncharacteristically.

"Yeah, I could eat, why?"

"I had a taste for some chicken wings, say from Hooter's."

"Oh, yeah, the tattoo. Lola, unusual name. Like in the song by the Kinks from the seventies. Most definitely, and I wouldn't mind checking out some Hooter Girls while we're at it.

"Rough job, but somebody's got to do it."

They laughed and headed to the nearest Hooters. Of course Lola didn't work at the nearest restaurant and they ended up visiting four locations before they found the mysterious lady.

Chapter Nineteen

Lola Perez was having a typical evening at work, waiting tables and visiting with men who seemed more interested in looking at her "Hooters" than ordering wings off of the menu. Such was the nature of her business, she accepted it, but still it was annoying sometimes. She had been sad of late, her boyfriend of over two years had disappeared. They had had a couple of fights, but she didn't think he would just up and leave her. She hadn't heard from him in over a week, she hoped he was okay.

Lola didn't know any of his friends, so she couldn't call anyone to see if they had seen Charles. He was always secretive about his past and paranoid almost to the point of being psychotic. She accepted him for who he was and tried to understand his mood swings and fits of depression.

She was deep in thought when the detectives entered the restaurant. She didn't pay them any attention, just a couple of guys, like hundreds who frequented the establishment every day for dinner.

Realizing that they were looking for her was quite a shock, and what they had to tell her, and who they were, was even more shocking.

"I'm detective Brown and this is my partner Detective Carson. Is there somewhere we could talk privately."

"What is this all about? Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"No ma'am, you're not in any trouble, could we talk privately?" Chuck asked once again.

Lola directed them to a break room which was empty during the dinner rush. "Now what is this about, you're scaring me."

"Have a seat, young lady, this is gonna take a while," Carson all but ordered her.

Lola had a seat, still perplexed and fearful of what the detectives had to say.

"Do you know a Charles Smithson?" Chuck started.

"Charles? Oh my God, something has happened to Charles. Or did he do something? What did he do?"

"Calm down ma'am. We regret to inform you that Charles has been murdered. Did you know him well?" Carson asked as sympathetic as he could.

Lola just hung her head and softly cried. She had thought in the back of her mind something terrible had happened to him, but tried not to believe it. "He's was my boyfriend, and my best friend for the last two years." She said through tears.

"Do you know of anyone who would wish him harm," Chuck said sympathetically.

"No, but even though I lived with him for over two years, I didn't know much about his past or his life. He had seemed a little paranoid of late, but I just contributed his mood to his condition."

"His condition, ma'am?" Carson asked, a little confused.

Wiping her eyes with a napkin from one of the tables, Lola continued. "He suffered from fits of depression and anxiety. I think he might have even been bi-polar, but he didn't take medication for it. I'd come home and he'd be hiding in the closet saying they were after him, don't let them catch me."

"So you think he was a little unbalanced, to put it politely?" Chuck asked not meaning to be too blunt.

"At times, yeah, but I love him, loved him." Lola began to cry again. "You would have had to known him. He was so full of life and he loved me too."

Changing the subject Carson asked a question that totally shocked the waitress. "Did you know he had a wife and a thirteen year old daughter?"

"What?"

"He had a wife and a child, he never bother telling you?"

"Oh my God, no! He never told me he was married."

"Do you think, like he said someone was after him. Someone who meant him harm?" Chuck asked getting back to the point.

"No, no, I don't think so. I never saw any evidence that anyone was following him. It was all in his mind. At least that's the way it seemed to me."

"Did he have a cell phone?" Carson asked, remembering what the mother-in-law had said.

"Yeah, just to make calls, I guess. He wouldn't never let me use it or even hold it, like it was made of gold or something."

"What did he do for a living? Did he work?"Chuck inquired, opening a new line of questioning.

"Yeah, he worked, not at a job or anything. He taught chess lessons at the house. He had quite a few students. But money never was an issue with Charles. He always had cash, even when he first started coming in the Hooter's."

"Did he ever explain where his money came from?" Carson had to ask.

"He said his dad had died and left him some money. He was an only child and his mom had died of cancer a few years earlier. He was so lonely, I sorta felt sorry for him, like a little lost puppy or something."

Chuck handed Lola a card. "I think we have enough right now. We're sorry for your loss. If you think of anything else or just want to talk, give me at call."

Lola took the card, looking like she had been ran over by a train. "Okay, I will. By the way, how did ya'll find me?"

Chuck sort of laughed. "The deceased had a tattoo..."

"Oh, of course, the tattoo." Lola looked down at the floor. "Thank God for that."

"Also, I almost forgot," Chuck said quietly. "Would it be possible for us to take a look at Charles' things, his personal items, clothes, and stuff like that? We wouldn't need a search warrant would we?"

"No, of course not. That would be fine. I'm off tomorrow, come by around ten, if that would be okay." She took a napkin, and scrawled her address and home phone number on it.

"That would be perfect, thank you."

The detectives left the restaurant with a lot of unanswered questions. They needed to talk to the wife Valerie.

Lola was satisfied, even as shocked as she was about the death of Charles, that she had given the detectives the right answers. She went on back to work, not seeming to be affected by the news.

Chapter Twenty

Chuck's cell phone chirped on the drive back to the detective's downtown office. "This is Valerie Smithson, is this detective Carson? My mom said I was to call you as soon as possible. What is this about? It's about Charles right?"

"No, this is Detective Brown. We need to talk. And yes, it is about Charles. When will you be at home, ma'am?"

"I'm at my daughter's ballet class right now. I should be home by nine. My mom told me everything. Who would do such a thing. He was a piece of crap, but who would kill him?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, we'll see you at nine."

It was just a little after seven so the detectives had some time to kill. "How about a burger, Carson, my treat?"

"In and Out, animal style?"

"Sounds good to me."

The detectives sat in a nearby park, eating their burgers and discussing the case.

"So far there's no real motive for the murder, what you think Carson?"

"There's a motive okay, we just ain't found it yet. There always is. Could be someone was after this guy, but for some reason I just don't buy it. The way the victim was killed seems to indicate the whole thing was a setup, but why, and by who?"

"This guy's mother-in-law sure didn't have any love for our stiff, that's for sure."

"That don't mean anything, Chuck. She sounded like any mother-in-law would whose daughter married a schmuck who disappeared for seven years without a word."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But what about this Lola chick, she was clueless, huh?"

"Well you know what they say as stupid as it is, love is blind. I think in her case, deaf and dumb."

The detectives laughed, finishing up the rest of their burgers. It was getting close to nine so they headed towards their rendezvous.

They arrived fashionably early around eight forty five, rang the doorbell and waited for the wife to answer the door. They knocked and rang and knocked some more and finally a dark, petite Afro-American lady peered out of a partially opened door. "Detectives?"

"Yes ma'am," Chuck said, always the polite one, flashing his shield. "We're a little bit early, I hope that's okay. I'm detective Brown and this is Detective Carson."

"Oh. yes, of course, come on in."

"My, you have a beautiful home," Chuck said, by way of breaking the ice conversation.

"Belongs to my folks, but thanks. Would you like some coffee or soda."

"Let's just get down to it, the hour is late, ma'am," Carson said somewhat disgruntled.

"Okay, we can talk here in the living room. Have a seat on the couch, gentleman."

There was a moment of silence and then Carson started the ball rolling. "Mrs. Smithson, we are of course sorry for your loss. We are doing everything possible to apprehend the killer or killers of your husband."

"No big loss, not to me at any rate," Valerie said quietly, almost indistinguishably.

"Ma'am?" Chuck said leaning over in an attempt to hear.

Valerie cleared her throat. "I said, his death is not much of a loss, not to me anyway. He'd been gone without a trace for seven years and even before that he wasn't much of a husband or father. I'm glad it's over. Now I can get on with my life."

"Do you know of anyone who would wish Charles harm, enough to kill him?" Chuck inquired trying to move the conversation along.

"Try anyone he ever met. He just had that kind of personality. He rubbed people the wrong way. Sure, I know a lot of people who hated Charles enough to kill him, but I don't have a clue who did, detectives."

"Your mom said you had a clandestine meeting with the deceased shortly before he was killed, what did he say exactly? Tell the whole story, even if you think it is not important," Carson asked, looking like he wanted to be somewhere else.

"Okay, it's gonna take a while. Charles disappeared after his brother kicked him out of his place in L.A. over seven years ago, and we haven't heard a word from him, none of us. A week or so ago I get a call from his sister Maria, saying they've found him. He's telling all the people at the hospital that he had a wife and child but they are dead. Also, there's some people after him, and he can't let them know about his family or they'll be in danger too. He won't let me and his daughter come see him at the hospital so we arranged a secret meeting at a park in Chula Vista."

Carson and Chuck were listening almost comatose as Valerie continued her story.

"We were to walk up and down third ave., pretending to be window shopping for a while, then we were to go to the park, sit on a bench and wait for the idiot to show up. He finally did, looking crazy as all get out, scaring his poor daughter to death. Talking about some people were following him, and they wanted to kill him, and he had to disappear again. He told his daughter that he loved her and then he left . That's about it. I haven't seen or heard from him since."

Carson and Chuck looked at each other, not knowing who should ask the next question or what it should be.

"So let me see if I am clear, Mrs. Smithson. Charles arranged a secret meeting with you and your daughter and he told you he was being followed by some people who wanted to kill him, and that you and your daughter would be in danger as well if they knew of your existence. And then Charles disappeared again. And no one has heard from him since, is that correct?" Chuck asked in summation.

"That's pretty much it. That's all I know, after seven years. I would like to know what he's been doing for all those years, I'll tell you that."

"We would too, and we're going to check into that. Could be someone was following him and it could be the individual who murdered the victim," Carson said matter-a-factually.

"I don't believe anyone was following Charles myself. I think he's just a nut case, he always was. I hope you find who killed him, I really do, but I can't tell you anything else, sorry."

"Well, ma'am, we are just beginning our investigation of this matter. So right now we don't know what happened, but of course it is our job to find out. You said Charles had a sister and brothers?" Chuck inquired. "And also what family members currently reside at this residence?".

"Yes, he has a sister named Maria, and two brothers, Joe and Pete. And living here, my mom, Mary, my step dad, Michael, when he's not out to sea, and my daughter Brittany. "

" Wow, that's quite a group. If you could provide us with phone numbers, that would be a great help"

"No problem, let me get my phone."

After the interview with Valerie the detectives decided to call it a day, it had been a long one. They had a whole bunch of questions, but at that point not many answers. The next morning they would visit Lola and take a look at the victim's personal effects. Hopefully they would get some answers and not some more questions.

Chapter Twenty One

Lola Perez lived in a small gated apartment complex in La Jolla, the rich part of San Diego county. Her apartment was in the back with a spectacular view of the ocean and sail boats that floated gracefully by in the beautiful blue. Over to the right was a breath taking scene which included the downtown skyline, a back drop to a cloudless southern California morning.

The detectives were fashionably early again, arriving at the residence at nine forty five. Chuck rang the doorbell, and as they waited for Lola to answer, they talked quietly about how they were going to proceed. This was a crucial part of the investigation, within these walls could be vital clues as to whom the killer might be. At least a clue as to the motive behind the murder, which so far they had none.

Lola answered the door somewhat surprised to see the detectives. "Detectives? You're here. A little early." She was wearing a negligee, that would put to shame any outfit she might wear at the "Hooter's." "Please give me a minute, won't you come in?"

She showed the shocked detectives to the living room and told them to have a seat, she would be back momentarily. They could hear her talking to someone in a back bedroom and the sound of a man's voice. Shortly the door slammed, presumably her gentleman caller had departed the premises.

In a few minutes she joined the detectives in the living room, wearing short shorts and a half blouse showing her flat tan stomach, looking as if nothing was going on. "I had company last night. A girl has to pay the rent."

Chuck and Carson sat speechless for a beat.

"Oh, it's not what you think, he's just a friend."

Carson, cleared his throat and started, "May we see his room now Ms. Perez?"

"Oh, sure follow me," Lola said quietly as she lead the detectives to a back bedroom.

What they found there surprised and shocked them as well. The whole room was done in red, with mirrors on the ceiling and walls. The spread on the bed was some type of animal fur, possibly tiger, or it looked to be. Inside the closet was even more surprising. There were Versace, Armani, and all kinds of expensive name brand clothes. Sitting on the shelves embedded in the walls of the closet was a collection of expensive watches, bracelets and necklaces. Not to mention hundreds of pairs of men and ladies shoes, also very name brand and expensive, covered the remaining shelves.

"Wow, this is quite a room," Chuck marveled as the detectives stood awestruck at the magnificence of what they were seeing.

"Thanks," Lola said with pride, "Charles designed it himself, isn't it cool?"

"We need to see his personal papers, bank accounts, bills, letters from friends and family, that sort of thing," Carson said breaking the mood.

Lola pointed to a safe in the corner of closet. "They would be in there. He never let me look at any of his private stuff. He would spend hours in here sometimes, just looking at something."

"I don't guess you know the combination?" Chuck said already knowing the answer.

"No, Charles was very secretive about his personal life."

"Chuck, get on the horn and get a safe cracker over here, ASAP. That's okay, right ma'am?"

"I don't mind, no. I would like to see what's in that safe myself."

An hour later the locksmith was opening the safe. More surprises were within.

"Carson, will you look at that?"

A stack of cash sat in the safe surrounded by diamond earrings, rings, and watches. The detectives did a quick count on the money and discovered it was over $50,000. In another box was a collection of rare coins, who's value was undetermined, but estimated in the thousands.

"Holy crap!" Carson yelled. "Will you look at this stuff. Our boy was a high roller. I think we might have just found our motive Chuck."

Since none of the money or jewelry was illegal and technically belonged to the resident of the apartment, the detectives just made a list of the items and left them with their now rich owner, Lola, who was all smiles as the detectives left her residence shaking their heads in wonder over what they had discovered.

Chapter Twenty Two

An USNS tanker slid through the calm seas of the Persian Gulf, leaving only a slight signature in its wake. On board were 90 civilian mariners including Michael Parson, the Medical Services Officer, who was busy sorting through a pile of medical records. His work was tedious but necessary to maintain the readiness of the crew who were assigned to arduous duty on board the vessel.

Michael was in his mid-fifties, with a full crop of gray hair. He was a huge man, standing 6 ft 5 inches tall with bulging muscles from hours spent pumping iron in the weight room. He was a retired Navy corpsman, who had spent several years with Marines in the fields of Vietnam. Normally mild mannered, he did have a temper, and was definitely someone you didn't want to mess with when he was mad.

Having been assigned to the ship for only a week, he was just getting to know his new command. His thoughts were back at home with his family, especially his youngest girl Veronica who was going through hard times, but he had important work to do, and didn't have time to dwell on his problems at home.

"Doc, I slipped on a wet deck, banged my head and it's bleeding like hell," a crew member suddenly showed up at the "Doc's" door breaking his train of thought. Blood was oozing out of a gaping wound on the back of the mariner's head turning his blond hair red.

"Have a seat and let me take a look at it. What happened?"

"I was stripping a deck on the 04 level and you know that stripper is pretty slick, and before I knew it I fell and banged my head on the deck."

"Well the good news is, you're going to live, the bad news is it looks like you're going need some stitches. Might hurt just a little. Put pressure on the back of your head while I get the stuff ready to sew you up, " Michael said handing the man a sterile dressing.

He sewed him up and sent him to his room to rest for the remainder of the day. "You might have a slight concussion, take one of these every eight hours with food," Michael said handing the mariner a little plastic pouch of 800 mg Motrin. "I'll contact your supervisor and let him know you're on bed rest. Go, get some rest."

"Flight quarters, flight quarters, all designated personnel man your flight quarters stations." The word came blaring over the 1MC.

"Damn, I forgot about flight quarters. Non-stop fun around here."

As MSO, Michael had to stand by during the evolution as safety observer and of course if someone got hurt and needed medical attention. On the ship he was it. He would have to patch them up until they could get them to a shore side facility. Nothing ever happened and it normally was a couple of hours of pure boredom.

The flight deck crew did a FOD walk down to make sure there was no foreign matter on the deck that would fly into the propellers of the helicopter and cause it to be disabled or even crash. That having been done the fire party, dressed in red jerseys, float coats and cranial, laid out a rubber hose that would deliver AFFF on the fire in the event of a crash on the deck. AFFF is aqueous film forming foam, an agent used to smother the fire.

The LSE guided the bird, dressed in a yellow jersey and a cranial to match. He is sort of the quarterback on the deck, he calls the shots, directs the bird's every move.

Michael was in the helo hanger with his medical bag, talking to one of the other officers, the cargo mate third. They were just getting into a good conversation when all of sudden the helo crash alarm sounded. "What the hell?" They both said at the same time and started to run towards the flight deck just in time to see the bird hit the deck and erupt into a ball of flames.

The fire party sprang into action spraying foam on the deck in an attempt to squelch the flames that were raging. There was chaos as the fire parties scrambled to contain the blaze. Michael's big question was what was the status of the pilots and the crew that were aboard the helicopter. All sorts of scenarios played in his head as what condition the crew would be in when they were finally pulled from the wreckage.

The two hot suit guys in the silver fire retardant ensembles moved slowly towards the bird following a pathway of foam on the ship's helicopter deck. One of the men had a CO2 bottle the other a special tool used to pry open and punch holes into the flaming bird. Their first assignment was to disconnect the battery, then drag the injured pilots and crew members out of the bird to safety.

The cock pit was still blazing, so the man with the extinguisher took care of that, quickly, to alleviate as much damage and misery as possible to the occupants within. They grabbed the first pilot and shuttled him to safety where the stretcher bearers were waiting to take him to a triage area that had been set up by the MSO and two other specially trained mariners. It was worst than Michael could have ever imagined, it reminded him of his days in the field with the Marines back in the early seventies. The pilot was still alive but badly burned and in great pain. Treating his burns and trying to keep him from going into shock, Michael had to mentally prepare himself for the next victim who was heading his way. Unfortunately the other pilot was gone, there was nothing Doc could do for him. He had no pulse and wasn't breathing. Basic rules of triage mandate one takes care of the patients that can be saved, not waste precious time on victims that have a small percentage of a chance of making it.

Next came came a crew member with only minor cuts and abrasions, although he had been knocked out in the collision his vital signs were good. The last victim had a broken lower left leg and was screaming his head out from the pain. The members of the triage team fabricated him a splint and administered a shot of morphine for the pain.

Having finally extinguished the fires on the copter itself as best they could the fire party jettisoned the wrecked bird over the side. It creaked and steamed as it hit the murky waters, and sank not leaving a trace that it have ever existed.

The victims themselves along with the deceased pilot were air lifted to the closest friendly shore side hospital facility in Bahrain. It was quite a day for the MSO who sat in his stateroom drained and exhausted, knowing he had earned his pay and saved at least one life on that terrible day. But for some reason something else kept creeping into his exhausted mind.

Chapter Twenty Three

A late model red Chevy pickup sat in the parking garage as of yet undiscovered. Hundreds of people had walked by it in the week or so it had sat idle, secrets yet to be revealed awaited. The man who had left it there and disappeared had hoped he would be long gone before the vehicle was discovered and his wish had been granted. The truck still sat like a murder mystery book as of yet to be opened. No one had even looked at the first chapter.

Back at the office the detectives sat scratching their heads, Carson pouring through a stack of papers and Chuck on his laptop, as was their usual way of problem solving.

