Spilled Blood

  Also by Michael R. Davidson

  Harry's Rules

  Eye for an Eye

  Incubus

  The Incubus Vendetta

  The Inquisitor and the Maiden

  Retribution

  Krystal

  The Dove

  The Dead Lawyer

  Buy Another Day

  With Kseniya Kirillova

  In the Shadow of Mordor

  Successor

  In the development of this novel the author was inspired in part by actual events. Having made this clarification it is important to emphasize the fact that this is a work of fiction and the situations described, as well as the characters and their actions are totally imaginary.

  SPILLED BLOOD

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael R. Davidson.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  MRD Enterprises, Inc.

  PO BOX 1000

  Mount Jackson, VA 22844

  mrdenter@shentel.net

  Library of Congress Control Number: TXu 2-166-101

  ISBN-13: 978-0-578-58745-5

  ISBN-10: 0-578-58745-9

  Contact author at info@michaelrdavidson.com

  Cover by Rena Hoberman

  http://www.coverquill.com

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  First printing 2019

  Miami Last Year

  "I think I'm gonna quit."

  "Hmmm?" Ray Velazquez rolled lazily onto his side to face her. "Am I that bad in bed?"

  She whacked the side of his head. "I'm not going to quit THAT. I mean Arlington."

  He propped his head in one hand, definitely listening now. "Really?"

  Outside Ray's bedroom window the mid-morning Miami sun was beginning to do battle with the city's air-conditioning units. They'd enjoyed a late night on South Beach, and neither felt guilty for lazing in bed on a Saturday morning. "Really," she repeated. "I've been thinking about it for a long time."

  "Do I have anything to do with it?"

  "Yeah, but that's not the only reason."

  "Care to elaborate?"

  "It's just that I'm not happy there anymore. There's a stench around Washington that I can't get out of my nostrils."

  "It's really that bad?"

  "I can't tell you." But she wished she could.

  "OK, let's say you quit. What would you do?"

  "I haven't decided."

  "You could move down here. I know Dade County would hire you immediately. In fact, I can guarantee it."

  "I dunno. Moving from one police department to another doesn't seem so attractive."

  She read the disappointment on his face and quickly added, "But I do like Miami."

  This cheered him. "So what are you thinking of doing?"

  "I've had an interesting job offer."

  He raised his eyebrows and waited.

  "I could spend more time down here, maybe even move here permanently."

  The fact was that Robert Strachey had decided to set up a private security and investigation business, and he wanted her to be part of it at a salary three times what Arlington County paid. It would mean a huge change from the existence she'd known most of her adult life.

  She was considering the offer seriously …

  SPILLED

  BLOOD

  Michael R. Davidson

  ©2019

  CHAPTER 1

  It was one of those perfect days in early summer. The sun was high in an unblemished blue sky but had not yet stoked its furnaces to produce the higher temperatures of mid-summer. Jim Stevens and his buddies from high school were gathered on one of the fields at Park Road Park for a pick-up softball game.

  Jim would be a senior the following year, and baseball was his game. He’d settle for softball today because they didn’t have the right safety equipment for hardball, and, besides they hadn’t found enough guys to make up two full teams. So, it was six men on a side. One guy would have to cover shortstop and third base, leaving only two outfielders who had to be able to move fast.

  At the top of the third inning, Jim was coming to bat. He’d singled in the first inning and was confident he could smack the slow-moving softball over the outfielders’ heads. The pitcher was preparing to throw when they heard it.

  A loud report from the direction of the pond on the other side of the park, followed by three more. Had there been a faint scream? Everyone froze. “Geez, were those gunshots?” asked the pitcher.

  The first baseman, Greg Collins, also a senior, was a hunter and knew the sound of a firearm when he heard it. “It sure as hell was,” he said.

  They all stood in indecision for a moment, looking at one another, before Greg yelled, “Let’s get over there.”

  “What if it’s some crazy guy with a gun?” asked one of the boys.

  “We can’t just stand here,” said Greg. “I’m going over there.”

  He took a few steps in the direction of the shots, at first tentatively, and then as his determination rose, broke into a trot.

  Gloves and bats left behind on the ground the rest followed him toward the pond that was separated from the field by a thin line of trees and a small shed used by park maintenance to store equipment. Emerging onto the paved path that circled the pond they were attracted by a keening wail from the far end where they could see people lying motionless on the ground. No one else could be seen.

  “Christ,” exclaimed Jim, “do you see that?”

  Collectively conscious that they were walking into a mass shooting, the boys hesitated, casting wild-eyed glances at one another wondering if a maniac with a gun might be heading toward them. But there was no one in sight, and the high-pitched, hysterical cries continued to shatter the air. Afterwards, they could not recall how long they stood there in indecision and fear, but finally Greg ran down the path toward the people on the ground, and the others again followed.

