Color of Murder Read online

  Color of Murder

  by John Foxjohn

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  Spring, Texas

  Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell

  Copyright © 2008 John Foxjohn All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  ISBN: 978-1-60318-043-6

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States of America

  CHAPTER 1

  January 18th, 1984

  Lufkin, Texas

  Justin Milam sat, fork poised for a bite of his apple pie. Something shattered behind him. Dropping the fork, his hand streaked for his gun. With his heart lodged in his throat, he spun on the restaurant stool.

  Maggie stood frozen, eyes wide, broken plate at her feet.

  With a sheepish expression, Justin stood, and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He gulped in air. “I don’t know what makes me so spooky. Probably the full moon. It brings out the crazies.”

  He’d known Maggie a long time and he smiled when she put her arms around him and hugged. She reminded him of his mother.

  His pie forgotten, he looked at his ticket: One dollar and twenty-six cents. As usual, the restaurant gave him half off as they did all on-duty law enforcement officers. He fished in his pocket, laid a five on the table, and strode to the door, all eyes following him. The clock on the wall showed five till eleven and he had a long night left.

  A biting wind smacked him in the face, and he glanced up at an ominous moon casting an eerie glow across the wet highway. Monday night had started slow. Dressed in his starched khaki uniform, polished badge, and glistening black boots, he’d investigated a shoplifting by kids at an Okay store.

  The store clerk wrote their license plate number down and Justin wrote his report, titled Misdemeanor Theft. He decided to let the day shift round them up.

  He drove to a Huntington residence on a disturbance call, but found all the lights out and the owners asleep. These false calls happened too often, and worried him. He received the majority of them. He thought he knew what was wrong, but didn’t want to believe it, and couldn’t say anything until he had evidence to back up his theory. Too many people were involved who could ruin his career.

  His biggest problem—he didn’t believe the person he suspected was smart enough to lead it. The leader had to be someone he didn’t know, but he couldn’t figure out who.

  As he glanced up at the night sky, a light halo surrounded the full moon, forecasting more rain. Shudders surged through him. Apprehension made his legs weak. Full moons had a tendency to bring out crazies, but his uneasiness had nothing to do with the night.

  He’d heard an old cop say someone stepped on his grave to explain what sent shivers coursing through him. He shook his head as if shaking off water.

  At 11:00, he parked his car in the empty parking lot of the closed Brazos Cattle Company restaurant, a half-mile from the loop. Justin needed fresh air to calm his nerves, but frying hamburger and french fry aromas swam on the cold night air from the nearby Whataburger.

  At 11:24, a dark Firebird with one headlight out sliced through water in the right hand lane, and Justin pulled out behind it. When the vehicle turned right on the east loop, he turned on the video camera and his overheads. A moment later, the Firebird pulled all the way over on the shoulder. After parking a few feet behind the car, his driver’s side halfway in the street to give him protection from traffic, he checked out with the dispatcher. He told her his location and the vehicle license plate number. He flashed the spotlight beam on the car’s license plate to ensure the camera picked it up. He re-positioned the light beam into the back window and rear view mirror.

  Staying behind the driver’s door, he turned sideways to offer less of a target, his right hand close to his gun butt. Needle pricks danced up his spine.

  He relaxed when the driver’s window rolled down and a young female with dyed blonde hair asked, “What’s the problem?”

  For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what made him so jumpy. A veteran cop, he’d stopped thousands without a problem. He took a deep breath. “Ma’am, I’m Deputy Sheriff Justin Milam. I stopped you because you have a headlight out. Can I see your driver’s license?”

  She nodded and reached for her purse. Justin moved closer to watch her hands. She was alone in the car, but his hand trembled near his gun.

  She handed him the license. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had a broken light. This is my daddy’s car.”

  “Hold on a minute ma’am.” Justin strode to the back, called the dispatcher on his walkie-talkie, and asked her to check registration on the car and warrants on the driver.

  While he waited, he asked permission to search the vehicle, which the driver granted. He spent fifteen minutes going through a quick search—looking in all the usual hiding places, but didn’t believe he’d find anything. She was local and not the drug running type. When he received a negative report from the dispatcher, he gave the woman a verbal warning to get her headlight fixed and let her go.

  When she pulled away, he sighed, getting back in his heated car and driving to his spot. With light traffic, several minutes passed before the next vehicle approached with a noticeable traffic violation. This one didn’t have a front license plate.

  He pulled behind the car, which turned east on the loop, and followed the same procedures he always did—turned on the camera and his lights. This one didn’t stop right away, and he hit his siren before they pulled to the shoulder. The car had a male driver and two other passengers, one in the back seat.

  He didn’t believe they were drug runners, either. Mules didn’t operate in threes. When he exited the patrol vehicle, a car passed, blowing cold air through his open jacket. Justin took two steps toward the driver’s door and froze. His heart thundered—pulse throbbed at the temples. Frowning, he took a deep breath. His gaze scanned the car, locking on the license plate. Static hairs stood on his neck. He touched his gun.

  Nothing out of the ordinary, but he knew something was wrong—what?

  Shrugging, he licked his lips. Routine. Just a routine stop. He took a tentative step forward.

  He stopped when a young black male opened the driver’s door and stepped out. “What did I do wrong? I wasn’t speeding.”

  Justin’s gaze darted from the driver to the passengers, back to the driver, as he kept his distance. “Sir—I stopped you because you’re missing the front license plate on your vehicle. May I see your driver’s license?”

  Reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, the male frowned. “It’s against the law not to have a front license plate?”