"Once we find the motive, then we'll solve the case. Isn't that what you said Chuckie boy?" Carson said, chewing on his cigar, and poking fun at his junior partner.

"Okay, maybe not. But we really don't know for sure what the real motive is. So actually my theory is still valid, Carson."

"The more we find out about this case, the less we seem to know. Seems like just about everyone this guy ever knew had reason to kill him."

"That's what the wife said. Look at the list of suspects we have right off the bat. The girl friend Lola, the wife Valerie. Let's not forget the mother-in-law, Mary. All ladies, who couldn't have committed the crime, not by themselves, at any rate. Of course let's not forget the people, real or imagined, that were following the deceased, and wanted him dead. Whomever they might happen to be."

"Well one thing we know for sure, the man is dead, and we got zippo, nadda" Carson growled.

"We still need to interview the sister, and the two brothers. Maybe they might shed some light on our little problem. Also we need to find out where Mr. Smithson got all that loot we found in his safe and his closet. Therein lies the real story my friend."

Chapter Twenty Four

Mary Parson, wheeled her smoke gray 2009 Cadillac SRX out of her driveway and headed east to the base at 32nd street. She was late as usual for her night shift at the Navy Exchange where she labored as a store worker, a job she had held for the past fifteen years. Her mind was a million miles away thinking about the murder of her no good son-in-law and the torment that it was putting poor Valerie and Muffin through. "I should have killed him myself years ago," she said out loud as she made a left turn onto five south. "At least she can get his insurance money and make a new start. She and Muffin deserve it after what he's put them through."

Driving almost on auto pilot she continued her self conversation not noticing a car to her left that was careening out of control heading in her direction. Not until the impact and the loud bang did she come to her senses. She cut her wheel hard right but by then it was too late. The other vehicle, another SUV, slammed into the driver's side door of Mary's SRX, causing her air bag to deploy and the vehicle to skid sideways out of control hitting another car that was unfortunate enough to be passing at the same time in the right hand lane.

When the cars finally stopped spinning and skidding they sat in a mangled heap on the interstate. There was silence for a brief moment, followed by chaos as all the passengers and drivers tried desperately to pry themselves out of their annihilated vehicles. Mary, unhurt except for the pounding she had taken at the hands of her air bag as it deployed, tried to open her driver's side door but it was stuck. She tried again, nothing. The passenger side door was stuck as well, that is when panic began to set in. She could see herself stuck inexplicably in her now smashed to smithereens, once beautiful car, as it exploded like one of those stunt cars in the movies. She continued to struggle with the doors, but they were all stuck including the ones in the back seat. "Oh my God, I don't want to die. Please open, please. God help me!" Maybe God heard her cries because suddenly the driver side door opened with a pop and she jumped out and ran away from the scene as fast as she could, fearing the whole tangled mess in the middle of the road was going to blow at any minute.

She stood bent over on the side of the interstate, huffing and puffing, trying to catch her breath. Tears ran down her face. Tears of joy for being miraculously saved by the hand of God from possible death by explosion and tears of sadness when she saw her beautiful car sitting in a crumpled heap in the middle of the road. She loved that car, but it was just a car, it could be replaced. The important thing was she was alive and unhurt. Needless to say Mary didn't make it to work that night.

"Beep, beep," the monitors went as Mary woke up with a start in a hospital bed surrounded by her family. She thought she was okay, back at the scene of the horrendous accident that seemed now to be a terrible nightmare instead of reality. "Where am I?" She said, of course she really knew where she was.

"You're in the emergency room at the Scripps in La Jolla. Just lie still Ma. The doctor said you're going to be fine, just a little shaken up," Valerie said hiding a tear that tried in vain to trickle down her cheek.

"Grandma, are you okay?" little Muffin exclaimed. She bent over and gave her grandmother a hug.

"I'm fine honey, just a little shook up from the accident. I guess I should keep my mind on my driving. I was thinking about your poor daddy, I'm sorry sweet heart."

Muffin broke into tears and buried her face in her Grandmother's chest.

"The funeral is tomorrow, if you're out of the hospital and feel up to it, Ma. I'm not sure if I'm up to it to tell you the truth," Valerie said joining in the hug with her daughter.

The sky was gray and threatening rain the next morning as the family drove to the funeral home. They were going to lay to rest one Charles Smithson, a man unfortunately not well loved, but at least deserved the decency of a proper funeral. A small group of family members gathered at the grave site, dressed in black, at least giving the pretense that they gave a damn about the deceased. Truth be known, most were happy to see him go, even if he was family.

The minister said a few words, a few tears were shed, and Charles was laid to rest. They walked away without speaking, got in their respective vehicles and left. It was done, one life had ended and it was time to get on with theirs.

Chapter Twenty Five

Joe Smithson rose early the next morning after putting his brother Charles in the ground with a heavy heart. He felt a little pang of guilt about the way he had acted at his recently departed brother's funeral. "He was my brother, even if he was a pain in everybody's butt," Joe said as he wiped the rest of the shaving cream off , staring at his conscience-smitten mug in the bathroom mirror.

He was just about to jump in the shower when the phone unexpectedly rang. "Now who the heck could that be?"

"Joe? I guess it's over. It took two long grueling years with that idiot brother of yours but we finally got the money, the coins and the jewelry, oh yeah. I don't think I could have taken another day. It's a shame he had to die, though," Lola said with a little sadness in her voice.

"Well you know what they say? If you're gonna make an omelet, you've got to break a few eggs."

"I know, I know, but I thought we'd just end up committing him. I didn't plan on him getting killed."

"Yeah, well, stuff happens. That's what he gets for telling me about all that money he had."

"All the time he kept telling me his father had left the money to him."

"My dad is alive and well and lives in Seattle. He was at the funeral yesterday, as a matter of fact. You got the airplane tickets?"

"One way to Cabo San Lucas, baby, just you and me."

"Look out Margaritaville, here we come."

"Don't you feel just a little bit guilty?"

Yeah... Naw, hell no. Charles was a pain in the butt. At least this way somebody's getting to enjoy his money."

"I love you Joe."

"I love you more, Lola."

Chapter Twenty Six

"You're not going to believe this Carson," Chuck yelled at Carson who was just coming back to his desk after a trip to the can.

"Try me, I can believe a lot."

"I got a line on this guy's bank account. You won't believe how much money he has in his savings."

"Are you going to tell me, or we going to play games all morning?"

"One Hundred Thousand buckaroos. One hundred thousand. The big question still remains though. Where did all this cash come from?"

"I think we'd best find out Chuck. Whose name is the account in?

"Charles Smithson."

"No one else on the account?

"Nope."

"Well at least no one else can get their mitts on this cash. That Lola seemed pretty happy about getting her hands on the loot we found in the closet. I smell a rat for some reason."

"Why so?"

"I just have a feeling she wasn't so heartbroken about the death of her boyfriend as she pretended to be."

"Those tears seemed real to me. She could have been acting. But I was too busy looking at her "Hooters," to be a good judge of the situation."

"That's the thing. She seemed out of our stiff's league to me. And what about that guy who was at her place? Who was that? Just a friend, indeed. I think not, with what she was wearing."

The detectives decided to take a trip to the deceased's bank and see if they could find out the answer to the question. Where did all the cash come from?

"We'd like to speak to the branch manager," Carson said to the first teller he came to, in his usual brusk manner.

"Sir, could you wait just a moment until I'm finished here, and I'd be glad to get her for you," the teller said, almost as discourteously as Carson. "Have a seat over in the waiting area." She pointed at two couches over in the far corner of the bank.

Carson and Chuck had a seat and waited patiently for the bank manager to show. Five minutes had passed and still no manager. Carson was just about to raise hell when an attractive blond in a business suit arrived and introduced herself. "I'm Constance Pennington, the branch manager, how could I help you gentleman?"

" I'm Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson, SDPD, we're here investigating the murder of one of your account holders, a Charles Smithson, and we'd like some information concerning his account," Chuck said flashing a smile at the blond.

"Do you have a search warrant?" the manager asked unexpectedly.

"Do we need one?" Carson said getting a little annoyed.

"Normally you would, but if the account holder is deceased and they are the only name on the account, I guess I could wave the necessity of a court order in this case. Come on back to my office, detectives."

Constance brought up the appropriate record on the computer, noticing with great surprise the amount of money that had accumulated in the account. "This guy was loaded, huh?" $100,000 and some change. Looks like he was drawing regularly off of the interest. The account was opened a little over two years ago." With a few more key strokes she discovered the source of the original deposit. "The original deposit was made with a cashier's check from the California State Lottery, holy crap! This guy hit the lottery. But get this, the original check was for $250,000."

Carson all but swallowed his cigar as he and Chuck took in the bank manager's last statement.

"250,000? That's a lot of bucks. How many withdrawals did he make?"

"Only one, in the amount of $150,000."

"So this knucklehead walked out of the bank with a hundred and fifty large in his hot little hands. No wonder he thought somebody was following him. Talk about motive."

"150,000 motives, huh, Carson."

They thanked the nice lady and left the bank, heading to their unmarked unit almost in a daze. Money is always a good motive for murder, however the only one who stood to gain was the girlfriend Lola, who seemed more and more guilty as the investigation continued. What about her mystery man, could he be involved? Was he the murderer? The detectives needed to find out who Lola had been in contact with of late.

As they drove back to their downtown office, the detectives mulled over the possibilities. "What you think, Carson? This Lola, look good on this? She certainly had the motive, but I don't know. I see her as a gold digger, but a murderer, I have my doubts."

"Never underestimate the power of greed, my friend, it makes people do strange things sometimes. If she is involved, she certainly had some help. She obviously didn't carry our victim up five flights and put two in his head."

"After she beat him with a baseball bat."

"But a foxy chick like Lola, has lots of men friends that could have, and for her might would have, taken care of our victim . For the money or just for the love of a beautiful woman. Men are such fools , when it comes to these sort of things."

The detectives did the usual when they got back to the office. Carson shuffled through a stack of papers, seemingly looking for nothing, and Chuck was on the computer pulling up the phone records for one, Lola Perez. At first it was routine calls to her mom probably, in Mexico. A couple of routine calls to other people and to her place of business. But then Chuck hit the jackpot.

"Carson, Carson," Chuck yelled. "Check this out. You got that list of the deceased's brothers and sister, that the wife gave us?"

All Chuck could hear was the rustling of paper, then finally Carson found it.

"Is one of the brothers named Joe Smithson?" Chuck asked already knowing the answer.

"Yes, as a matter of fact one of the brothers is named Joe, why do you ask?"

"Bingo! We got him, we got him. Seems the lovely Lola has been burning up her cell of late conversing with one Joe Smithson. I'm just taking a wild guess but I figure, how many Smithsons are there? Got to be the brother."

"I bet he is our mystery guest. He planned the whole thing, to get his brother's cash. He couldn't get the money in the bank, unless... He talked his dumb ass brother into leaving it to him in his will."

"Got an address on this guy?" Chuck asked, getting excited they might have their first break.

"Yelp, I sure do. Let's roll, you can drive."

"I can. Thanks Carson, thanks.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Danny Randall woke up to another day of doldrums with his wife, Jennifer, and his four kids to another cloudless morning in Tucson, Arizona. His family was just like an albatross dragging him into the depths of despair. He had to face yet another day of struggling to make ends meet, putting food on the table, paying the house note, buying the kids school clothes, and constant nagging from his wife of ten years that occupied the space next to him in his marital bed.

Why he married her is another whole story, why he was still with her was a different story all together. Danny was a free spirit, not a man to be tied down to one woman. Yet there he was after ten long agonizing years. The truth was he loved his children and didn't want them to suffer from a nasty divorce and separation. He was old school like that. Parents should stay together for the kids, no matter how difficult it got. That didn't mean he wasn't guilty of straying every now and then but he always came home to his wife.

The whole making ends meet was sometimes the problem. He had to do some things on occasion that was just a little bit outside of the law. He had been known to sell drugs, steal cars and traffic in stolen weapons on occasion. He had gotten into trouble when he was a teenager doing all three of the aforementioned crimes and had served three six month sentences in San Diego City Jail.

His mom, the now Mary Parson, was not married to his dad, and Danny didn't have much of a relationship, if any, with his biological father. He was raised by his mom and step-dad Michael who was a career Navy man and gone most of the time. The kids affectionately called him Grouch, because it always seemed like he was in a bad mood when he was at home.

Danny got into stealing cars when he was in high school, where he became a gang member, selling drugs and dealing in stolen merchandise, in particular guns. His mom tried to discipline him the best she could but her son was just out of control. His street name was "D-Money" and at one point he even had his tag cut into his hair style. Several of his friends died when they very young, a victim of the life they chose to lead, but Danny was not dissuaded. It took a little growing up and a few trips to the jailhouse to convince him, at least for a while, to live a normal life and give up his criminal enterprises. But through the years he did lapse back into his old life on occasion.

He got up finally, leaving his wife still asleep and crept downstairs to make a phone call. "Grouch, it's Danny. Everything cool, man. You took care of everything like you said you would, right?"

"I told you not to call me here, too expensive. My phone is roaming. Yes, to answer your question, I took care of it, don't worry. How are the kids, by the way, and your lovely wife?"

"Yeah, very funny. Okay, I'll holler at you later."

Danny hung up feeling a little better, but still he couldn't shake the paranoia, like something bad was waiting around the corner to happen to him. He went into the kitchen and put some eggs and bacon on the stove. His youngest girl, Desiree, came in the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "What you doing, Daddy?"

"Making breakfast, sweetheart, you want some cereal?"

"Yeah."

One by one the other family members came down and ate their breakfast, and Jennifer was out the door with kids, taking them to school, leaving Danny alone at last. He took the time to give his sister Valerie a call to see how she's doing. "Valerie, sorry to hear about Charles. I wanted to make it to the funeral, but you know how it is."

"Well, all I can say is I'm glad it's over. Got his death certificate, and I'm taking it all the way to the bank, 500,000 big ones, oh yeah. Don't be sorry. Who ever killed that clown did the world a favor. "

"Glad to hear that you're not upset. I understand. How's Muffin doing, that's the thing? You know she loved her daddy, such as he was."

"She's not taking it too well, Danny. We've got her in therapy, she'll be all right, kids are tough and Muffin is a tough as they come. It'll just take some time."

"That's good to hear. Talked to Grouch earlier, he's doing well. He sends his love to everyone."

"Oh, that's nice. I got to go Danny, I'll talk to you later. Got an appointment at the bank."

"Okay, later."

Chapter Twenty Eight

Arriving at the address the detectives had for Joe Smithson, they were somewhat taken aback by the neighborhood and the proximity of his apartment. The place was in a rough part of San Diego, not far from downtown. The address was actually an old house that had a fence around it and a sign that said "The Show Place." It appeared to be a business of some sort. In the yard a dog could be heard barking. Needless to say Chuck and Carson were not going to venture in uninvited. There was a bell on the gate, so they rang it, not knowing what to expect.

At first it seemed like no one was at home, but not easily discouraged Carson rang the bell again. This time a little man with red curly hair came outside of the front door of his house somewhere inside the gate and yelled. "Who the hell is it?"

Carson, not liking his tone of voice at all, yelled back, "San Diego Police Department."

The red head man softened his voice somewhat. " Sorry. What can I do for San Diego's finest?"

"We're looking for a Joe Smithson, does he live here, sir?" Chuck said a little bit more politely than Carson.

"Yeah, he lives in the trailer out back. He's not at home, though. Gone to work."

"You wouldn't mind if we looked for ourselves would you there sport?" Carson growled, and as he did the dog that was barking earlier came to the fence and growled back at him. "Could you put the mutt up somewhere? I don't want to have to shoot him, but I will."

"Princess, come girl, Princess. Don't bite the nice policemen, come on with me, I'll get you a doggie treat." He opened the gate and let the detectives in the yard.

Just as they were about to knock on the trailer door, a blond haired, middle-aged man with two large suitcases came bolting out of the door almost knocking the detectives over in his haste.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Smithson?" Carson grumbled.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson, SDPD. We have a few questions we'd like to ask you."

"I'm kinda in a hurry."

"Only take a minute," Chuck answered politely.

Joe dropped his bags outside the trailer and opened the door. "Come on in. Looks like I have no choice. Have a seat, gentleman, excuse the mess. It's the maid's day off."

"Like my partner said, we have a few questions for you Mr. Smithson."

"This is about my brother Charles, right? Terrible, terrible thing. How can I help you?"

"You're right, it is about the untimely demise of your departed brother, that is true. But more specifically about the relationship between you and a certain "Hooter" girl, alleged to be your late brother Charles' girlfriend. And before you decide to tell us a lie, we have your phone records."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. There is no relationship, I hardly know the girl."

"Sir, you had countless lengthy conversations with the girl over the past two months. I don't think that would support your contention that you hardly know the girl," Chuck pointed out, having a seat on an old sofa.

"I want my lawyer."

"Mr. Smithson, we're not charging you with a crime, we are merely asking you to answer a simple question. Do you know Lola Perez, and are you having a relationship with her?" Carson asked joining Chuck on the same couch.

"Okay, okay, I know Lola, and yes we were having an affair. So what? Her and Charles weren't married or anything."

"That's true, having an affair with your brother's girl friend, is not a crime, but murder is, Mr. Smithson." Chuck said, unexpectedly.

"Murder? Are you guys crazy? I didn't have anything to do with murdering Charles. Oh my God! I really need a lawyer now."

"Charles was loaded, you knew that right? You and Lola wanted his money for yourselves. But Charles didn't want to give you any of it, so you killed him. And now you and his supposed girl friend are running off to spend his money. Is that pretty much how it went, Mr. Smithson?" Carson yelled.

"No, no. It's true I did want his money. That idiot brother of mine. He disappeared seven years ago after my brother Pete kicked him out of his place in L.A. He was homeless for five years on the streets. Then one day he finds this lottery ticket in a dumpster he was going through, you know looking for food. He takes it to the store and boom, it's a big winner."

The detectives sit silently while Joe continues his bizarre tale.

" Then one day about two years ago, I get a call. Who is it, of all people, my long lost brother Charles. He got my number from my website, I build websites, by the way. He says he won the lotto and he needs my help to invest the money. I say, hey Charles, why don't you come and live with me. We decide not to tell the rest of the family that Charles is loaded and living with me, better they think he is still missing, right? I decide to hook him up with my girlfriend Lola. We go to the "Hooters and I introduce Lola to Charles, saying she's an old friend. My plan all along, of course, is to steal his cash. He falls madly in love with her. So the plan is working. Then out of the blue, he ends up dead. But I didn't kill him, I swear."

"No, then who did?" Carson shot back.

"How would I know. All I know is I didn't. He was my brother. Sure I set out to steal his money, but I wouldn't kill him."

"Maybe those people who were following him, killed him?" What do you know about that?" Chuck asked.

"Oh yeah, the people that were following him, or so he thought. That was a part of the plan to push him over the edge. After five years on the streets, Chris wasn't wound too tight as it was. He suffered from depression, anxiety and was border line schizophrenic. He was diagnosed years ago, but he never took meds. I hired some guys to pretend they were following him and Lola played along. We had him close to the nut house when, boom, our problem was solved, Charles was dead."

"You're quite the caring and concerned brother, huh? With brothers like you, who needs enemies." Chuck opined.

"Yeah, well, he didn't know what to do with all that cash anyway. But I'm sorry he's dead. I really am. I don't care if you believe me."