  They arrived in a group and drew up sharply, gaping at the scene of carnage. Two people, a man and a woman, were sprawled near a picnic blanket spread on the verge of the pond with food and containers scattered on the ground around them. A short distance away on the path a man wearing cycling gear lay next to a bicycle.

  At first, they saw only three people, and then they identified the source of the shrieks, a young girl pinned under the unmoving body of the woman. “Somebody call 911,” yelled Greg as he moved swiftly to the woman’s body and rolled it off the girl who continued screaming incoherently.

  Her clothes were soaked in blood, and her bare arms were covered, which caused her to shriek even more when she saw it. Greg could find no injury, however, and lifted her off the ground and carried her away from the scene. The blood must have come from the woman who had covered her with her body. He sat her on the ground and tried to calm her. Eventually, she stopped screaming and began to cry, huge wracking sobs that shook her entire body.

  The others still stood staring at the three bodies, fixated on the copious amounts of blood still spreading beneath them into the earth. A couple of the boys vomited in the trees and kept their backs turned. Jim pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

  Within ten minutes a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot beside the pond, and two policemen charged through the trees. An ambulance arrived a few moments later and finding no sign of life in the three adults, the EMS medics tended to the child who had lapsed into a state of shock.

  CHAPTER 2

  Krystal Murphy paused to stare up at the gleaming steel and glass façade of 300 South Tryon Street in the he
art of Charlotte, North Carolina, before entering the marble clad lobby. She’d left her battered Volkswagen in the adjacent garage looking out of place in the company of the shiny, late model cars parked alongside.

  She was ten minutes early for the first day of work at Private Security and Inquiries, the firm her friend, former CIA officer Robert Strachey, had established a few months earlier. She had solid and impressive credentials as a detective in the Arlington County Police Department where she’d risen from beat cop to Chief of Detectives investigating high-profile cases involving government corruption and even Russian espionage. So, why was she so nervous today?

  Because, she thought, as she stood tapping her foot waiting for an elevator, she was making a complete break with her past, with a career she had so carefully cultivated and built, and entering a completely different world which held promise but still could be only dimly perceived, like a shapeless figure in the fog.

  She’d splurged on a new pant suit before leaving Virginia, and she wore it now, feeling less confident than she looked. The elevator whisked her up to the 21st floor. The entrance to Private Security and Inquiries was directly opposite the elevator doors.

  Krystal pushed through polished oak double doors into a lavishly furnished reception area that looked like a movie set. Strachey had carried a British men’s club theme right to the front door. He had even paid to have a plank floor installed over the standard tile. She was used to a more utilitarian workplace, but Strachey was the boss, and it was his money, after all.

  A mahogany trimmed reception desk sat in front of a green marble wall emblazoned with the firm’s name in large, polished brass letters. At the desk was a woman who might be politely called “middle-aged” wearing a bright red suit. Her permed, gray hair was cut short to encircle a pleasant oval face with a pair of large, brown eyes that now peered at her through rhinestone encrusted glasses.

  “Good mornin’,” she said, “May I help you?”

  “My name is Murphy. I think I’m expected.”

  The receptionist beamed at her, “Well,” she said, giving the word an extra syllable, “we certainly have been expectin’ you. I’m Ruth, by the way, Ruth Scatterfield. Let’s get you right in to see Bob.”

  Without waiting she stood and headed for the set of double doors that evidently led to the offices. Krystal followed and after a short tour of the luxurious suite was soon seated in Robert Strachey’s corner office where Ruth served them coffee at a polished, round table, and then left them alone.

  The window behind Strachey offered a magnificent view of Charlotte. Strachey waved his arm and asked, “Well, what do you think?”

  “Jesus, Bob,” she said, “you must be making up for all those years in cramped government offices.”

  Strachey was amused. “There’s probably some truth in that.”

  “Do your deep-pocketed clients know you worked for the CIA?”

  “They know enough. It’s good advertising in this business, and the more mysterious I make it, the more they like it.”

  “Do they know how you prevented a nuclear holocaust in Europe?”

  Strachey frowned. Nobody outside of a small circle should ever know what he had done in Spain. “Dammit, my wife has been talking out of school,” he said, “So, my answer is that I don’t know what you’re talking about, and we won’t discuss it again, unless you want to lose your dental plan.” The slash of a wide grin split his tanned face.

  She raised her hands, palms out in surrender, and said, “OK, boss, whatever you say. My lips are sealed.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Want to see your new office?” Strachey asked, the grin still on his face.

  “Sure.”

  He escorted her to the office next to his. “An office befitting my partner,” he said.

  Krystal was surprised. “Partner? I don’t have any money to invest in this.”

  He shook his head dismissively. “I know, but you’re a partner all the same. I think the term is ‘salaried partner.’ As such, I’ll expect your unvarnished, honest to God opinion as an equal on things we’re doing. And you will oversee investigations while I stick to the security stuff. We’ll eventually hire some part-time investigators to work directly for you.”

  She was impressed by the level of confidence his gesture implied. She was feeling better about her decision.