"Oh, we believe you, don't we Chuck? We're still going to come back with a search warrant, just to make us feel all warm and fuzzy. That be all right with you, Mr. Smithson?"

"Yeah, I don't care, do what you have to do. I ain't got nothing to hide. You know the whole story. I do have a plane to catch."

"Yeah, about that, I think we're going need you to stick around for a while until we get this matter resolved," Carson said smiling, but not a friendly smile.

It took an hour but while Carson waited patiently with Joe. Chuck found a judge to issue a search warrant on short notice. The place was small but cluttered, with all sorts of musical equipment and computer stuff, so the search took longer than the detectives had originally anticipated. They didn't find anything, however, to link Mr. Smithson to the murder of his brother; no baseball bat, no .22 pistol, no blood stained shoes or cloth es, nothing.

As Carson and Chuck were leaving, Joe grabbed his bag and headed out the front gate to his car. The detectives assumed he was meeting Lola somewhere, but at this point, it really didn't matter anymore. Joe and Lola had succeeded in getting the victim's money and jewelry, that much was clear, but still there was no evidence linking them to the murder. The detectives still had a feeling that the family on one side of the other was involved, but they didn't quite know how.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Leaving Joe Speckle's trailer, the detectives felt a strong lead had been lost. Sure the brother could have been the murderer, but they believed his story. Sure he was a low life, both him and Lola, but they really didn't seem like the sort to have committed the acts that were perpetrated on the victim. The whole beating with a baseball bat thing suggested a certain amount of rage was involved. Besides, he didn't look like he was up to carrying a man up five flights of stairs and Lola wouldn't be of much help. So Chuck and Carson put Joe Smithson on the back burner, as far as being suspect. They didn't completely rule him out being involved, but knew they had to move on with their investigation in yet another direction.

"Well we still got the other brother Pete and the sister Maria, left on the list," Chuck said, sitting at his desk glancing over the names of the remaining relatives.

"The brother lives in L.A., and the sister is a college professor back east somewhere. I don't know, but I think pursuing either one is going to be a waste of time.

"So who does that leave us with?"

"The step father, who is a merchant seaman. He's gonna be difficult to check out, I'm afraid."

"I've been thinking Carson."

"Don't be doing something you're not used to boy," Carson said, actually cracking a smile.

"No, for real. The whole way this crime was committed is still strange. Why would anyone go through the trouble of making the victim appear to have been beaten in an interrogation and then carried all the way up to the fifth floor of a high rise under construction. Then put two in the guy's head. Why would the killer or killers go through all the trouble?"

"That's a very good question, my friend. Probably so two knuckleheads like us would be sitting around trying to figure out why they did it. It's true, the whole thing doesn't make a lot of sense. But so far, it's been effective, 'cause we ain't got a clue as to who and why the crime was committed."

"Another thing. The killer must have known that the victim had said people were following him. The whole cell phone thing, full of information that would be the a death warrant for the victim if it fell into the wrong hands. Means it was definitely a family member or someone who had talked to one. Also, of course, a person or persons who would stand to profit from the victim's demise."

Carson sat and appeared to be in deep thought for a minute. "Another thing we haven't considered, Chuck. Is there a connection somehow between the building where the body was dumped and our perp. Or maybe someone was trying to throw suspicion on the owner of the building, trying to make it look like it was a professional hit. It doesn't appear to be a cartel or mob rub out. But maybe..."

"Maybe it is exactly what it seems to be. Someone trying to make it look like a professional hit in an attempt to throw us off the trail of the actual killer. The location was just a convenient place to dump a body, doesn't mean anything."

"Right now, that whole family, including the alleged girl friend, Lola, are still suspects, as far as I'm concerned. There's another angle we're missing. Let's dump the phone records for the whole bunch of them for the last two months and see what we've got."

"Another thing I was thinking about. This is going back to the beginning when we were at the crime scene. The body was transported to the construction site in some type of vehicle. There must have been a lot of blood in that vehicle. Also we still have never found the first crime scene, the one where the beating took place. Either the murderer used their own vehicle or rented or even stole a vehicle. I think also we need to check all the involved individual's vehicles for traces of blood as well as checking rented and or stolen vehicles, particularly vehicles that have been abandoned since the perpetration of this crime. What you think Carson?"

"Sounds like we've got a lot of work to do."

Chapter Thirty

A parking lot attendant on a routine count of the cars in his lot had noticed a late model red Chevy pick-up truck, that had been sitting for a few days. It was standard procedure to check to see if such vehicles were abandoned and more than likely stolen. He wrote down the vehicle make, model, vin# and license number so it could be called in and find out who the vehicle's owner was.

The vehicle was registered to a Rodney M. Cunningham, 203 N. 2nd Ave., Chula Vista Ca. The truck had been reported stolen a week ago. It was towed to the stolen vehicles lot waiting for the owner to show up, prove ownership and claim the vehicle. Of course since since hundreds of stolen vehicles are found on a daily basis, the chance of finding this particular vehicle was like "looking for a needle in a hay stack." That was what the perpetrator of the crime had counted on. The cops would never connect him to the stolen truck, or certainly not to the murder.

Perfect crimes are rarely committed. They take careful meticulous planning, and pin point accuracy in their execution. The murder of Charles Smithson wasn't perfect, but it sure had the detectives baffled so far.

"Just checking the phone records for the wife," Chuck said, sitting in front of his computer, while Carson was crumpling up pieces of parer and tossing them at a nearby waste basket.

"And?"

"Usual calls to her mom . Calls to her daughter and incoming calls from both the mom and daughter. Nothing unusual so far."

"Well keep digging, partner."

"Hey, here's one," Chuck said, tapping Carson who had continued his tossing activity.

"What?"

"Danny Randle. We didn't have him on the list did we? Chuck inquired of Carson who was much too preoccupied to answer.

"No, I don't think so. Oh, let me check the list." He rustled through a stack of papers, as usual, and finally found the right one. "No, no Danny Randle."

"Let's find out who this guy is. Could be something, probably nothing. We'll ask the wife who he is when we talk to her again. In the meantime, let's run his name and see if anything pops up."

Chuck continued his check of Valerie Smithson's phone record. A lot of nothing but finally he discovered what he had been looking for, whether he knew it or not.

"Whoa, Nellie. Check this out Carson. Two calls to Prudential Insurance Company. Very interesting. Best give them a call, see what out victim was worth to his grieving widow."

"You said that right. You follow up on Danny Randle, see if he comes up in our database. And I'll call Prudential and see what Mrs. Smithson has been talking to them about."

While Carson was on the phone, Chuck ran Danny Randle through the SDPD database. If he had a record locally it would show up. He knew it was a long shot, but long shots turn out to be winners sometimes.

"Okay, thanks, you've been very helpful," Carson said hanging up the phone, a big smile on his mug. "Five hundred thousand dollars. Our boy was worth $500,000. Worth more dead than alive, it would seem."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I kid you not, my young friend. Sounds like a good motive for murder to me."

Just as Chuck was about to reply, his search for Danny Randle suddenly came on his computer screen. "Holy guacamole, would you look at this. This guy was arrested on numerous occasions. Grand theft auto, trafficking in firearms, selling narcotics, petty larceny, attempted murder of his girl friend. He did three stretches of six months each in San Diego jail. Now the question is, who is this guy to the wife?"

And my question is, did the wife want the $500,000 bad enough to have her late, although estranged husband, rubbed out. I think we best have another conversation with Mrs. Valerie Smithson."

Chapter Thirty One

"Hi, I'm Rodney Cunningham," he said, showing the gate guard his identification. "Came to pick up my truck."

The guard looked at his database and saw where the truck was parked. "Mr. Cunningham, you're truck is parked in section 2D, and here are your keys."

Expecting the worst, Rodney made the walk through the other sections, finally finding the right one. At first, he didn't see his vehicle, getting frustrated and almost ready to go back and give the gate guard a piece of mind for giving him the wrong section, he finally saw his truck. Doing a quick inspection he said to himself somewhat relieved, "Don't look too bad. No apparent damage. Nothing a good trip to the detailer won't fix. I just knew it was in T.J. or some chop shop by now. " He got in, cranked it up and with a smile of satisfaction, he drove his truck off the lot, giving a wave to the gate guard.

Rodney drove straight to the car wash. He wanted his beautiful truck back in mint condition as soon as possible. Luckily they weren't too busy and he was in and out inside of the hour. Little did he know, or could he have known valuable trace evidence of a horrendous unsolved crime clung to his truck bed, waiting to reveal its story.

The killer did not know, but the owner of the truck had tried as he had, to wash all the trace evidence away, but neither of them had successful in their efforts.

"Hello, is Mrs. Smithson home?" Chuck said, as he was greeted by the mother, Mary, looking none too happy to see the detectives at her door yet again.

"Yes, she's here. Come on in detectives." She led them through the living room to the den. "Have a seat, I'll get her."

There was the sound of muffled yelling coming from upstairs followed by the rumbling of the stairs and finally the arrival of Valerie, looking like she had just been awoken from an Ambien coma. "What, what is it now, detectives? I was asleep. I thought we were done?" She said, rubbing her eyes.

"Sorry to disturb your rest, Mrs. Smithson, but we just had a couple more questions, " Chuck said apologetically.

"What else could I possibly tell you? I've told you everything. I don't anything about Charles' death. Can't you people leave me alone?"

"Calm down now," Carson said as apathetically as he possibly could. Just two questions. "Who is Danny Randle and how long have you had the half a million dollar life insurance policy on your late husband Charles?"

Valerie looked somewhat shocked by Carson's questions, and seemed at a lost as to how to answer. She pulled at her blouse and fidgeted, like someone wrestling with the truth. "Danny? Danny is my brother. He lives in Tucson. Why do you want to know about him?"

"Just a question. And how long have you had the policy on your late husband?" Chuck asked.

"Oh, yeah, the insurance policy. I figured you guys would get around to it sooner or later. Makes it seem I had something to do with his death. Like I would have him killed for the money. Is that what you think? Am I a suspect?"

"Just answer the question, Mrs. Smithson," Carson growled.

"Okay. Let me see. I didn't have anything to do with it. Charles took out that policy when he was working, right after out daughter was born. I guess its been over thirteen years ago now. He was playing the big family man at the time. I guess you could say we were a family then," Valerie said looking at the floor with sadness in her eyes. "He wanted to make sure Muffin and I were taken care of if something happened to him. I just kept paying the premium, even through all the years Charles was missing. No, I didn't take out the policy so I could have Charles killed and collect the money, if that's what you think."

"Okay, we believe you. In fact we found out the date of issue on the policy was around thirteen years ago, but we had to ask," Chuck said. "Seems your brother, Danny, has been in some trouble with the law, over the years. How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Now you think my brother killed Charles?"

"How long has it been since you've seen your brother. It's a simple question."

"Oh, I guess it's been a year or so since I've seen Danny. He lives and Tucson, so he only comes to San Diego for the holidays, if then. Why?"

"Again, just a question."

"Let's cut to the chase here," Carson blurted out. "Let's stop pussy footing. A man is dead, and some one around this family knows who did it. We need to start getting some answers on this thing, and real soon. When did you see your brother last? Do you think he came to town, killed your ex-husband and left without you knowing it. Did you promise him a share of the insurance money if he and a couple of his boys took a man out, beat him with a baseball bat and then put two slugs between his eyes. Is that what happened, Mrs. Smithson?"

"I'm through talking. Unless you guys have a search warrant, get the freck out of my house. I'll be talking to my attorney about this matter. Get out!"

"Calm down."

"I said get out. You know the way to the door."

Chapter Thirty Two

"Danny, what's up? Can you talk?" Valerie inquired. "The cops just left here, asking me about Charles' insurance policy. And they wanted to know about you. I told them you were my brother and you lived in Tucson."

"Why were they asking about me?" a shocked Danny said, surprised by the whole thing. "You didn't tell them anything, did you?"

"There's nothing to tell, Danny. Is there?"

"No, no. What are you talking about?"

"I know you were in San Diego last week. Ma told me you came in town for some convention. I didn't tell the cops. I said I hadn't seen you in over a year."

"Good, good."

"Danny, what's going on?"

"Nothing, nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, just wanted you to know. I'll talk to you later."

Danny hung up somewhat concerned about what he had just heard. "I better call Grouch, let him know."

He knew his step-father would be upset about him calling him on the ship, but he needed to let him know what was going on. "Grouch? It's Danny, sorry about calling you on the ship, but you need to hear this."

"Okay, I understand, what's up Danny?"

"Valerie, just called me, the cops just left the house, asking a bunch of questions about me and her insurance policy on Charles."

"Veronica didn't do anything wrong, so what's she worried about?"

"Well, she lied to them about knowing I was in town last week."

"You didn't talk to her when you were in San Diego, did you? Think, the cops are obviously tracking your phone calls."

"No, no, I don't think so. They know about my criminal record. You know how cops are. Now the spotlight is on me."

"You didn't do anything wrong, did you?"

"No, not a thing. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. Nothing they can prove at any rate."

"So everything is cool. I didn't do anything wrong, you didn't do anything wrong, and Valerie for sure isn't guilty of anything, so everything is cool, right, Danny?"

"Everything is cool, Grouch. Okay, sorry to bother you. Holler at you later."

Michael hung up the phone, stared at a medical record he had been auditing for a few minutes, and went to the officer's mess to grab a cup of coffee. The mess was empty so he sat in a corner with his thoughts of home. He had never felt so alone and venerable, an unexplainable sadness washed over him, and plunged him into deep despair. "I hope I did the right thing, but even if it was wrong, I did it for the right reasons. One thing is for sure, I can't unring that bell." Michael took another sip of coffee, stared out the porthole at the endless blue sea.

Chapter Thirty Three

A Mariachi band played, margaritas flowed, a couple in close embrace on the dance floor moved rhythmically to the Mexican beat. The lights were low, their spirits were high, as they danced seemingly without a care in the world. Joe and Lola, smiled at one another, secure in the knowledge that their diabolical plan had come to fruition and they were now triumphantly enjoying the fruits of their labor. It was a shame Charles was dead, but the cops had bought their cover story, life was good.

"Are you sure we're not going to be able to get our hands on the money Charles had in his bank account?" Lola asked, uncharacteristically from the setting and the mood the room manifested.

"Can't we talk about something, besides the money? Is that all you care about?"

"No, of course not Joe. I just asked. You know I love you." She gave him a tender kiss on his cheek.

"Yeah, it seems you love the money more."

"That's not true. How could you say that?"

"And to answer your question. No, we can't get the money in the bank, it belonged to Charles. I never could talk him into leaving me the money in his will. He left it all to Muffin. So you might as well stop thinking about that money. All right."

"Okay, baby. I won't mention it again. Let's not fight." Lola hugged Joe tighter as they danced, a far away look in her eyes. "I'm tired of dancing, let's just go up to our room."

Grabbing Joe by the hand, she lead him over to the elevator and up to their room. It was a beautiful room with a mini bar, a kitchenette, and a hot tub in the bathroom. Just the type of place a happy couple, who recently came into some cash, would stay while holidaying in the Mexican Riviera.

"Would you like a drink?" Lola said reaching into the mini bar. "I feel like a nightcap, how about you Joe?"

"Yeah, sounds good. I'll have a gin and O.J.," Joe said taking off his jacket and hanging it up in the closet. "Be back in a minute, gotta pee."

Lola dropped three cubes of ice in a hotel glass, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Joe was safely inside the restroom. She reached in her purse, searched for a moment, then pulled out a bottle of a white powdery substance. She checked one more time to make sure the coast was clear, then sprinkled a liberal amount of the powder over the ice cubes, poured in a generous amount of gin and topped off the cocktail with a splash of orange juice.

Just as she was finishing, she heard Joe in the restroom washing his hands. "Your drink is ready," Lola said as much to herself as to Joe. She smiled sadistically. "I'm sure you're gonna like it."

Joe came out of the restroom drying his hands. "Thanks babe," Joe said, as she handed him the glass, taking a sip. "Um, thanks that's perfect."

Lola raised her glass. "A toast. To us, and all the fun we're gonna have spending poor Charles' money."

"I'll drink to that," Joe beamed, taking a long drink of his cocktail.

"Joe, I was thinking. Where do you want to go next. I hear Aruba is nice, I've never been."

"Aruba? Okay, why not." Joe said, but just as he did the room started to spin around. "Whoa, that drink was stronger than I thought." He took two steps towards the chair, dropped his glass, and fell to the floor.

"Aruba, yeah I've heard it's nice," Lola put down her drink, reached in her purse and pulled out her cell, flipped it open and hit speed dial. "Pete? It's Lola."

Chapter Thirty Four

"Now remember what we talked about. Did you bring the bleach?"

Lola dug in her huge Gucci bag and retrieved a small container . "Yes, I have it ."

"And the gloves?"

She reached in and pulled out a pair of blue rubber gloves. "Yes, I have them."

"First put on your gloves. Then wash the glasses thoroughly with soapy water and bleach. Wipe them with a towel and place them by the sink. Any glass surfaces, wipe as best as you can as well as the door knobs."

"Okay, I will Pete." Lola took the glasses her and Joe were drinking out of over to the sink and began to sanitize them.

"You did use a phony name when you checked in, right?"

"Yes, I talked Joe into using a false name. He didn't need much persuading."

"Good. Good. When you've finished, wipe all the horizontal surfaces. It's a hotel, there are thousands of fingerprints, but I like to be thorough. Then leave by the back way. Don't go by checkout. Got it?"

"I understand."

"Me and my crew have already cleaned out your place in La Jolla, don't go back there. Grab a plane to LAX. Call me when you get there."

"Okay. See you soon, baby."

"Yeah, in the meantime, I have other work to do."

Lola, finished washing the glasses, wiped down as best as she could. She felt a tinge of guilt as she stepped around Joe's lifeless body, and eased the hotel door open. She peered out in the hallway. It was quiet and empty so she cautiously opened the door the whole way and left, taking one last look at Joe before she closed and locked the door.

Catching a cab to the airport, she bought a one way ticket, cash of course. As she waited for her flight, she was alone with her thoughts. Maybe she should just stay in Mexico, go home and live with her mother in Tijuana. The deed was done now, but she wasn't so sure she entirely trusted Pete. He was called the evil brother. Joe used to jokingly call him that all the time. Little did he know. But she seemed inexplicably under Pete's control, like she was powerless against his powerful will.

Her flight finally arrived and she boarded the small jet plane to LAX.

Chapter Thirty Five

The school yard was quiet, as of yet the students had not been released from their classrooms. A black SUV eased slowly through the parking lot like the occupants were looking for something or someone. The vehicle circled around and pulled into a parking spot. It was quarter of two in the afternoon, fifteen minutes to wait before the class bells rang one last time for the day.

Muffin was in math class, watching the clock and waiting for the two o'clock bell to ring so she could go home. She thought about her black toy poodle, Happy, who'd be in her Grandma's car when she came to pick her up. He'd be so happy to see her, licking her face and jumping up and down. He was so cute. She looked at the clock on the wall one more time and saw it was one- fifty- five, five more minutes.

Outside the two men in the black SUV checked their watches as well, five more minutes. One of the men nervously smoked a cigarette, thumping ashes on the school parking lot. They looked again at two pictures of the child they had been given, there would be no mistake.

Finally the bell rang and the students started to trickle out at first and then they began to pour out of every door, talking, laughing, running and playing like children do when they've been let out of a confined space they'd been imprisoned in for several hours. The men in the black vehicle searched the throng of children, desperately looking for the right one. "There she is, I'm certain," one man said, flicking his cigarette out on the pavement."

"You know what to do," the other man said, starting up the vehicle.

Muffin was walking and laughing, talking to her best friend, a little chunky big head girl, looking for her Grandma's Cadillac SRX. She didn't notice the black vehicle and the two men that were watching her. Her friend saw her mom's car and said goodbye, got in the car and they drove away.

Out of nowhere a man dressed in black, hood pulled over his head and wearing dark sunglasses grabbed Muffin. She tried to scream but a gloved hand over her mouth prevented her from making a sound. The man threw her in the vehicle that was waiting, jumped in, and they eased into the flow of traffic unnoticed.

Arriving a little late, Grandma pulled up to the curb in front of the parking lot of the school as was her habit. She turned off the engine of her car and waited for Muffin to arrive. Happy barked at the school children, jumping up and down in anticipation of her little friend's arrival. Mary waited, but still no Muffin. At first she wasn't too concerned, her grandchild sometimes came out a little late. She waited, still no Muffin.

Starting to get worried after she looked at the clock in the car and it was two-thirty, she called her grand daughter's cell phone, no answer. Then she became frantic. "Where in the world is Muffin," Mary said to the dog, who looked at her like he was wondering where she was himself.

She jumped out of her car and crossed the school parking lot that was by then almost empty. Only a few students remained, milling around the school, talking and waiting on their rides. Mary entered the building, went down the hall to the principal's office. "I'm Mary Parson, Brittany Smithson's grandmother. Is she being detained for some reason?"

The lady behind the counter, looked somewhat taken aback by Monica's question replied, "No, no ma'am, there are no children being detained, what do you mean?"

"I came to pick her up, and she never showed up."

About that time Mary's cell phone sounded, a jazz number she used as a ring tone.

"Ma, ma! Where are you?" an excited Valerie yelled on the other end of the phone.

"I'm at the school, trying to find Muffin. She never came out."

Oh, my God! Oh my God! It's true!"

"What, what are you talking about, Valerie?"

"I didn't want to believe it. I thought it was a terrible prank."

"What's going on? You're scaring me."

"I just got a call. I couldn't tell who it was, the voice was distorted. Muffin's been kidnapped. The man said to wire $500,000 to an account or they'll kill her. Oh my God, what am I going to do, ma?"

" Oh my Lord!" Mary sat down on a nearby chair, shaking, almost in tears. She thought for a moment and regained her composure. " Where are you now, Valerie?"

"I'm still at work. I can't drive. I can't think, what am I gonna do?"

"Have you called the police?

"They said no cops, or they'll kill her."

"You stay where you are. I'm on my way. We'll talk about that when I see you, okay?"

Mary bolted out of the school office, ran to her car and screeched out of the parking lot heading downtown.

Chapter Thirty Six

Chuck and Carson sat at their usual seats in the office doing what they normally did when they were at a dead end on a case. Carson tossed crumpled up paper at a nearby waste basket, Chuck was playing solitaire on his computer. They weren't aware of the fire storm that was heading their way. "So who is left on the list to interview, Chuck?" Carson grumbled, tossing another crumpled piece of paper, missing once again. "This crap is getting us no where."

"You're right Carson," Chuck sighed and continue his game. "Seems like we're no closer to finding our killer than when we first started. The whole group of them seem guilty. This guy had too many enemies. How about the brother, Danny?"

Carson tossed another crumpled piece of paper, stopped and thought for a second. "Yeah, he seems as guilty as the rest of them. Check him out. See who he's been calling and track his credit cards and bank account for the last month. See what comes up."

"Will do."

A phone call suddenly broke the detective's concentration. Carson looked at Chuck, Chuck looked back, but finally relented and answered. "Detective Brown, may I help you? What, now calm down Mrs. Parson. Are you sure? Okay, okay. You and Valerie sit tight. We'll be over in a few. Calm down, we'll find her."

Carson looked at his partner strangely. He saw the panicked look on Chuck's face and knew it must not be good news. "What the heck was that all about?"

Chuck took a deep breath, not knowing where to start. "You're not going to believe this. Valerie Smithson's daughter, Brittany, has been kidnapped. The grandmother said she went to her school to pick her up and she never showed up. Then Valerie called and said a man had called her saying the child was kidnapped and demanding $500,000 for her release."

"Joe Smithson, the deceased's brother. Got to be him," Carson yelled.

"We better get going, they seemed pretty upset."

"Okay, let's roll, you drive."

"Really. Thanks."

When they arrived at the house, the scene was chaotic to say the least. Valerie was crying and so was the grandmother. The dog was barking and every phone in the house was ringing. "They said no cops, or they'd kill her. They want $500,000. It has to be someone who knew about the insurance money. What are we going to do?"

"Everyone, just calm down. Let's go in the den, have a seat. Calm down now." Chuck all but begged the duo of crying ladies to come with him.

Everyone seated at last and the scene somewhat calmer, Chuck started, " Now tell us what happened, from the beginning."

Valerie was still too upset to talk, so her mother explained to the detectives what exactly had happened. "You've got to get her back," she said through tears, still holding Valerie in her arm's like a small child.

"We'll get her back, ma'am," Chuck said trying to console her. "Now, Valerie. I need you to calm down for just a minute. This is very important. Did you recognize the voice on the phone? Did they sound familiar at all?"

Valerie sat up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and tried to clear her head. " Like I said, the voice was distorted, they sounded like a robot or something. No, I didn't recognize the voice, no. I wish I did, but I couldn't tell. I'm sorry."

"What did they say exactly?" Carson asked.

"They said they had my little girl and if I ever wanted to see her again, I would do as they said. They said I was to wire a half million dollars to an account number. They gave me the number and they also said no cops, or she dies. Then the man hung up."

"Typical, kidnap stuff. Sounds like a script from a bad T.V. show. Complete with the don't call the cops line." Carson said. "Like you said, had to be someone who knew about the insurance money. What about your brother-in-law Joe? Do you think he might do something like this? Also had to be an individual who knew where your daughter went to school and what time she got out."

"Joe? He wouldn't do this. He loves Muffin. He wouldn't hurt her," Valerie said sniffing and shaking her head.

"Ma'am this may come as a big shock to you, but your late husband was loaded. In the course of our investigation we uncovered an elaborate plot to dupe the deceased out his money. A plot cooked up by your brother-in-law and his girl friend Lola. Your late husband thought she was his girl, but turns out she was in on a scheme to rob him. A plan devised and carried out by Joe and Lola and coming to fruition upon the death of the pawn in their game." Chuck said, getting a little irate.

Valerie and her mom, sat silent, not believing the whole story that they had just heard.

"So, we ask again, do you think Joe could be the one who has kidnapped your daughter?" Carson asked,in conclusion.

"I don't know, maybe. He knew about the insurance money and Muffin's school. He could have done this."

"We don't handle these sorts of things but we'll get in touch with the cops that deal with kidnapping. In the meantime, we'll give this Joe Speckle another visit and see what he has to say." Carson said.

The detectives wrapped up their conversation with the grief stricken ladies, tried to reassure them the girl would be returned safely, and headed over to pay Joe Smithson another visit.

Chapter Thirty Seven

"No, no don't do it. No!" Michael woke up from another hideous nightmare, like the one's he'd been experiencing the last few nights. He looked around his stateroom realizing he was on the ship and not in his bed at home, safe and warm with his wife of thirty years. The ship was rocking slightly as Michael looked at his alarm and noticed with disgust it was two thirty in the morning. He got up and sat on the side of his bed, thinking about what he should do next and wondering what his future was going to be like.

He had been very careful in the planning and execution of the crime, but still things could go wrong. Killing a man, even someone as despicable as Charles, was something that had a tendency to weigh on a man's conscience. Sleep was out of the question, so he got up and did what he normally did in this situation, paced back and forth in his small stateroom hoping to exhaust himself to the point where he would be able to go back to sleep.

That whole terrible day and night was a blur, a nightmare that Michael couldn't wake up from. It haunted him night and day. He wanted to run and tell everyone about his crime, but dared not. "Just calm down. It's going to be okay. If Danny and that stupid girl stick to their stories, no way they'll connect me to the murder." He continued to pace. "When we get back in port, I better call Sherry and make sure she has her story straight."

The whole horrendous episode ran through his mind like a bad movie.

Valerie had told him about Charles' return and all about how people were following him and he was in fear of his life. She also told him about the clandestine meeting that was to take place the next day. Why he decided to end Charles' life he still wasn't quite sure, but nevertheless he concocted an elaborate plan almost on the spur of the moment.

Danny was coming to San Diego for some kind of seminar. One of his harebrained, get rich quick schemes he was always getting mixed up in for some reason or other. Michael had called him and asked him or almost begged him for the items that he needed to carry out his plan.

Reluctantly Danny agreed to help his step-father. He stole the truck, got the X, and the pistol. He didn't ask any questions but after Charles ended up dead he pretty well put two and two together and came up with murder.

Michael could see in his mind the whole horrific scene. He followed Charles after the meeting with Valerie, forced him into the truck at gun point, injected him with the drug and took him to a secluded location well after dark. He could see the strokes of the baseball bat on Charles' head and body as he lie helpless in the truck bed. The blood, the moans, the horror. He then took Charles to the downtown building under construction and with great difficulty took him to the fifth floor. He took out the .22, his hand was trembling but he managed to put two well placed rounds between Charles' eyes.

He drove the truck to the parking garage, left it and then took the trolley and bus to the airport and made his escape. His wife, Mary, thought he had already left to go to his ship two days prior. That's where his alibi, Sherry, came in. If the cops came nosing round his lie, she would say he was with her the entire time.

What could go wrong, he thought. Things always have a way of going wrong. But what was done was done. He hoped because of his actions Valerie and Muffin could finally have the life they deserved.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chuck and Carson pulled up in front of Joe Smithson's place not really expecting to find him at home but hoping to ascertain some type of information as to where him and Lola had taken off to. The same little ratty dog was barking as before so Chuck rang the bell and they waited. They rang the bell again and finally the little red-haired man came out with a look of disdain on his face. "You two again. What is it this time?"

"We need to see Mr. Smithson, please," Chuck said, ever so politely.

"I'm pretty sure he's gone. But if it will make you gentleman feel any better, we'll make sure. Okay?"

"Can you put the mutt up?" Carson growled as always.

Dog safely secured, the detectives headed back to Joe's trailer and knocked loudly. No answer. They knocked again, still there was no reply. Just on a hunch, Carson turned the door knob and low and behold the door was unlocked. "Well looky here. It seems to be unlocked. I'm sure Mr. Smithson wouldn't mind if we took a look around. What you think, Chuck?"

"I don't know Carson."

By then it was too late, Carson had already opened the door and was heading in. "Well I guess it wouldn't hurt," Chuck said, sort of as an after thought.

The place was just as they had left it the day before. Only this time they were looking for something specific they weren't looking for before. This time they needed to find out where the love birds had flown off to.

"See if you see any printouts of itineraries, or e-tickets." Carson said, digging through a stack of papers on an old desk. "And check out that laptop over there. See if you can find out where he booked a flight to."

Chuck accessed the laptop and was relieved to see that it wasn't password protected. Without much difficulty he found what the detectives were looking for. "Here it is, Carson. Two tickets, round trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Due to return in one week. Wow, quite a little vacation, huh?"

"Well, we got what we need, let's roll," Carson said hurriedly.

Just as they were about to walk out the door the little red headed man showed up. "Hey, what are you guys doing in here?"

Carson and Chuck pushed by him. "We were just leaving. Have a good day," Carson said.

Back in the car, the detectives headed for Lola's place. They hadn't been there since they found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in the bedroom closet. More than likely she wasn't at home either, but they might as well check it out before pursuing the suspects across the border, down Mexico way.

"If this Joe character is in Cabo then how could he be involved in kidnapping the girl?" Chuck inquired after riding for a few minutes in silence.

Carson thought for a second. "I don't don't know, but one thing I do know, these events are connected, some how, some way. It's a jigsaw puzzle, Chuck. We just have to put it together."

Chuck just looked at Carson quizzically. "So there's got to be be some more pieces to this puzzle that we're missing, right, Carson?"

"That's right. Only the pieces are still in the box and we can't see them yet."

"Right."

By the time they got to Lola's it was starting to get dark. They made their way to her door and knocked loudly, not really expecting, but hoping she would be there. Of course there was no answer, so they knocked again with the same result. "Figures," Carson said. "Let's go check with the manager and see if we can talk them into letting us in."

They found the manager's office and entered hoping they could get some info without a lot of hassle. A bell jingled as they opened the door. An attractive young lady in her mid-thirties was behind a desk working diligently on a computer, just barely looking up as the detectives made their way into the small, but stylish office. "Be with you in a sec," the young lady replied. "Have a seat." She pointed at a couch that was along the side of the wall, underneath a beautiful oil portrait of the President.

The detectives sat down and looked around the office for a moment. Just as they were settling in, the manager abruptly finished what she was working on. "Okay, now what can I help you gentleman with. Looking for an apartment, just had one open up, stunning view of downtown San Diego and the bay. Only $2500 a month."

Chuck cleared his throat. "Oh, no ma'am, we weren't looking to rent an apartment. I'm Detective Brown and this is my partner Detective Carson, SDPD, flashing his shield. We wanted to inquire about one of your tenants. A Ms. Lola Perez. This is in connection with an ongoing criminal investigation."

"Lola Perez?" Are you kidding me. Her apartment is the one I was was just telling you about. Funny thing. Yesterday, some men came and moved her out. They were in a moving truck, so I didn't think anything of it. They paid the remainder of her lease, in cash. They said she had been called away suddenly and wouldn't be back. I thought it was odd, but they paid her lease."

"So, you didn't actually see Ms. Perez then?" Carson asked.

"Well no, I didn't. I had never seen the men who moved her, but they had her keys, so what could I do?"

"Thanks ma'am. You have been very helpful. If you see anybody else snooping around her place, you give us a call," Chuck said handing her a card.

Heading back once again to their unit, Carson's cell chirped. "Carson."

It was Sam Tomas over at the morgue. "Got a stiff on the table that might interest you. If you got a minute, why don't you guys stop on by."

Chapter Thirty Nine

Entering the morgue Chuck and Carson felt that same uneasiness that always accompanied their visits into the land of the recently deceased. That queasiness in the stomach, a throbbing in the head caused by the chemical fumes and the death in the air. "Good evening gentleman," Tomas beamed, sounding like a host off a cheesy late night scary movie production.

"Cut the crap Tomas. What's so important you had us drive all the way back downtown for?" Carson growled.

A body lay under a crisp white sheet. Sam Tomas whipped the sheet back revealing a body that was carved up like a Christmas turkey, as if making a presentation. "Voila. Meet Mr. Joseph Smithson, if you hadn't already met him under better circumstances."

"Well, I'll be," said Chuck with a gasp. "We just came from his place. Guess he didn't enjoy his vacation in Cabo quite as much as he hoped"

"His plans were cut a little short. Someone ended them a little prematurely. That's for you guys to figure out. He ingested a nasty dose of a poison that is supposed to emulate a heart attack, but only a medical school dropout or a lay person would be fooled. So I'm ruling his death a homicide. Funny thing is, according to the Mexican authorities, somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to try and cover their tracks. Cleaned and sanitized the glasses they were drinking out of, wiped down all the mirrors, doorknobs, and so forth. The couple checked in under phony name, however, the killer forgot one important thing. In the back pocket of his trousers was his wallet with his drivers license, with of course, his full name and address. Brilliant plan, huh, detectives.

"So how did you happen to call us? The question still remains," Carson asked.

"Smithson? How many Smithsons are there running around the San Diego area. Had to be connected to your victim, right?"

"Yeah, you're right, dead right it would seem," Chuck opined.

"So now we've got two dead Smithsons. At least we have a pretty good idea who pulled off this caper. A lovely Hooters' girl by the name of Lola," Carson said.

"Lola. Indeed. Interesting name. Well I hope you find her. If she's still in Mexico, good luck." Tomas covered up the body, the presentation was over.

"Yeah, you're right Sam. Hopefully she's back in the good ole USA," Chuck replied as the detectives headed towards the door. Time to find out what had happened to the girl friend, now suspected murderess. Not to mention there was still a little girl who had been kidnapped.

The guys headed back to the office to see if they could find out if Lola was back in the States from her short trip to Mexico. The trail to the missing girl had to lead through her, she was the key. And what about the missing puzzle pieces? A major player in this game of death was being overlooked. The detectives needed to find out who it was before anyone else ended up on the coroner's table.

Chapter Forty

Lola had caught the first flight to La la land and grabbed a cab from the airport. She told the driver to take her to the Days Inn Airport, which was only a mile or so away. She had been instructed to procure a room and wait for Pete to arrive.

Arriving at the motel, she was somewhat surprised as to why he had picked such a dump, but assumed he had his reasons. She opened the door to the check-in office where an old man with a scraggly white beard and a bald head was reading his morning newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. He didn't notice Lola at first. She stood silent for a moment assuming he would eventually see her. He didn't. There was one of those little annoying bells on the counter so after a few moments more she rang it loudly, bringing the little old man back to reality. "Oh, sorry, didn't see you. Could I help you, young lady?"

"I'd like a room please," Lola said somewhat impatiently.

"A single or double?" The old man inquired.

"Just a single. It's only me. I'm all alone, as you can see."

"Would this be cash or charge? And could I see some identification please?"

After what felt like an interrogation, Lola was finally able to get a room. So key card in hand, she headed up to the fourth floor, room 412, to wait on her co-conspirator to arrive. In her haste she bumped into an old lady heading to the ice machine and almost knocked her down. The encounter made her even more nervous and uneasy than she had already been. The old lady looked at her with disdain. "Excuse you, young lady." Lola just glared at her, she was in no mood for exchanging words, she had to get to her room.

One hour later, she waited, pacing the floor. "Where is he? Where is Pete?" Her self conversation was cut short by a quiet knock at her door. At first she thought she was imagining the light tapping. Maybe it was coming from next door. She stood petrified, half hoping it was the one she was waiting for and half not wanting to see to see him at all. There was another knock. This time a little louder.

Looking through the peep hole she could see it was indeed Pete, impatiently waiting at the door. She eased the door open with the chain still on and peeked out. "Open the door Lola. It's Pete."

She flung the door wide open to let in her newly arrived guest. "Pete, it's so good to see you," She beamed, giving him a big hug and kiss.

Holding a bottle of expensive champagne, Pete returned the gesture. "I thought we'd have a little celebration. Grab a couple of glasses. Let's get this party started."

Pete poured two sparkling glasses of the bubbly and handed one to Lola. "A toast, to Charles and all his money."

"I'll drink to that," Lola said, taking a big swallow of champagne.

Pete pretended to drink but actually didn't, as Lola finished up her glass, reaching over to pour herself another. She didn't notice Pete wasn't drinking and finished her second, looking for a third.

"Wow, this is some good stuff here," she said, starting to slur her words.

"Only the best for the best, my love," Pete said, almost wincing at the cornball line that had just passed from his own lips.

The cheap hotel glass slipped from Lola's hand and hit the floor, as she fell on the bed, the room spinning around like a carnival ride. "Spinning, round and round. Pete let's dance. You wanna dance?"