  “I’m expecting a client in a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll call you in once he’s settled. You might as well get in the saddle right away.”

  He left, and she stood there in the middle of her office. The contrast with the Spartan office she had occupied at Arlington County Police Headquarters was stark. Out the window she could see beyond the outskirts of the city. The desk was made of some sort of dark wood rather than the gray metal government issue desk she was used to. There were shelves and a large, flat screen TV on the wall. She sat down in a mild state of shock recalling her last day in Arlington.

  She stared at the cardboard box that sat squarely in the middle of the desk. It had been provided by a thoughtful Arlington County Police Department for her to pack up any personal belongings she might have kept in her office. They could have spared the expense. The box was empty except for a ball point pen carrying the logo of a local bank and a pair of Domino’s Pizza coupons. She didn’t know whether to be amused or saddened by the pitiful display which might have suggested either that she was bereft of personality or personal life outside the office or preferred not to display it, indicating a secretive nature. She snorted and dumped the items from the box into the wastebasket.

  Sergeant Frank Watson sat watching her, bonelessly sprawled on a chair as if his lanky, loose-limbed figure had been poured over it. Watson, a soft-spoken Georgia native fond of citing homely aphorisms, could make himself comfortable anywhere. He shot her a quizzical look out of the corner of his eye and drawled, “Is that it, Red? You got nothing else here?”

  “Pitiful, isn’t it,” she said as she stared into the box. “This is it, the sum total of eight years, and this is all it amounts to.”

  “Did you have a farewell chat with the Chief?”

  “Uh huh.” Although she had expected nothing special, still it had been an anticlimactic moment.

  The Chief had stood when she entered but didn’t come out from behind his desk leading to an awkward handshake across its top. “I want to wish you good luck,” he’d said with what looked suspiciously like a relieved smile. “You’ve had a good run here,” he finished.

  “Thanks, Chief.” In fact, she had solved the most difficult and dangerous cases to confront the Department in recent memory, more than once nearly losing her life. The problem was that she had raised her profile, and the public ate it up, which aroused envy. She’d exposed the murderous activities of the State’s Attorney and her lover, the former Chief of Detectives. Not long thereafter, she had been promoted over the heads of others to the vacant position. It had not won many friends in the Department. A penchant for defying orders and proving herself right hadn’t made any friends either.

  The meeting with the Chief had lasted perhaps five minutes.

  CHAPTER 4

  After leaving the CIA, Robert Strachey joined his uncle’s Washington lobbying firm and made a pile of money. But he missed the action of his old job and wanted to try something new. Now, after three months in Charlotte, he felt completely at home, as well he should as a North Carolina native, although his childhood had been spent in the mountains of the Piedmont rather than the gentility of Charlotte.

  Strachey’s uncle was a Charlotte luminary, and he’d lent a hand identifying some fat clients for his nephew’s security and investigation firm. There were already three profitable contracts to provide security and background investigations for various companies.

  Husbands in Charlotte still cheated on their wives and vice versa, people went missing, and insurance companies still wanted accident investigations before paying claims. Chasing down errant husbands was not as fulfilling as investigating
homicides, and Strachey worried that Krystal would need bigger challenges.

  This morning’s visitor would certainly get his partner off on the right track. The name, of course, was familiar from recent newspaper headlines and television news reports. Murder attracted the public’s attention.

  There was a light knock at the door, and Ruth Scatterfield ushered a slight, dark man into the office. He was perhaps five feet eight inches tall, thin, with a narrow face dominated by large, dark, nearly black eyes under bushy brows. A shock of black hair streaked with gray fell across his forehead. He wore a suit of some dark, nearly black material. The visitor held himself upright and waited for Strachey to greet him.

  “Mr. Nessmith,” said Strachey, rising to shake his hand. “I’ve been expecting you. Please take a seat.” He indicated the leather sofa that sat along one wall. Two comfortable leather chairs faced the sofa across an antique coffee table.

  This was Padruig Nessmith. His appearance did not invite conviviality nor any suggestion that he sought friendship or needed it. Indeed, if those of dour countenance in the world wished for an avatar, Padruig Nessmith would have served them well. But today there was a reason for his long face, and Strachey knew exactly what it was.

  Nessmith sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, his body rigid and upright. Strachey took the chair opposite. “Would you care for a cup of coffee or tea?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I prefer to get straight to business. Your uncle suggested you might be able to help me. I assume you know why I’m here.”

  Nessmith’s name had featured prominently in the press for the last week. Everybody loves a scandal, and by Charlotte’s genteel standards, this was a big one. A week earlier while on a family picnic at one of the city’s ‘Greenway’ parks, Nessmith’s younger brother and his wife had been brutally murdered, and their young daughter traumatized. The longstanding feud between the Nessmith brothers, scions of a prominent Charlotte family, had long been a subject of gossip at the Charlotte Country Club and afternoon tea parties in Myers Park and Eastover.