"Yeah, let's dance," Pete said as he snatched Lola off of the bed and drug her to the balcony door, pulled back the curtains and slid the door open with a thud. "Let's get some air, what you think?"

"Air, would be good," Lola said as the room continued to whirl and she felt herself losing consciousness.

From out a pouch on his belt Pete pulled a piece of line and proceeded to tie a knot in it. A hangman's noose to be more accurate was what it actually was. He pretended to dance with Lola, who was oblivious at this point as to what Pete was doing. Suddenly the noose was around her neck. He tied one end securely around the railing, lifted Lola off her feet and tossed her off the balcony, snapping her neck like a twig. She twitched momentarily and then went lifeless. Pete admired his work for a moment then laughingly said, "Sorry your services are no longer needed, but you can hang around for a while if you like. What a pity. I kinda liked that girl."

Closing the patio door, locking it and pulling the curtains to, Pete eased out of the room and went down the back stairs without being seen by anyone. "Now let me get back to little Muffin and a half million dollars in cash." He said to himself as he made his escape.

Chapter Forty One

The little teenage girl, Muffin, sat in a dimly lit room, tears trickling from her eyes, down her face that was contorted in pain and fear. The only furniture was two chairs, old and raggedy, and thankfully a television set tuned to her favorite, the Cartoon Network. The loneliness of her situation surrounded her, it covered her like a suffocating wet blanket. She wanted to scream but what was the use, she was alone. No one would hear. Why had someone did this to her? Who were those strange men in black with dark glasses and hoods? What did they want?

She actually laughed at the cartoon that was playing, momentarily forgetting her plight. But soon returned to the reality of her situation. She tugged at the rope that bound her to the chair. It was light so she was able to slide in around the wood floor, it screeched and almost echoed in the empty vacant room.

Suddenly, the doorknob turned and an individual she knew came abruptly into the room, followed by the two men in black. "Muffin, are you okay?" These goons didn't hurt you, did they?" Her uncle Pete said with obvious compassion in his voice.

Too shocked to speak at first, taking in the fact that her uncle was behind her abduction, she just stared in amazement. She began to cry again. "I want to go home, Uncle Pete."

"I know you do sweetheart, and you will. Just as soon as your mommy transfers the money to my account, it will all be over," Pete said, giving his niece a tender kiss on the cheek.

"You promise, Uncle Pete?"

"I promise. So I'm going to leave you with my friends while I take care of that business. And when it is over, they will take you home. Okay?"

The door closed again, leaving Muffin alone and scared, missing her mommy and her dog Happy.

Chapter Forty Two

Two FBI agents stood vigil at the Parson residence. A heavy set, middle-aged Afro-American man with a bald head and a meticulously groomed mustache and an Asian lady, young and attractive, sat in the family den waiting for the kidnappers to make another call.

Carson and Chuck had stopped by to break the news to the family about the death of Joe Smithson and to find out if the feds were making any progress on the kidnapping of the poor child. "So no news on our missing child, I take?" Chuck said addressing his question to either agent who chose to answer.

The Asian lady said, "No, not a word so far, I'm afraid. But when the kidnappers realize the money was not sent, they'll call. Then we'll see if we can get a trace on them. If that doesn't work, we'll have Mrs. Smithson make the transfer and see where the money leads us. Standard procedure."

"Well we're following a trail of dead bodies, two so far. So we've got to run. You have our numbers. If you find out anything, please give us a call," Chuck said, eying the attractive agent.

Back at the office, the detectives took up their usual strategic positions. Chuck jumped on the computer and Carson grabbed the phone. They needed to find out where Lola Perez had disappeared to, and soon, before the trail went cold. Hopefully she wasn't in Mexico or they'd never be able to find her.

Carson was on the phone talking to his buddies at LAPD homicide, while Chuck was checking the immigration database to see if her passport showed her reentering the U.S.

"You don't say, um hum... A young Latino lady found hanging off the fourth floor balcony of the Day's Inn Hotel by the airport. Possible homicide. Got an ID? Thanks. We're on our way up there. Be there in a couple." Carson hung up the phone and turned to tell Chuck the news.

"Got her. She passed through immigration early this morning, LAX."

"Yeah and looks like we got another one. The LAPD found her hanging from the balcony of a motel by the airport."

"What?"

"Feel like a road trip? You can drive."

"Really? Thanks, Carson."

Chapter Forty Three

Her restraints started to loosen a bit. Muffin, a very resourceful and intelligent child, smiled and laughed for a moment at the cartoon that was showing, while desperately trying to untie the rope that had her bound to one of room's only two raggedy chairs. She tugged and pulled, and tugged some more. She grew tired and stopped to rest. She wanted to cry, but what good would it do. This was no time for tears, this was time for action.

Looser and looser, she felt the knot coming untied, then she would see about making her escape. She would sneak pass those goons in black and be gone before they knew what happened. One more pull and the rope magically fell to the floor. Even though it was her plan, she felt amazed at seeing her binding lying on the floor and her hands free to untie the one that was around her ankles.

Though free, she felt apprehensive, afraid to get up out of the chair. Fear gripped her monetarily, but it was fleeting and soon she was up and checking to see if the door to the room she had been held captive in was unlocked.

She turned the knob and found it was indeed unlocked. She had to be cautious, not knowing the whereabouts of the men in black. Cracking the door ever so slightly, see peeked out. She could hear the sounds of laughter and a video game in the next room. She opened the door a little wider.

Sitting on a couch in the next room were the two idiots that were supposed to be watching her, playing a video game, oblivious to the fact that their captive was now free. Muffin smiled to herself as she eased out of the door and closed it ever so quietly. Her heart beat faster, she was scared to death, but she was determined to make her escape. Unexpectedly she saw her cell phone sitting on a table, it was pink and unusually decorated, so she recognized it immediately.

Still at their competition, and still not paying any attention, the men played their silly game unaware to the reality of the fact that a half a million dollars was retrieving her phone from the table and making her escape out the front door unnoticed.

The fresh air felt good on Muffin's face as she ran as fast as she could away from the house, down the street, confused as to where she was, but running for her life nonetheless. She would figure out where she was later on, but for now she just wanted to get away, away from her captors and somewhere she could call her mommy.

After running for what seemed like a hour she stopped breathless. She looked at her phone, still not believing she actually had it and hit the speed dial.

"Mommy!"

Chapter Forty Four

The coroner was just finishing up as Chuck and Carson entered the motel room, alive with CSI, detectives and forensic experts. Carson saw an old buddy of his who was unfortunate enough to have pulled the case. "Hey Blank, what's up?"

Fred Blankenship was the detectives name. He was a fifty something, Afro-American with a full head of salt and pepper hair, still sporting a retro seventies style. The other cops called him "Blank", a shortened version of his name and also because of the blank look he always seemed to have on his face. "Carson, my man," Blank said as he shook hands and hugged Carson.

Carson introduced Chuck to Blank and they shook hands without the hug.

"So what's your interest in this poor girl? Terrible thing, just terrible, beautiful girl and young too." Blank asked.

"Well, for two reasons. She's a suspect or was a suspect in a murder case we're working and also a link to a kidnapping case. We were hoping to get some clue as to who killed her. Probably the same individual or individuals who kidnapped a thirteen year old girl from her school yesterday," Carson replied, looking around as they carried the girl's body out on a coroner's stretcher.

Blank shook his head as he watched the girl go by. "What a pity. Beautiful girl. Such a beautiful girl."

Chuck who had been silent thus far letting the old friends talk inquired, "You got any leads yet detective?"

"No, no, not yet. The girl got the room in her own name, paid cash. The day manager at the desk didn't see anyone going up to the room and no one asked what room the girl was staying in. Guess we'll have to wait and see if the forensics folks and the CSI people come up with anything, 'cause right now I've got a big fat zero.

"So they're ruling the cause of death a homicide, right Blank?" Carson asked his ole buddy. "Wasn't a suicide?"

The detective sporting his usual blank expression and rubbing his chin answered, "No. The coroner said someone tried to make it look like a suicide but in his expert opinion the girl was murdered."

"Okay, looks like we made a wasted trip. Nothing here that's going to help us, Carson." Chuck said looking somewhat frustrated.

"Yeah, I think you're right partner. You up for an In and Out before we head south?"

"Oh Yeah."

They were heading for their unit when Carson's cell rang. "Carson... Are you kidding me... In L.A.?" Carson pulled a pen and pad out of his pocket. "Give me the address. LAPD is on the scene. All right my partner and I are heading over as we speak."

Carson motioned at Chuck to get in the car, and in a hurry.

"What's up?"

"Get in. I'll fill you in on the way."

Chuck listened in amazement as Carson recanted the story of how the girl had escaped and called her mother. And the most amazing thing was she actually was able to lead the cops to the house where the kidnappers had held her hostage. Amazing for a child so young. Even more incredible the girl had said her uncle Pete was behind he whole thing.

LAPD was just battering down the door as the detectives arrived. Since they were out of their jurisdiction Carson and Chuck hung back and watched the scene unfold. The whole thing went down without a shot being fire and in a few minutes the team came strolling out with two men dressed in black in cuffs.

Blank and his partner arrived and were watching the same scene play out, standing right next to Carson and Chuck. "You think your kidnapping is connected to our dead girl Carson?" Blank said with his usual expression.

"Yeah, I think it is Blank. I think all these events are connected. The Smithsons, what a family of misfits," Carson grumbled.

"According to the girl, her uncle Pete is behind the kidnapping. So I think we should pay the good uncle a visit. What you think Carson?" Blank asked.

"I think you're right Blank. I think this Pete could be the key to the whole enchilada. You got an address?"

"You betcha."

"Let's roll. You lead and we'll follow."

Chapter Forty Five

The USNS Walter S. Diehl, Michael's ship, had finally and thankfully pulled back into port at Akasaki fuel pier in Sasebo, Japan. The ship was in port for a few days to refuel, resupply and head on back out to sea. They were attached to the George Washington, carrier battle group as duty oiler, and their schedule had been quite hectic.

Michael was thinking about calling his step-son Danny and his alibi witness, Sherry, when his J-phone's ring tone went off. "Hello... What? Are you kidding me? Is she all right? How could this happen?"

Mary was on the other end of the line, trying to explain the situation over the loud almost party atmosphere at the Parson residence. "She's okay, dear. She escaped, can you believe it? And here's the crazy part. She says her Uncle Pete was behind the whole thing."

"Pete? But why?"

"He wanted Valerie's insurance money. The half million dollars. Can you believe he would do such a thing. And Joe is dead too."

"Joe is dead?"

"Yeah, they think his girl friend Lola, poisoned him. She was in on a plan with Pete. Now they think Pete killed the girl. Oh my God, what a mess. All I know is, little Muffin is safe and back at home."

"Yeah, thank God she's safe. Look I've got to go. I'm running out of minutes on this crappy Japanese phone, so I'll have to call you back. Tell everyone, I love and miss them and I'll see ya'll in a month of so. Talk to you later. Bye."

Hanging up the phone, Michael didn't know what to think about the latest developments. Killing Charles had started a firestorm, that he was responsible for. It was never his intention, but his actions had created a monstrous situation.

Immediately after hanging up from his wife, Michael placed a crucial call to his step-son Danny. "Danny, what's up? Cops been snooping around?"

"Grouch, you hear about Muffin?"

"Yeah, I just got finished talking to your mother. Now back to my question."

"No, I haven't heard anything, why?"

"Just wondered, that's all. No particular reason."

"Grouch, is there something you're not telling me? 'Cause you seem awful worried about the cops."

"No, no. Just stick to your story and everything will be cool. All right."

Michael felt a little bit better after talking to Danny. Next he called his alibi witness and made sure she had her story straight. After hanging up, he felt he had his ducks in a row. He had committed the perfect crime. Nothing could go wrong. At least that's what he kept telling himself.

Needing some air, he grabbed his wallet and headed for the gangway. It was time for the five o'clock bus to the base. Maybe he would grab a beer at the club and try and shake the blues that had a grip on him. Maybe a few beers would help him sleep through the night. He thought about confessing his terrible crime, but the thought of spending the rest of his life in prison was not something he even wanted to consider. It was going be all right. A jury still had to convict him beyond a reasonable doubt, even if the detectives on the case actually were able to follow the trail leading to him. He had covered his tracks well. Let them try and catch him. He had the answers to any question they might ask. No way they could ever link him to the murder.

At his table at Club Galaxy, he checked his hot mail and surfed the internet for a while. The first beer went down smoothly, so he got another.

Chapter Forty Six

A big celebration was in progress at the Parson house. The FBI and the cops had gone, thankfully. Muffin was back home, it was over. She was the hero of the day, having escaped her captors, she had led the police to where she had been held, which facilitated the subsequent arrest of the suspects and alerted the police and FBI to the harsh reality that her Uncle Pete was behind the whole horrendous crime.

Happy barked joyfully at his little friend's return and licked Muffin on the face. She threw one of his chew toys into the den and he ran to fetch it, bringing it back to her and waiting to play some more. Everything was back to normal, well at least as normal as it could be under the circumstances.

Muffin's daddy was dead and she of all the family loved him the most. They didn't understand him like she did. She was like him in many ways, she felt great sadness, almost overwhelming grief, like a part of her had died along with her dad.

She remembered the games they used to play, when she was a little girl, back when they were a family. How he used to hold her in his lap for hours, how secure and safe she felt there in his arms. Now he was gone forever. The seven years he was missing she knew in her heart he would return some day and he did, but now, he was gone, he wouldn't be coming back this time.

"Come on Muffin, and cut your cake," her mom called from the kitchen. They had bought a special homecoming cake to celebrate Muffin's safe return.

Muffin coming back to reality said, "Okay, mommy."

Valerie gave Muffin a big hug and kiss as she came into the kitchen to cut her cake. This day was better than any birthday or Christmas could ever be. The whole family, along with a house full of friends and neighbors cheered as Muffin did the honors.

Giving Muffin another big hug, Valerie asked tenderly, "You all right, baby? Don't worry, I'm sure the police will capture your evil Uncle Pete. He'll never hurt you again."

Chapter Forty Seven

Chuck and Carson, along with Blank and his partner and a few uniforms, pulled up in front of the address they had for Pete Smithson. The house looked like an old castle, nestled in behind a grove of various types of trees and elaborate landscaping. "Is this the joint?" Carson asked somewhat surprised by the appearance of the place.

Chuck just as mystified as Carson said, "I guess. Odd looking place, huh?"

Blank waved at Chuck and Carson, to come on, as he and his partner got out of their unit. He had his gun drawn, so Carson and Chuck upholstered their weapons as they eased out of their car. Blank motioned for them to disperse as four uniforms came up to join them.

"Remember," Carson said, "We need to question this guy. So let's try and take him alive."

"I agree, but if he starts shooting, we're gonna have to take him down," Blank replied, checking his weapon for rounds.

They moved closer to the house, which was huge with bars on the windows and wrought iron on the door. "This place looks like a fortress," Chuck whispered, as they crept toward the castle. He pointed at the what looked like cameras, mounted on the brackets that swiveled. "I'll be. This guy's got surveillance cameras."

The plan was to announce that the cops had the place surrounded, there was no escape and Pete Smithson should come out with his hands up. That was the plan. Turned out not to be a very good one.

Little did the cops know, Pete was not alone, and he had no intention on coming out quietly. He had an arsenal of automatic weapons and RPGs, not to mention a couple of Uzis, fully loaded. Tony Montana, didn't have nothing on this guy.

Blank had his bullhorn, ready to make the announcement, when out of nowhere a RPG blew up one of the black and whites, parked in front of the house. The loud explosion and the sudden rush of black smoke and fire shocked the heck out of the officers and they immediately returned fire, not even knowing what they were shooting at.

"This is the LAPD, you're surrounded. Come out with your hands up. I say again, Mr. Pete Smithson, this is the LAPD..." Blank blared over the horn, but his announcement was cut short by automatic rifle fire, the bullets whistling by his head. "Holy crap. This guy ain't kidding around."

Again the officers returned fire. Their rounds seemed to just bounce off of the house, like it was bulletproof. "Hold your fire," Blank yelled. Turning to Carson he conceded, "I think it's time to call SWAT. This guy's got an arsenal in there." Picking up his radio to call for backup, a bullet whistled by his head, striking a nearby tree.

A barrage of small arms fire continued to rain from the house, keeping the detectives and the uniform officers penned in position. Luckily, no one had been hit, but until the SWAT team got there they weren't going anywhere.

Finally the team showed up, and took their positions. First they had to ascertain where the shooter was located. The rounds seemed to be coming from a second story window. The commander ordered his snipers to take position, in hope they could get a shot at the maniac that had reeked havoc on the cops for almost two hours.

The snipers took up positions and waited for the order and the opportunity to make a shot. A mechanical battering ram, resembling an army tank, pulled up and waited to be called upon to batter down the front door. It was time to enter and take the shooter down. The team waited for the go signal from the SWAT commander.

The call came over the radio, "It's a go."

Pete Smithson, yelled from the upper window. "Come and get me. You'll never take me alive." He pulled up an Uzi machine gun with a full clip and started blasting at the tank that was in the process of battering down his door.

The door was strong, but the battering ram was stronger, it fell like a fallen tree cut down by a woodsman. The team followed, clearing the downstairs, they proceeded to the second floor to take out the shooter.

The front door was alarmed and the shooter knew the team was on their way. He sprinted from the room he was in and took up a strategic vantage point in an adjoining room. The room he now manned was a "panic room." It was bulletproof with a foot thick reinforced steel door. Escape was in the making now unbeknownst to the SWAT team that hunted him.

Pete Smithson always had an escape route just for such occasions. In the floor of the panic room was a trap door connected to a stairway that led to an underground parking garage where his armor plated SUV awaited.

Knocking down the door to the bedroom where they thought the shooter was holed up, the team discovered to their dismay that the room was empty. The team leader radioed to the commander, "All secure in the upper bedroom. The suspect has vanished, will continue sweep of the upstairs."

Before they had a chance a black SUV came roaring out of an underground garage and shot past the barricade of police and emergency vehicles. It made a hard right, then a left and disappeared from view.

"He's getting away," Carson yelled. "Come on Chuck lets get this guy."

Blank also noticed the getaway and him and his partner joined Carson and Chuck as they ran to their respective vehicles. Blank yelled over his radio, "Suspect is in a black SUV, considered armed and extremely dangerous. We need to get some birds in the air quick, he's getting away."

The race was on, the cops were losing, but hopefully once they got the copters in the air they could get a visual on Mr. Pete Smithson.

Chapter Forty Eight

Pete Smithson was a man with a plan. No way in heck were these coppers gonna take him alive. In fact they weren't even going to catch up with him. He was much too smart for these morons. Behind the wheel of his black SUV he roared down the street, smiling because he knew the big change up was up ahead.

He wheeled into a condo complex, took a hard right, pulled up to a garage door and pushed the remote control he had retrieved out of his glove box. The door to the garage opened, he eased in and disappeared inside. Another vehicle, a red 1995 Toyota Corolla was parked in the garage waiting for him.

Jumping out of the SUV, Pete hurriedly jumped in the Toyota, started it up, opened the garage door again and eased out. He closed the door behind him and before any one knew what was happening he was cruising down the street in an entirely different car, one the cops were sure as heck not looking for. It would be days, if not weeks before they figured out where the black SVU they were looking for had been parked.

Pete smiled sadistically as he drove down the street towards a private airport where he had an unscheduled flight scheduled just for him. He would disappear, just like his brother Charles had done. He had gotten some of the money, it would have to do for now.

Meanwhile our detectives and a large group of other cops in helicopters and squad cars frantically searched for the black SUV. It had to be somewhere, it couldn't have just disappeared off the face of the planet. But it had.

"I don't believe this horse crap. This guy's given us the slip," Carson scowled and growled as he and Chuck raced down the street frantically searching for Mr. Pete Smithson.

"I don't see him Carson. Must have pulled in somewhere, but where is the question," Chuck said.

The entourage of police vehicles hunted for the suspect like a pack of hound dogs for over two hours before they finally all agreed Speckle had given them the slip. He was gone, vanished. He was the LAPD's problem, Carson and Chuck decided. They had done all they could do in La La land and decided to head back to America's Finest City. They still had a murder to solve.

Chapter Forty Nine

The detectives sat lethargically at their desks the next morning doing what they normally did when they'd reached a dead end on a case. They were extremely disappointed at how the whole scenario in L.A. had played out. Charles Smithson was dead and the detectives still didn't have a viable suspect. The trail that they had followed had gone cold. Joe Smithson was dead as well as his so called girl friend Lola. Pete Smithson who they hadn't even considered a person of interest had vanished in thin air leaving behind a laundry list of unanswered questions.

"We got a sum total of nothing, Chuck," Carson said, quietly tossing a crumpled piece of paper at the waste basket and missing as usual. "Well at least the little girl is home safely, that's the important thing."

"For some reason or other I don't think this Pete character was involved in the murder of his brother Charles. He's a low life, murderer, kidnapper, thief and philanderer, but I just don't like him for the murder of his brother Charles, just not his style. This was done by someone who knew the victim and knew about his clandestine meeting with the wife, Valerie," Chuck replied, taping at his keyboard.

"Had to be somebody who was pretty strong as well, to carry the victim up those five flights of stairs. But of course it could have been done by those two characters that blundered the kidnap job and let the little girl escape. For some reason or other I don't think so," Carson said, tossing another piece of scrap paper.

"All we can do is go back to square one, Carson. I still think it was a family member. All the Smithsons are pretty much ruled out. That leaves the wife's family." Chuck went over to their board, crossed out all the Smithsons and read the names of who was left. "We have the wife, Valerie, the mother-in-law Mary, the brother Danny and the step father Michael."

"These are our suspects. One of them or all of them is guilty, but which one or ones were involved in killing Charles Smithson, that is the question," Carson asked, but didn't think Chuck had any more answers than he had.

Chuck and Carson sat in silence for a few minutes hoping something would happen to give them a break in the case, however, nothing did. Somehow they had to connect the dots. The whole case was a jigsaw puzzle strewn on their desks and they had to figure out how the pieces fit. The whole family might have schemed together to kill the victim and collect the half a million dollar insurance policy. A half a million was a lot of motive to commit the crime.

The detectives next move was to do just that, connect the dots and put the pieces in place. They needed to establish a pattern of behavior that showed how the killers planned and carried out the murder. The two persons-of-interest they hadn't interviewed were the brother Danny and the step father, Michael. The problem was Danny was in Tucson, Arizona and the step father was on a ship possibly out to sea. The detectives decided these two guys were the key to unlock the door to the whole mystery.

Chapter Fifty

Two months later, there was once again cause for celebration at the Parson household. Michael was back home again after doing his four months on board the USNS Walter S. Diehl. The family was planning their semi-annual trip to Disneyland and discussing all the craziness that had transpired while Michael was gone.

He tried to relax but there was an uneasiness he couldn't explain. Being home brought the whole horrendous scene rushing back like it had happened just yesterday. Michael knew that the detectives would be coming to interview him and soon. "No sweat, I've got all the answers. Let them come," he said to himself. "I'm ready." He only hoped that he was. Danny had called him a number of times describing the interrogation he had been put through. They knew about his trip to San Diego around the time of the murder, but didn't have any clue about the stolen truck, the gun or the X that he had procured for his step father.

That night Michael lie in bed with his wife of thirty years, tossing and turning. He had a nightmare, but unfortunately it was an accurate account of what had happened that day, but even more hideous and distorted in his dream state.

The dream started like a normal day but soon escalated as he could visualize himself meeting with Danny, driving the red pickup truck, preparing the syringe of the drug that would incapacitate Charles. Then suddenly Charles was in the truck. Michael saw the .22 pistol in his hand.

A baseball bat swings, blood flies, as he beat Charles with powerful, angry strokes. He felt vindicated but remorseful at the same time as he continued to swing the bat. Now he was driving, Charles' bloody body in the bed of the red truck. He felt the weight of the body as he carried it up the stairs to the fifth floor. He put it on the floor, the blood, the horror. Michael saw the pistol in his hand, he fired two rounds between Charles' eyes. The dream was all too real, he screamed, waking up with a start.

Mary woke up as well. "Dear, dear are you okay. What's wrong?"

"Just a dream, a terrible dream," Michael said, tears streaming down his face. He had not told his wife about the murder. He felt she didn't need to know. He didn't want her involved. But now he needed someone to lean on. But how could he tell her he had done such a terrible thing?

Chapter Fifty One

Our detectives, Chuck and Carson had been in limbo for two months trying desperately to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but they just wouldn't fit. Fact was they were at a loss in the murder case of poor Charles Smithson. They had talked to Danny Randle, with the help of the Tucson PD, but hadn't come up with anything much connecting him to the whole affair. He had been in San Diego shortly before the murder but it had been confirmed that he was at a seminar, just like he had stated. He had many witnesses to that fact. Even though he did do time for weapons, drugs and car theft, past bad actions weren't proof that he was involved in the murder.

After re-interviewing the rest of the family one discrepancy had emerged that had the detectives scratching their heads. The time frame when the step father, Michael, had left to report to his ship didn't add up. Mary had said he left on one particular day, having personally dropped him off at the airport, however the actual day he flew out of San Diego Airport was three days later. This was strange because during those three days is when the victim had been murdered.

Also in the course of investigation they had come to find out more about this step father, who was laughingly called Grouch by the kids. Turns out he had been a Navy corpsman who had served with the Marines near the close of the Vietnam war. Now he was employed by the Military Sealift Command as a Medical Services Officer or MSO as they are called. If that wasn't enough, they discovered that Michael Parson stood six feet five inches tall and weighed in the neighborhood of 250 lbs. He also, even at the age of 58, was an avid body builder, who reportedly could bench 450 several times without breaking a sweat.

Needless to say the detectives were looking to have a long conversation with this individual just as soon as he returned.

"This guy is the one, I can feel it," Carson said, reviewing the information they had on the father-in-law. "He has all the skills and strength to have committed this crime, Chuck. I mean come on."

"Don't get excited. We still don't have any proof as of yet. And what was his motive if he is the one? Chuck asked.

" Could be he just hated his son-in-law and wanted him out of his step daughter's life. Or maybe he wanted a chunk of the half a million insurance money. I don't know, but he's the one, I'm telling you Chuck. He should be home soon and I can't wait to talk to this character," Carson growled.

Their wait was short. They had asked the person- of- interest's wife, Mary, to call them when he came home and low and behold she called later that day.

Bright and early the next morning it was show time. The interview was set for nine in the morning. The detectives showed up fashionably early at a quarter til ready to do battle. The discrepancy in the time was the main thing the detectives wanted to know about. They would use that one issue to try and push the guy into making some more mistakes. Hopefully he wouldn't ask for a lawyer before they had him talking.

"Good morning detectives," Mary said, greeting Carson and Chuck at the door. "Come on in. My husband is expecting you."

They knew the lay out of the house but followed her to the den where a huge mountain of a man sat, but rose to offer a hand as the detectives entered the room. "Hello. I'm Michael Parson. I hear you have some questions for me."

Carson introduced himself and Chuck.

"Have a seat. Would you like some coffee? We just made a fresh pot," Michael graciously said.

Both of the detectives said yes, they'd love some, black.

Chuck started the ball rolling with an introduction. Later they would get to the tough questions. "We are here, Mr. Parson, as a part of an ongoing investigation into the murder of your son-in-law, Charles Smithson. Since you have been out of the country, we've not been able to talk with you. Just routine."

"Of course. I'm willing to answer any question you might have if it will help find the killer. I'm not sure how I can be of help though."

"I'm sure you're familiar with the case through your family. As you know your son-in-law was found dead in a high rise building under construction in downtown San Diego under mysterious circumstances. Do you own a hand gun Mr. Parson?" Chuck inquired getting right down to business.

"No, I do not.

"Do you own a baseball bat? Carson asked.

"No, I don't. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Where were you on the evening of March the 9th of this year? Be careful when you answer, 'cause we've did a little checking," Chuck said.

Michael thought for a moment then realized what the detectives were going for. It was time to lawyer up. They knew about the time difference. He knew it was going to come up. That's where his alibi witness came in. Sherry owed him big time, because a couple of years ago Michael had saved her daughter's life. "I'm not answering any more questions until I consult with my lawyer. This interview is over.

That's what they thought he was going to do. If he wasn't guilty, then why ask for a lawyer?

Pulling a set of cuffs off his belt Carson growled, " Mr. Parson you're under arrest for the murder of Charles Randolph Smithson." He proceeded to read Michael his rights and in cuffs they led him out to their unmarked unit.

Mary and the rest of the family stood in silent disbelief. Surely a man they had known for all these years, a gentle, loving, kind man, had not committed this terrible crime. They watched as the detectives' car pulled out of sight, still stunned and silent.

Chapter Fifty Two

Just like an episode from the T.V. series "Law and Order" the whole scenario played out. Chuck and Carson had made their arrest, but it was up to the prosecutor to prove that Michael Parson was indeed guilty of the murder of Charles Smithson. The whole case was circumstantial, having no eye witnesses, DNA, fingerprints, or any other forensic evidence to back up the State's case. The detectives had made the arrest on a gut feeling and the grand jury had indicted on the little bit of evidence they did have. It is always said "a grand jury would indict a ham sandwich," which is what they did in this case.

Executing a search warrant for the residence and all the vehicles owned by the family members turned out to be a waste of time and resources. They found no baseball bat, .22 pistol, bloody clothing or shoes, or any evidence to support the claim that the body was transported to its final destination in any vehicle registered to anyone residing at the residence where the accused lived.

The detectives also checked to see if the accused had rented a vehicle during the time frame when the murder occurred. They were unable to find any record of a car or truck being rented by a Michael K. Parson. Next step was to check stolen vehicles that had ended up missing during the time frame, but since there were hundreds, this seemed like an impossible task not worth pursuing.

The three days unaccounted for was where Chuck and Carson thought they had the crafty killer. Turns out the accused had an alibi for those three days. Go figure. The lady, named Sherry Miller, was the key to the prosecutions' whole case and the defense's ace in the hole.

They set up a meeting with the witness for the next day at ten. The detectives arrived fashionably early, as usual, around a quarter of ten.

"Ms. Miller, I'm Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson," Chuck said, by way of introduction as the witness peeped out of a chained door at the detectives, who were flashing their shields.

Sherry Miller was an attractive, middle aged lady, with big blue eyes and bleached blond hair and an athletic build. She motioned for them to come in and have a seat on an old but comfortable couch in the living room. "Could I get you gentleman a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, black," Chuck and Carson said almost in unison.

Comfortably seated on the couch, Carson broke the ice after a few moments of sipping coffee and clearing throats. "So, Ms. Miller. Can I call you Sherry?"

"Of course."

"Okay, Sherry. As you know we are here to speak to you about your relationship with Michael Parson and his whereabouts between the days of March 9th and 12th of this year. Can you help us clarify this situation?"

"Well, where should I begin?" Sherry said, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "I like to keep in shape and I go to the gym on base at the 32d street Naval Station. My ex is in the Navy and I still have my dependent ID card. That's where I met Michael. He's an avid body builder and I like to lift so just by happenstance, we met, got to talking, and one thing led to another. We've been seeing each other now for over a year, that is whenever he's in town. That weekend you are referring to, we were together, all weekend. No one saw us, we never left the apartment. I took him to the airport that Monday morning to make his flight."

"So you'll swear, under oath, that you were with the accused during the time frame we described, is that correct? You know lying on the witness stand is a felony?" Chuck hastened to warn the witness.

"It's the truth, so yes, I will swear under oath that Michael was with me, the entire weekend. Do you have any further questions? I have to get ready to go to work."

"So at no time that weekend did he leave the apartment, even for a little while. Maybe a couple of hours, come back with blood on his clothes. I think you're lying Sherry. I don't think he was here at all. Maybe you were in it with him. Was it the insurance money, is that why he killed that man?" Carson growled, in an attempt to unsettle the witness.

"No, that's not true. He was here, just as I said. Now get out. I've said all I'm going to say to you two, now good day, show yourselves out."

Carson and Chuck sat dumbstruck for a moment, but realizing the interview was over, soon made their way out the front door of Sherry Miller's apartment and back to their unit.

Chapter Fifty Three

The assistant district attorney or ADA, was a no nonsense, but quite attractive and young, Afro-American lady by the name of Tiffany Adams. She had been assigned the case for the prosecution. She was new to the DA's office but was ambitious enough to think she might just be the DA herself someday.

This was her first murder trial and she was very excited and also somewhat apprehensive about the case that the prosecution had against the accused. She would have liked to have an eye witness, some fingerprint, DNA or forensic evidence, to back up the State of California's claim, but she had to make do with what she had.

She had to prove to a jury of twelve, that Michael Parson had indeed killed his son-in-law Charles Smithson, beyond a reasonable doubt. Needless to say, she even had doubts about the validity of this case. The cops were unable to find the murder weapon or any other physical evidence linking the accused to the crime. There was no smoking gun, no blood evidence, and no witnesses that placed the accused at the scene of the crime. And that was another thing, the scene of the crime. According to the detectives who investigated the crime, there were in fact two crime scenes. The scene where the victim had been brutally bludgeoned was never found.

The body of the victim was found in a high rise building under construction in downtown San Diego, however there was no known connection between the victim and the building where he was found. Again, another dead end, offering no clue as to the identity of the murderer.

The family members were all suspected to be in on the crime, but again, there was no proof that they were indeed involved. The victim's brother, Pete, had been a possible suspect as well, however he was on the run from the LAPD and was not available for questioning.

Carson and Chuck were due to meet with the ADA around two in the afternoon. Tiffany hoped they had some good news about the alibi witness. She felt if she could break the accused's alibi then she could break the case wide open. At least that's what she hoped would happen.

As usual the detectives arrived at the ADA's office a little early, around a quarter til. She offered them some coffee, they accepted, black.

"Okay, tell me some good news, gentleman,"Tiffany beamed hopefully.

Chuck and Carson looked at each other, Chuck opted to speak first. "Well we just came from interviewing the alibi witness, a Sherry Miller. Although her story sounded somewhat rehearsed, as you might guess from a defense witness, it was overall very believable and credible as well. She said she had known the accused for over a year, and they had met at the gym on the 32nd Street Naval Station. According to Ms. Miller the accused was with her the whole weekend in question, they never left her apartment, and no one saw them together."

"Rehearsed, I would say. She covered all the bases, put them in a box and tied the whole thing up with a little bow. Carson, what do you think, you've got a good gut for these things, is she lying?"

Carson cleared his throat and thought for a beat. "I think she is lying, however, there's no way to prove it unless you trip her up on cross. If the defense puts the accused on the stand, maybe you can discover some inconsistencies between their stories. Otherwise, she's a solid witness, in my opinion, Tiffany."

"Okay, well that's something I guess. We'll just have to see how that plays out." Tiffany fumbled through some other documents, finally arriving at one in particular. "In the coroner's report, there are some issues I find intriguing. According to Sam Tomas, the medical examiner, he feels the victim was unconscious or drugged at the time of the beating. And also the victim was in a prone position. Tomas sites no wounds on the arms or defensive wounds and none on the posterior part of the victim's body. However, these blows, caused by a baseball bat were not the cause of death. The victim he feels was transported to another location where he was shot between the eyes, twice, with a .22 caliber pistol."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what we got, which is a sum total of nothing Tiff," Carson growled.

"The cause of death is not where the case lies is what he's saying. The only chance we got is to break the alibi witness. She's the key, I'm telling you," Chuck interjected.

"We said that already, Chuck. Let's go back to the beginning, the crime scene where the body was found. The victim was killed with two accurately placed shots between the eyes. Had to be someone pretty familiar with firearms to do some shooting like that. Our guy has a military background, trained in weapons. We also ascertained, painfully as you recall, that there was no elevator to the fifth floor where the body was found. Therefore it was carried up there. Had to be somebody who was pretty strong to do that. Have you seen that guy? Now the big questions are where did he get the vehicle he transported the body in, the drugs, and the pistol? My money is on his step son, Danny. He has a history of all three of those things and he was in town during the time the murder occurred. If we can break his story, I think we'll have this guy."

Tiffany laughed and shook her head. "That's the problem with this case, guys. All we got is conjecture and what ifs. We don't have one shred of hard evidence against the accused. If I can't break the witnesses on the stand, we got nada. You've got to get me something. The trial starts in a week."

The detectives left the meeting somewhat dejected, but determined to try and find some hard evidence to bolster the State's case. They were still looking into stolen vehicles that could have been used in the crime, but hadn't come up with anything. They would just have to go back to the drawing board and see what they could come up with.

Chapter Fifty Four

Mary lie with her back turned to Michael, not even wanting to look at him, upset from the whole affair. A tear streamed down her face and dropped on the bed they had shared for so many years.

"Mary, look at me," Michael said. "I wanted to tell you the whole story but I didn't want to get you involved. I just didn't know how to tell you."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We've got to talk.

"Is it true? Did you have an affair with this Sherry, as they say? And did you murder Charles?" Mary said, finally turning to face Michael, still crying.

Michael looked at his wife of thirty years and was at a loss for words momentarily, then composed himself. "Yes... I killed Charles. I did it for Valerie and Muffin. He had ruined their lives for all those years and to reappear after seven years, I felt I had to do it, so they could move on with their lives. And no, I am not having an affair."

"Then why did you say you were?"

"Dear, Sherry Miller is a lady whose child's life I saved one day when I was jogging in the park. She owed me a big favor, so I asked her to say I was with her."

Looking at Michael intensely, she could see the truth in his eyes. She could always tell if he was lying. "I believe you dear. I'm scared. What if they convict you and you go to prison, I couldn't take that."

"They've got nothing. And if Sherry and Danny hold up in court, there's no way they could convict me."

"Danny? You got my son involved? What did he do? Tell me."

"Calm down, calm down," Michael said touching Mary's face lightly. "He stole a truck, got me some drugs and a gun. But he assures me, we're in the clear. I just hope he holds up o the witness stand."

"Tell me the whole story."

Michael began at the beginning. He described how he picked Charles up after the meeting with Valerie and Muffin in the park. How he drugged Charles, beat him and eventually took him to the highrise and shot him.

Mary listened in disbelief, not believing her husband of thirty years was capable of such violence.

The whole story continued as Michael went on to tell his wife how he had field stripped the gun and threw it in the Coronado Bay as he drove over the bridge, then burned the bat he had used to bludgeon Charles and the bloody clothes and shoes. He later thoroughly cleaned the truck, parked it in a garage downtown, and took the trolley and bus to the airport and caught his flight.

Knowing the whole truth was a burden Mary didn't want to bear but she now had no choice. Eventually they went to sleep that night, but it was a restless sleep.

Chapter Fifty Five

Meanwhile back at the ranch, Chuck and Carson were busy re-interviewing, re-canvassing the crime scene area, and trying to get a lead from the hundreds of stolen vehicles that had gone missing during the time frame of the murder. The ADA wanted some hard evidence and that's what they were trying to get her.

Unfortunately their efforts had been in vain up to that point. No one had heard or seen anything suspicious the night or morning of the murder. The coroner had not found anything on the body that might lead the detectives to the killer. No hair or fibers or fingerprints had been found and forensics and CSI had nothing that would shed a light on the dismal situation.

But finally a break came when a red pick up truck registered to a Rodney Cunningham came to their attention. The truck had been stolen a day before the murder and was found abandoned in a parking garage downtown a week later. Could just be the vehicle Chuck and Carson had been searching for, at least they hoped that it was.

They contacted Mr. Cunningham and he agreed to bring the truck in so forensics could go over it thoroughly for blood and DNA evidence.

Chuck and Carson were at their desks engaged in their usual occupations when the call came. "Detective Carson, may I help you? You don't say? Thank you,we're on our way." Carson hung up the phone with a big smile on his face.

Looking at Carson strangely Chuck said, "Good news?"

"My birthday, the 4th of July, and Christmas all rolled up into one. Good news, I'd say."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"That was forensics, they got a match to the victims blood in the bed of the pickup truck. We may have the link to the killer we've been looking for."

They had a link, yes, but how to connect it to the suspect was still a conundrum. It was indeed the blood of Charles Smithson, which proved he was transported in the truck, but they still had to prove the accused was in the truck and drove said truck to the highrise where the victim met his final demise.

Someone had stolen the truck, but who? The accused could have stolen the truck but Chuck and Carson doubted it. The smart money was on the accused stepson, Danny Randle. He was in town during that time frame and had a history of grand theft auto.

"Okay, here's what we got," Carson said, looking intensely at a report he held in his hand. "We know that the victim was in the back of the red pickup from the blood evidence. Heck, I suspect the truck bed is the other crime scene we've been looking for. So we have to some how prove our suspect was in the truck. Unfortunately they didn't find any fingerprints other than the owner and his wife's. The truck was stolen, and abandoned at a parking garage downtown. Maybe, just maybe, one of the parking lot attendants remembers seeing the accused. It's a long shot but worth checking out."

"I think it's worth a shot as well to check the businesses up and down Third Ave. in Chula Vista, maybe someone might remember seeing a huge man driving a red pickup truck. Possibly he was circling the block stalking the deceased and one of the shop owners noticed him," Chuck added.

Good, good. This is good. Let's put together a six pack with the accused's picture and show it to the attendants at the parking garage and also to any and all employees working in the stores up and down Third Ave. We might just get lucky."

Chapter Fifty Six

Michael Parson, who was out on bail thanks to his step daughter Valerie, was busy himself going over his testimony with family attorney, Raymond Tremble. The lawyer was a diminutive man, with a head full of wiry red hair, and bushy eyebrows that made him look somewhat like a fox terrier. He was small in stature, but he spoke with a mighty voice when he got into the courtroom defending his clients.

Tremble wanted to put Michael on the stand as the defense's star witness, the accused, however, wasn't so crazy about the idea. "You've got to get on the witness stand and tell your story. All you have to do is tell the truth."

"The truth? I wouldn't want to do that," Michael said cracking a small smile. "I will however tell my story. As long as Sherry holds up we shouldn't have any problems."

"That's another thing, this Sherry. How long have you known her?"

"Oh, about a year or so. Don't worry she'll be find."

"I hope you're right, 'cause if they break her, you're toast my friend.

"Danny, my step son, now he's a little shaky. We might need to work with him a little. But he should be find."

"Okay, right now the prosecution doesn't have anything, only conjecture. Is there anything out there that going pop up and bite us in the rear? If there is, let me know now. I don't surprises."

No, no, we're good. Should be smooth sailing."

"In my experience, these things never go the way they're planned. Murphy's law always applies. If something can go wrong, it will. Witnesses get nervous, get confused by the prosecutor, and before you know it they're testifying for the State. I'm just telling you this so you won't get overconfident. Right now, we're fine, but who knows what the ADA is going dig up before the trial."

"There's nothing to dig up, don't worry."

"I'm not worried. I'm not the one who is going to do the time, if you're convicted."

Chapter Fifty Seven

Cassie McPherson, was a nosy old lady, who'd been working at the downtown parking garage for ten years. She had beady brown eyes, a build like a line backer, and a memory like an elephant. Luckily for Chuck and Carson she had been on duty the day the mysterious man had drove the red pickup into the lot and abandoned it.

"Good afternoon, I'm Detective Brown, and this is Detective Carson, SDPD," Chuck said cheerfully by way of introduction.

Cassie looked at the two detectives curiously over a pair of horn rimmed glasses. "I'm Cassie McPherson, how can I help you gentleman of the law this afternoon?"

Carson stepped in to answer Cassie's question. "We're investigating a homicide and we desperately need your help."

"My help?" Cassie sort of chortled as she adjusted her horn rims.

"Yes, ma'am," Carson said, pulling the photo array and a picture of the red pickup out of his pocket. "The man we're looking for, a huge man, came driving through here a couple of months ago in a red Chevy pickup. Do you remember seeing any of these men?"

Squinting and wrinkling her nose, the parking lot lady perused the pictures. She studied them carefully for a minute. Then her head began to shake up and down in recognition. She pointed at the man in the right hand corner. "That's the one, I remember him. He was a big man, kinda handsome. I tried to chat him up, you know, but he seemed very preoccupied, like he was on a mission. But I'm positive, that was the guy."

Carson and Chuck looked at each other approvingly. It was the photo of their suspect, Michael Parson. "Would you be willing to testify in court that you saw this man come through here driving a red pickup?" Chuck said.

"Sure, be happy to. Anything to help San Diego's finest. Just let me know when you need me. I'll be there with bells on," Cassie beamed, like the whole episode had made her day.

So the trip down to the parking garage had been a fruitful one. Now they headed down to Third Ave. in Chula Vista to see if anyone up and down the row of shops had seen our suspect driving up and down the street the day of the murder. The detectives just might get lucky again.

Canvassing is always dull and tedious, that day was no different. At least it was a beautiful day and they talked to a lot of very nice people, however for the first two hours, none of the nice people had seen anything.

They were just about to quit for the day and go get a bite to eat when they entered a small comic book store to inquire about the mystery man from the employee therein. A young lady with blond hair with blue ends and a ring in her nose, was standing behind the counter engrossed in a comic book of some sort. If not for the little bell that tinkled annoyingly, she would have been oblivious to the detectives' arrival. She was dressed all in black with boots laced up to her knees and a skirt so short it left little to the imagination.

Chastity Lazure was her name, although I doubt she had adhered to that value in quite some time. She peered over her comic book like she was annoyed a customer would come into the store to disturb her.

"Young lady, I wonder if you could help us," Chuck said, hoping she didn't know anything and they could quickly finish and go to eat.

At first she pretended not to hear Chuck but eventually acknowledged the detectives presence in the store. She threw the comic book she was reading on the counter in disgust. "What comic book were you looking for? What's the name?"

Carson cleared his throat and hasten to clear up the reason why Chuck and him were in a comic book store. He flashed his badge quickly and returned it to his coat pocket. "Official police business," he growled. He pulled the photo array and the picture of the truck out of his pocket and turned it so the young lady could see. "We're asking everyone up and down the block if they remember seeing any of these gentleman driving a red pickup truck up and down Third Ave. one afternoon a couple of months ago."

Studying the photos, a large smile came to her face. A smile of recognition. "Yeah, yeah! I remember this dude" She said pointing at the picture of the suspect which was in the right hand corner. "I did see this guy one day a couple of months ago. I remember because, I was outside cleaning the windows when this homeless guy and this guy got into an argument. The homeless guy was pushing a shopping cart full of cans and stuff and decided to stop right in the middle of the street. He wouldn't move. This guy yelled at the homeless guy and finally he moved. But then I seen this guy circle the block a few more times like he was looking for somebody on the sidewalk."

Again like with the lady at the parking garage they asked comic book girl if she would testify in court that she saw their suspect and she said that she would.

Things were looking up. They now had two eyewitnesses. One would put Michael Parson in that truck at the parking garage where it was ditched and the other witnessed him in the truck cruising up and down the street the day the victim was killed. Tiffany was going to be happy. The State's case was getting stronger with only a few more days until the trial started.

Chapter Fifty Eight

"Tell me something good," Tiffany Adams was singing to the tune of the old Chaka Khan song as the detectives arrived at her office. "I know you've got some good news, I can tell by the looks on your faces. Let me have it."

Chuck and Carson were quite elated themselves, and couldn't wait to tell the ADA the latest news. Carson as usual jumped in to get the ball rolling. "Found the stolen truck that was used to transport the body, got a positive match to the victim's blood. Also, we have a witness at the parking garage where the truck was dumped that can put our suspect in said vehicle"

"And, we've got another witness that can ID our suspect as an individual she saw driving a red pick up down Third Ave. a couple months ago in the vicinity of where the victim had his clandestine meeting with the wife and little girl. How do you like that?" Chuck said, beaming with pride.

"I like it, I like it a lot," Tiffany yelled. "I knew you guys would come through for me. We've got this guy now. All I've got to do is put the pieces of this puzzle together, and Mr. Michael Parson is toast, a done deal, baby."

Leaving the office the detectives felt good about the case and their chance of winning. It had been a long hard uphill struggle but they could see the light at the end of the tunnel finally. They had done their job, now it was time for the lawyers to do theirs.

Chapter Fifty Nine

Michael Parson was having a similar meeting with his defense attorney. They had just received the news about the blood evidence in the truck and the witnesses. "Just got this in from the DA's office. Seems they found a stolen red Chevy pickup and got a positive match on blood they found in the truck bed. Also they have two witnesses. One that puts you in a red truck on Third Avenue the day of the murder, another puts you in that truck entering the parking garage where the pickup was ultimately abandoned."

Michael had a look of shock and dismay on his face for the first time since he had been arrested. He was at a loss of words momentarily, but finally managed to speak. "Wasn't me, I was never in a red pickup truck on Third Avenue or anywhere else. I swear Raymond."

"Well, whether you were or not and whether you're telling me the truth or lying is immaterial. Is their proof strong enough to convince a jury of twelve individuals that you were in that truck. That is the question."

"Like I said I wasn't in a red truck. I don't know where they dug these people up, under what rock they crawled out from under, but their lying, pure and simple."

The lawyer, looked at his client intently, patted him on his shoulder. "Don't worry about those two so called witnesses. By the time I get finished with them on the stand they'll swear the truck was blue and a midget was driving it." He laughed and fumbled through a stack of documents he had on his desk.

"I hope you're right. So what is our defense?" Michael asked, not really knowing what his lawyer's overall plan was.

"I'm glad you asked, my boy. We're going with an alternative suspect approach. It's all about creating reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury. If we can get just a couple thinking our way, then we've got it made."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means we are going to paint a picture of a couple of scenarios describing how somebody else was the one who killed poor Charles. Say those people he said were following him. Or perhaps his crazy murderous, kidnapping brother, Pete. You see where I'm going with this, Michael?"

"Yeah, yeah, that Pete, he's a likely suspect for real."

"I just hope this Sherry, your alibi witness, holds up on the stand. We need to bring her in again and make sure her story doesn't have any holes in it. It needs to match with your account of those three missing days, but not too closely as to seem like the whole testimony had been scripted, you see where I'm coming from?"

"Yeah, we definitely need to work on her story, that's for sure."

"Okay, you go on home and get some rest and relaxation. I'll start working on this along with my opening statements. Jury selection is tomorrow, trial starts in five days. Don't worry, we'll be ready."

Michael left his lawyer's office hoping he would be ready, but he had doubts now, with the advent of these new witnesses.

Chapter Sixty

The courtroom was full of activity the next day for the all important selection of the twelve people who would decide if Michael Parson went free or was incarcerated for life, or worst, put to death. Both teams were there, the prosecution and the defense, hoping to select the right group of jurors who would be sympathetic to their particular cause.

A crowd of prospective individuals were assembled awaiting the selection process to begin. The voir dire as it's called. They were from all walks of life, rich, poor, black, white, Latino, Asian, male and female. Some looking happy to be there, some not so happy, while others just stared blankly into space hoping they would not be chosen and they could go home.

The problem was for both sides, who would be a better fit for their case. One or two sympathetic individuals could sway the verdict one way or the other, from guilty to innocent. This is why this phase of the proceedings was so important.

The judge who was to preside over the procedure was a twenty year veteran of the bench by the name of Beauregard T. Johnson, a huge hulking man, with a loud booming voice and a commanding presence. He was known for his fondness of the prosecution and for being a hard ass, ruling the jury selection process with an iron fist. He knew the importance of the voir dire and made sure it was done by the book.

Tiffany and Raymond, the prosecution and the defense, sat side by side at adjoining tables. They both studied the group, looking into their faces, their eyes, sizing them up for their side. Each prospective juror would be interviewed individually to decide on the twelve who would sit in judgment and three alternates.

The judge called the proceedings to order and one by one they were called and asked questions to enable the prosecution and defense to decide if they were suitable or not acceptable to be a member of the jury. It was a grueling process but very important to both sides.

Raymond had the first question, he spoke slow and decisively. On the stand was an older Afro-American lady, who appeared to be a professional of some sort, with streaked black and graying hair and too much makeup. " First off, do you have any medical, personal or financial problems that would prevent you from serving on this jury?"

Without hesitation the woman answered, "No, not that I can think of, no."

"Have any friends or members of your family been a victim of a violent crime?"

Again the lady answered quickly. "No, fortunately."

Raymond continued, "If chosen for the jury, would be you be willing to keep an open mind and not be influenced by the news media or the opinions of friends or relatives? If you had any reasonable doubt in your mind, would you act on that doubt and find my client not guilty?"

The lady thought for a beat, looked down at the floor and back up again at the lawyer. "Yes sir, I would. I've always got my own opinion about things, and I pride myself on having an open mind, as you say. Yes sir, I would vote to acquit if I had any doubt that he was innocent."

Without any further questions, Tremble said, "She's acceptable, the defense will take her."

Tiffany said without even looking up, "The prosecution has no problem with this prospective juror, she's acceptable."

Appearing for the lawyer's approval next was a huge Mexican man with an equally large drooping mustache. He had gang tattoos on his arms and a smile that looked like he was unusually happy, high on drugs, or was hiding something. Raymond looked at the prospective juror curiously, not knowing quite what to make of him. The man and the lawyer locked eyes and stared at one another until finally the man on the stand relented his gaze and lowered his head. "First of all, do you have any medical, personal or financial problem that would prevent you from serving on this jury?"

The big Mexican dude answered like the lawyer should have already known the answer. "I'm busted and I need to go to work, my kids need new shoes, my car's broke down, and I ain't making no money sitting here talking to you."

Raymond braced himself and asked the next question. "Have any friends or members of your family been a victim of violent crime?"

With a look of anger in his eyes the big man yelled, "As a matter of fact, yeah. My nephew was a victim of violent crime last year. He was killed by the National City Police. Shot him down like a dog, 'cause he stole a pickup truck. I hate cops, hate 'em."

One last question and the defense was done with this guy. "Sir, if chosen to be a member of the jury would you carefully weigh the evidence and if the evidence didn't prove my client was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, would you vote to exonerate my client?"

The big Mexican man looked at Raymond and said, "No, I'd vote to convict. Most people who get put on trial are guilty or they wouldn't be there in the first place. I don't believe in wasting time. I had to take off work to come here. I'm losing money. My job don't pay unless I work."

"Not acceptable for the defense," Raymond said without any further comments.

"I agree, I do not accept this prospective juror," Tiffany said, again without looking up.

And so it went and when it was done, amazingly enough the process had worked and they had chosen the twelve to serve on the jury and the three alternates. The trial would begin in three days. Opening statements would be made and the fate of a man would be decided.

Chapter Sixty One

The big day had finally arrived, there were a few reporters hanging around from cable news and the paper, not like the trial of Michael Parson was any big deal. But to Michael and the Parson family, it was a big deal.

Sitting at their prospective tables were Tiffany Adams, the ADA, and Raymond Tremble, for the defense. They were as ready as they could be, each hoping to be victorious. Sitting nervously, they awaited the arrival of the judge. Their wait would be a short one.

"All rise," the bailiff yelled as Judge Beauregard T. Johnson walked in from his chambers, looked around the courtroom and had a seat. "The court will now hear opening statements, Ms. Adams.

Tiffany glanced down at a yellow legal pad on her desk for a brief moment and then stood and walked over so she could address the jury. "Ladies and gentleman of the jury, we are here today to the hear the facts in the case of the State versus Michael K. Parson. I say the facts, because that is what we deal with in our legal system. Fact, Mr. Michael Parson brutally murdered his son-in-law Charles Smithson, and this we will prove beyond a reasonable doubt. He first drugged his victim with a cocktail of Ecstasy, or X as it is known on the streets. Then in a stolen red pickup truck, he took the poor victim to an undisclosed location and beat him savagely with a baseball bat. Then, poor Charles lying bloody and unconscious in the back of that red pickup, was taken to a high rise office building under construction in downtown San Diego,where the accused carried him up five flights of stairs, and put two .22 slugs between the helpless man's eyes, of course killing him instantly. Fact, we have two reliable eyewitnesses that will put the accused in that red pickup truck, and a DNA expert that will testify that the blood traces found in the back of that previously stolen red truck are a match to the victim.

Tiffany paused for a moment to let her points soak in, took a slow glance around the jury making eye contact with them, and then continued. "And lastly, it is a fact that the accused had the motive, opportunity, skills, knowledge and the strength to have committed this heinous, cold blooded murder. After we have successfully proven and showed that all of the aforementioned facts are true, then you the jury must do your job and find the accused, Michael K. Parson guilty of the premeditated murder of Mr. Charles Smithson. Thank you."

Returning to her seat the ADA glanced at the jury attempting to gauge what effect her statement had made, most of whom sat stone-faced and solemn, but a couple smiled approvingly in her direction.

The judge wanting to keep the proceedings moving along as quickly as possible motioned in Tremble's direction. "And now we will hear from the defense, Mr. Tremble."

Raymond rose slowly, almost dramatically from his chair. He took one final look at his notes, and slowly walked over to where the jury sat, gazed at each one momentarily, then stepped back and began. "Ladies and gentleman of the jury. Today is a very important day. Maybe not for you, not even for me, but certainly a very important day for Mr. Michael Parson who is accused of a crime he simply did not commit. Today is the beginning of the proceedings that will decide if he is to be set free, incarcerated in prison for life or Heaven forbid, even put to death. Since the prosecution wants to talk about facts, lets talk about the facts in this case. The fact is my client was arrested, indited, and brought to trial without one shred of evidence. No eye witnesses to the crime, no fingerprints, no forensic, and no DNA evidence. He simply fit the profile of this imaginary suspect the detectives were looking for and they went out and fabricated the evidence to fit the individual they had arrested. After they got fixated on my client they didn't look any further, they knew they had their man. They tailor made the facts to fit my client like a new suit and put Mr. Michael Parson in that suit. Well, I say, that suit doesn't fit, it is ill formed and poorly constructed."

Tremble looked around at the faces in the jury box looking for reactions. Some seemed bored, others attentive, some even surprised. He half expected an objection from the prosecution, but she sat quietly, taking notes. Raymond continued. "The prosecution's case is an illusion, a house of cards that will fall when even a slightest wind blows. It has to be an illusion, because my client is innocent.

He walked back to his desk, retrieved his note pad, and took a sip of water from a glass. Returning to the area in the immediate proximity of the jury, he continued, flipping through his yellow legal pad. "Speaking of the witnesses the State wishes to parade before you for your amusement. The first one, a Cassie McPherson, claims she saw my client drive a red pickup truck into her parking garage downtown over two months ago, and she is willing to swear on a stack of Bibles he is the one. Says she picked him out of a six pack, a photo array the detectives conveniently had with them, along with a photo of the alleged red pickup. They even described him as a big man. My God she couldn't help but pick my client after basically telling her what he looked like. A one in six chance, not bad odds. Then there's a Miss Chastity Lazure, yes my kind jury members, that is her real name. She swears she saw my client, again, two months ago in that red pickup which she was showed a picture of as well, driving up and down Third Ave. in Chula Vista and having an altercation with a homeless man in the intersection adjacent to her place of employment. Although every time my investigator has driven by the comic book shop where she works, her nose was buried in a cartoon book. But she swears she saw my client, picked him out of that same photo array. These are what the prosecution is basing their whole case on. I move for an immediate dismissal of all charges against my client. This trial is a travesty and a total waste of the tax payer's money."

Finally, Tiffany was on on her feet yelling, "Objection, objection, your Honor."

Judge Beauregard, banged his gavel on his podium and boomed loudly, "Order, I will have order in this court." He waited for a moment, cleared his throat, tried to compose himself from the anger that was rising up his spine to the back of his head. "Mr. Tremble, have you totally lost your mind, sir? I will not tolerate such adolescent shenanigans in my courtroom. Another outburst like that, will be dealt with harshly. Do you get my meaning, Mr. Tremble?"

Knowing he had made his point over the ADA's objection and the judge's chastisement, Raymond, smirked and said, "Yes, your honor."

"You may continue, and watch yourself," the judge said with a nod of his head.

"The defense intends to prove that my client was nowhere near the scene of this horrendous crime at the time of the murder. He was instead in the arms of another woman, not his wife that weekend. We will concede that Mr. Parson is a bad husband and a cheater, but he is no murderer. And lastly, the defense will offer alternative suspects to this murder, suspects that the police didn't even bother to consider, that is after they decided themselves that my client was guilty and not to look any further. They had their patsy, why do any more work, my guy was the one. Well ladies and gentleman, after it is all said and done, you will be the ones that will decide the guilt or innocence of my client after carefully weighing all the evidence, the facts and the testimonies. Remember our system requires that you are convinced of a suspect's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt, pretty heavy words and quite a burden, but such is your job and I know you will do the right thing and find my client innocent when the last gavel is sounded. Thank you for your attention.

The judge glanced at the clock on the wall. "I see it is time for our morning break, when we return the prosecution will call it's first witness, if you are ready, Ms. Adams."

Tiffany, jumped to her feet, "Yes, sir, we are ready to proceed."

Chapter Sixty Two

Sam Tomas, the coroner, was the State's first witness. He had assembled a collage of gruesome shots of the victim and the crime scene, blown up so they could easily be seen by the jury as he made his points. He put his left hand on the Bible, his right hand in the air as he was sworn in and took a seat on the witness stand.

Tiffany approached Sam, smiled briefly, and by way of greeting said, "Good morning Sam, hope you are well and up to the challenge that lies ahead of us."

"Morning Tiffany, indeed I am," Sam replied, smiling as well.

"Then we shall proceed," the ADA said, looking at the pictures displayed on artist's easels momentarily. "I see you have brought a few pictures that illustrate the gruesome and horrendous nature of this crime. Please describe to the jury, and don't spare them any of the graphic details, the injuries that were inflected on this poor man by the accused."

Raymond sprang from his chair like he was shot out of cannon, "Objection, your Honor. The prosecution already has my client guilty and the first witness has yet to testify. This is prejudicial language and I request her last statement be stricken from the official record."

"Sit down, Mr. Tremble," the judge bellowed. "And Ms. Adams if you would, please refrain from referring to the accused as the perpetrator of the crime. You may proceed."

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by defense council, Mr. Tomas would you please describe the wounds that were inflicted on the victim."

Tomas cleared his throat, took a sip of water, removed a retractable pointer from his pocket, went over and pointed at the first snap shot. "The victim, as you can see, was beaten severely about the head, face, and torso by what I determined to be a baseball bat. Wounds are restricted to the front of the body,arms, and legs. As you can see on the second shot there were no such wounds on the posterior regions of the body. There were no defensive wounds on the hands and arms, which led me to suspect the deceased was unconscious or drugged at the time of the beatings. My suspicions were confirmed when the toxicology report came back positive for ecstasy or X as it is called on the street."

Sam took another sip of water and moved on to the next picture, which was a head shot. "However the cause of death was not from the beatings as one might imagine, but from two perfectly and skillfully placed gun shots between the victim's eyes. The wounds were later determined to be from a .22 caliber hand gun."

"Mr. Tomas," Tiffany interjected. "In your expert opinion, after carefully reviewing the crime scene, did the beating of the victim occur at the same location as the final shots which ultimately caused the victim's demise?"

The coroner answered immediately. "Definitely not. There was no evidence of blood castoff that occurs with bludgeoning at the scene where the body was found. The only blood present at the scene was a small pooling underneath the head of the victim. Which led me to the ultimate conclusion that the victim was beaten in one location and shot at the location where the body was later discovered."

"Thank you, Mr. Tomas. No further questions." Tiffany took at seat and looked in the direction of Raymond.

"Your witness, Mr. Tremble," the judge said.

"The defense has no questions for this witness. We do not dispute the manner in which the victim was killed. The man is dead. It was a tragedy." Raymond sat back down, there was a momentary silence in the courtroom as if everyone was shocked that he had no questions.

The judge turned to the witness on the stand and told him he was dismissed and could step down. "Ms. Adams, if you would please, call your next witness."

Coming to the stand next was the State's DNA expert. After being sworn in Tiffany put her through the paces of explaining how DNA worked, and the probability that the trace blood found in the red pickup belonged to the deceased. She explained the whole grueling process in mind blowing, intricate detail. Some members of the jury nodded, heads bobbing, slapping their own faces at certain points in a futile attempt to stay awake during the arduous testimony. True enough, it was very boring, but essential to the State's case. At long last the expert was finished and Tiffany went over and took her seat.

"Your witness Mr. Tremble," the judge bellowed as always.

Raymond was nodding off himself and at first didn't even hear the loud bellowing being emitted from the judge.

"Mr. Tremble, if you please."

Raymond rose slowly, wiping sleep from his eyes. He leaned forward and said, "No questions for this witness your honor."

The judge, as well as the ADA, looked at the defense attorney curiously. Shaking his head Beauregard dismissed everyone for a much needed lunch break. After lunch the prosecution would call their eye witnesses to the stand.

Chapter Sixty Three

It was a beautiful day in sunny downtown San Diego, Michael and his defense attorney enjoyed a much needed break and a hot dog from a food cart not far from the courthouse . "I think it's going pretty well so far," Raymond said, chewing on a bite of hot dog. "I've got the prosecution exactly where I want them, on the defense."

"How so?" Michael replied, somewhat confused. "You didn't ask the first two witnesses a single question. Why was that, Raymond?"

"Dear boy, that's all a part of my strategy. Keep 'em off guard, do the unexpected. We don't contest how your no good son-in-law was killed or the blood evidence in the pickup, that makes no difference to us. Let the ADA try and baffle the jury with all the scientific stuff. She still has to connect you to that red pickup. That's when I'll go to work. Don't worry, you'll see."

"I hope you're right."

They finished up their dogs and found a shady spot to sit down for a while and just relax.

One o'clock came way too soon and they were back in the courtroom. It was time for the eye witnesses to take the stand. This was a very crucial part of the prosecution's case, the battleground as it were, and both attorneys were ready as the judge requested the prosecution to call her next witness.

Cassie McPherson, was sworn in and had a seat in the witness chair. Tiffany approached her and smiled. "Ms. McPherson, please tell the court where you are employed, what hours of the day you work, and for how long you have worked at that location."

Cassie, a little nervous, sat mute for a moment, composed herself, and began. "I work at the Park and Fly parking facility in downtown San Diego. My shift is from 8 to 5, Tuesday through Saturday. I have been employed by Park and Fly for ten years now."

"Thank you, Cassie. Now on the particular day in question, now think carefully before you answer. Did you see a man, driving a red pickup truck, that was later identified by you and now is the accused in this case, come through your parking garage, driving the aforementioned red pickup truck?"

Pausing to collect her thoughts, Cassie answered right on cue. "Yes, I did see the man. A large man, came through my terminal, as you say, driving a red pick up truck, Chevy I think it was. I remember him because I tried to engage him in a conversation, but he just ignored me, seemed preoccupied."

Seemingly excited by the witness's testimony, Tiffany said exuberantly, "and is that man sitting in the courtroom? If he is, would you point him out for the court."

Pointing a finger towards the defendant, Cassie replied matter of factually. "That's him sitting right over there, the defendant."

"No further questions for this witness," Tiffany said having a seat and looking in the direction of the defense.

It was time for Raymond to go to work now. This was the first of the big showdowns, that were going to make and break his case. He rose slowly, with his usual flare for the dramatic, shot a glance at the prosecutor, and walked towards the witness beaming a smile. "Ms. McPherson, Cassie, may I call you Cassie?"

"Yes, of course, that would be fine," the witness said rather shyly.

"You have stated that you have worked for the parking garage for the last ten years. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, ten years."

"That's a long time. I guess in ten years you have seen thousands of vehicles come through the parking garage and if I asked you about every single one of them, you'd remember right?"

Cassie looked at the defense attorney quizzically. "I don't understand the question."

"I'm just saying, you've had thousands of cars and trucks come through your lot over ten long years and yet you expect us to believe that you remember one particular red pickup and one particular driver that came through your terminal two months prior. Is that what you want this court to believe?"

Cassie, getting somewhat agitated by the defense's questions answered, "I don't care what you believe, I know what I saw, and I saw the defendant driving a red pickup, come through my lot. It was him." Again pointing in the direction of the accused.

"I'd like you to take a look at something. I've had a specially made up montage of photos for your eyes only." Raymond pulled an array out of a folder he had on his desk and walked over to the witness stand. "Take a look at this, if you would Cassie, and tell me which one of these photos, and don't look over at the accused, is the man who you allegedly saw come through your parking garage that day. Take your time. I want you to be sure"

Cassie adjusted her glasses, and carefully perused the pictures. Slowly a smile of recognition came on her face. "That's him, right there, top left hand corner."

"For the court's information, let the record show that Ms. McPherson picked the picture of a man that was randomly selected from thousands of pictures that were on file. None of these men are in fact the accused."

Cassie sat with her mouth wide open in disbelief.

"Would you like to change your testimony, Ms McPherson? I'm going ask you again. Are you absolutely, 100% positive, it was my client who you saw driving that red pickup truck?"

"Uh, well, I think it was him, but now, I'm not so sure."

"No further questions for this witness."

"You may step down," the judge said, looking in the direction of the ADA. "Ms Adams you may call your next witness."

All eyes were on Chastity Lazure as she was sworn in and took the witness stand. Her bizarre appearance had several people in the courtroom whispering, the judge gave them a chastising look of disapproval. After the last witness, Tiffany hoped the witness now on the stand would hold up under cross. "Ms Lazure, Chastity, may I call you Chastity."

The witness, chomping on a piece of double bubble, answered irritably, "That's my name."

"You say in your testimony that on the day in question you saw the accused," Tiffany stopped to point an accusing finger in the direction of Michael Parson, "driving a red pickup truck up and down Third Ave. in proximity to the store in which you are employed. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Chastity answered, seeming like she was going to say more, but didn't.

"And you remember the suspect because he got into an altercation with a homeless man in the intersection adjacent to your shop. Is that also correct?

"Yes, that's correct."

"And explain to the court how you happen to have a ring side seat for this altercation, between the accused and this homeless man."

Chastity cleared her throat, thought for a second and said in a low, gruff, voice, "I was outside washing the windows, like I always do on Friday. That's when I saw that guy over there, in a red pickup, have words with some bum who was holding up traffic. Later I saw him driving up and down the street like he was looking for someone or something."

"And you're 100% positive, to use the defense's term, that the man you saw driving that truck sits in this court accused of murder. Is that correct?"

"Yes, positive. It was that dude, right there. The big guy, the accused. It was him, I swear," she said again pointing at Parson.

"Thank you, Chastity, no further questions," Tiffany said, as she was having a seat.

Rising from his chair quickly this time, he headed towards the witness stand with a look of great urgency. He stopped a foot in front of the witness in an attempt to strike an intimidating pose. He eyeballed her straight with a steely stare. "Now, Chasity, let me get this straight. And by the way were you straight or high, the day you allegedly saw my client, supposedly driving a red pickup truck. Or were you stoned out of your mind, as is usually the case?"

"Objection, your honor. Defense counsel is unnecessarily badgering the witness. He has no cause to speak to her in such a manner. Her personal life and habits are not on trial here," Tiffany yelled.

Judge Beauregard in return bellowed at Raymond. "Mr. Tremble, please stick to the testimony already in evidence. The witness's character is not on trial here. I cautioned you before, watch yourself. You may continue."

"You claim to have seen my client on the day in question, driving that red truck. How far, would you say, approximately, were you from my client? A hundred feet? Fifty feet?"

Chastity paused for a beat, like she was calculating the distance in her mind, but not having much luck. She finally said, "Uh... I guess around a hundred feet. Yeah a hundred feet."

"A hundred feet? Is that your final answer?" Raymond said, smiling to himself.

"Yes."

"Let me ask you this, Chastity. Do you wear prescription eyeglasses?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question. Do you wear prescription glasses? And furthermore, were you wearing them the day you say you saw my client, a hundred feet away?"

A lost look appeared on the witness's face, she glanced at the prosecutor momentarily, unsure of what her answer should be. "No. It was a bright sunny day and I was wearing my sunglasses."

"And are your sunglasses prescription?"

"No."

Tiffany, sitting at her desk, shook her head and looked down at her legal pad for no good reason. She knew what was coming. The defense was about to go in for the kill.

Making it worst, Raymond paused for a second to steal a glance at Tiffany. One of those "I've got you again" looks. Then turned back to the witness on the stand.

Unbeknownst to Raymond, as well as everyone in the courtroom, someone else was moving in for the kill. Out of nowhere the sound of automatic gunfire erupted outside in the foyer, sounding like corn popping in a microwave. Splinters flew from the wood door as it flew open, followed by a madman with an Uzi blazing as everyone in the courtroom dived for cover.

Holding that weapon of mass destruction was none other than Peter Smithson, looking like a rabid dog and roaring like a psychotic madman. "Where is he? Stand up you coward." He sprayed the courtroom one more time with hot lead. "You killed my brother, now's it's your turn to die." He pointed his weapon at the judge who was still sitting frozen on the bench. "I guess I'll just kill the judge then."

Michael, who had dove under a table, knew he couldn't let the madman kill the judge. He had to do something. Suddenly he was back in the war, back in the "Nam. He rose like he was shot out of a rocket and charged the shooter before he even knew what was happening. Michael hurled his body knocking Pete on the floor. They wrestled for the Uzi, Michael was strong, but Pete triumphed and somehow managed to stick the gun in Michael's chest and pulled the trigger. The automatic blast ripped a hole in his chest and he fell to the floor dead in a pool of blood.

"Now where's that judge... " His words were cut short. A team of ten police officers stormed the courtroom and blasted Peter Smithson back to the hell he had came from.

Valerie Smithson and her mom lie on the floor, terrified and waiting for the nightmare to be over. Valerie whispered, sadly, " I guess I won't have to give him his half of the insurance money I have left now." Her mom looked at her strangely. "He said he could get away with it and we could split the money." Mary continued to look at her strangely but finally understood what had happened. A tear rolled down her face as she held her daughter.

Raymond had crawled over next to the ADA Tiffany during the shootout. "I was just fixing to ask for a dismissal of all charges against my client too." Tiffany looked at Raymond and shook her head.

Carson and Chuck who had been in the back of the courtroom, had rolled outside to get help when the shooting started. They sat outside on a bench catching their breath. Carson opined, "How come every case we get, all the witnesses and suspects end up dead? Can you answer me that Chuck?"

Chuck just shook his head in agreement. About then Carson's phone chirped. "Carson. You don't say. Be there in a few minutes." He looked at his partner with tired eyes. "You ain't gonna believe this Chuck. Got another one. Dead young man, Mission Beach, took two to the chest. Time to get back to work." He handed Chuck the keys to their unmarked unit.

"Thanks Carson."

Prologue (Mission Beach)

It was midnight, the witching hour. The time of night when mischievous youths come out to play. A blond girl and a dark haired Latino man staggered down the beach, kicking sand everywhere, as they swayed to and fro. They'd been drinking at a nearby bar for a few hours, getting to know each other. The alcohol had done its job and they fell madly in love or in lust perhaps. They had decided to take a little walk on the beach to enjoy a beautiful moonlit night. The girl had walking on her mind, the man had a little more than that on his.

He pulled her towards him, giving her a kiss, she pushed him away. She laughed seductively and ran into the surf. He followed. The waves danced and whirled around their ankles as the tide rolled in and out, a perfectly choreographed backdrop to their seduction, however devoid of candlelight and violin music. The stars in the dark sky twinkled, skipping across Mission Bay, their radiant beams seemed to glisten. The ocean, a temptress, resplendent in the hazy moonlight drew them in, they decided to go for a swim.

Stripping down to her bikini, and him to his trunks, they ran into the waiting surf like a couple of high school kids on prom night. Frolicking in the cool water, laughing with the disregard of youth, they kissed passionately in waist high water, her top magically came off and floated away. His trunks and her bottoms soon splashed into the churning water and disappeared as well.

They made love without a care in the world, but little did they know that from a small boat in the bay, three men were watching their activity with great interest. As they continued, the trio watched. Patiently, like a hunter waiting to spring their trap, they waited.

Exhausted from their love making and feeling the effects of the huge amounts of alcohol they had consumed, they grew tired and staggered towards the beach in search of their clothes. Naked as the day they were born, the couple laughed as they searched in the churning surf for their clothes.

Two of the men in the boat had slipped out and swam silently to shore and were waiting for the lovers to stagger unsuspectingly onto the beach. They would be easy prey. Their intent was to take the girl, her friend would simply be rendered unconscious and wake up the next day with an aching head.

Unaware of the presence of the two men, the lovebirds staggered ashore, still naked and still looking for their clothes. The trap was sprung quickly, the girl was knocked out by a cloth soaked in chloroform placed over her mouth and nose. The man, however, foolishly decided to try and be a hero. His attacker pulled a 9mm Beretta, just to scare him, but in the ensuing struggle lover boy was shot two times in the chest. He fell to the sand, dead before he hit the rolling surf,

As the Latino man lie dead on the beach, the two assailants dragged the unconscious girl into the water, swam out to the waiting boat, threw her in, and the craft silently slipped away into the darkness.