  Justin extended his left hand for the license, scrutinizing the male. Warning signals flashed in his mind, but he didn’t know why. Wary, he snapped, “Yep.”

  Something was wrong with this car and the driver. He wasn’t paranoid. But what? Maybe he should call for backup. Naw. Everyone in the city would respond and what would he tell them?

  He asked the driver to take a seat back in his car. He hurried to the rear and called the dispatcher for the usual check, but this time he asked her to check the driver’s criminal history.

  His radio cracked, sounding like a gunshot in the quiet night air. She advised him that the computer was down and she couldn’t get his criminal hi
story check.

  “Damn computers,” he mumbled. “They’re down more than they’re up.” He trooped to the driver’s side and asked permission to search the vehicle.

  Exchanging a glance with the passenger in the back seat, the driver shrugged. “Sure. I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

  Justin pushed his felt hat back. “Why don’t you open the trunk?”

  Another vehicle passed on the highway, throwing a fine film of water on them. Justin adjusted his jacket, while the driver inserted the key and lifted the trunk open. Metal popped like a clock ticking when the black male opened the trunk.

  With Kel light in his left hand, Justin shined the beam in the trunk. A tarp covered a large bulk.

  The two passengers opened their doors and stepped out. Justin shuffled sideways, his breathing stopped. He pointed his light at them. “Both of you get back in the vehicle!”

  Both black males, one tall and the other short, smiled. As the tall one took a step toward Justin, he said, “I don’t think so, idiot.”

  Justin’s hand darted to his gun. He’d violated a major survival rule. An explosion slammed him forward. He landed on his face, half in the trunk. He drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Someone jerked his gun from his holster, and he couldn’t move. His head snapped back when a hand seized his hair, yanking him backward. Lights shattered, and his vision blurred when his head struck the concrete.

  He shut his eyes tight, but snapped them open. Looking past the gun pressed against his forehead, his vision cleared and his eyes widened. The short male sneered.

  Justin recognized the expression instantly, then the face. He was right about the boss. How had he missed the obvious? Through a clogged throat, he choked out, “You’ll never get away with this.”

  The boss laughed. “Wanta bet?”

  Justin never heard the gun explode.

  * * * *

  January 24th, 1984

  Washington, DC

  The man crouched, towering over Melissa Adams. At six-two, two hundred and twenty athletic pounds, if he got his hands on her, it was over.

  With her hands up, elbows in, she waited for him to attack. She shifted her left foot up four inches to allow maneuver room. Her mind sizzled with counter moves. He was too big to fight like a normal-sized opponent. She needed him to attack her and she’d counter whatever he did. She would slip inside, hit and move.

  His left shoulder dipped and his hand flashed toward her face. Her head moved right four inches, and his punch flew past her ear.

  Stepping to the right, her left hip rotated and her foot snapped up, catching him in the ribs.

  He grunted and grabbed for her, but when she kicked, she spun away on the ball of her right foot. He stumbled and windmilled before regaining his balance.

  Melissa’s second kick caught him in the kidney area. When the kick landed, she moved again.

  He spun around, facing her—his eyes and mouth narrowed with cautious determination. Melissa moved a little to the right. If he punched again, he would use his right, but he wanted to get his hands on her.

  He lunged, and his right hand streaked forward, attempting to grab her shirt. Melissa’s left hand caught his wrist. She darted inside, spinning, using his momentum to throw him.

  He landed on his back like a sack of grain. As he gasped for air, her right foot shot forward toward his throat.

  CHAPTER 2

  Melissa’s foot stopped inches from the potential killing blow. She stepped back. “You OK?”

  Mark Logan sat up on the mat, trying to catch his breath. He extended his hand for her to help him up. When their hands met, he yanked her down.

  Instead of falling forward, she twisted around, and her legs scissored around his head, slamming him backward to the mat. Before he could move, Melissa rolled and sprang to her feet in one continuous motion.

  Mark slapped his palms on the mat. “Dammit. You could let me win every once in a while.” He grinned. “You’re making me look bad.”

  Melissa batted her eyes and pointed an index finger at her chest. With the most innocent expression she could muster, said, “What? Lil’ Ol’ me is making the big man look bad?”

  Mark laughed and stood up. “There’s more to that karate stuff than I thought. What are you, five foot, hundred pounds?”

  “I have you know I am five-two, and ladies don’t discuss their weight.”

  They slogged across the floor to their bags sitting on benches inside the FBI’s gym. Melissa gulped from her water bottle and Mark sat and removed his sweatshirt.

  “Your boss starts interviewing today?”

  “Yep. Why didn’t you apply for the team?”

  He scratched the back of his head. “I’m happy here in Washington. Have a house and Marilyn has a good job. I hear this team won’t be headquartered in Washington, and I don’t want to move.”

  Melissa frowned. “Where’d you hear that? David said they hadn’t made up their minds yet.”

  “Scuttlebutt. But I bet it’s correct.”

  She sat and toweled her face. She hadn’t been in the bureau long, but knew that more times than not, rumors proved true. The FBI was a maze of bureaucracy, paperwork, and unsettled decisions, but facts always made it to the lower levels long before the brass announced them. It was as if they were afraid to announce anything because they might change their minds.

  She put the towel down. “Where do the rumors put the team permanently?”

  “Houston.”

  She frowned and toweled her damp hair. Houston wasn’t her favorite place in the world, but the location would please David. It also made sense, which was unlike the bureau. It would place the team in the center of the country where they needed to be. She’d hoped for the northern part, but she didn’t care where. She didn’t know many people in Washington, and her family, if anyone wanted to call it that, lived in New York. She hadn’t spoken with her parents in over a year.

  Mark’s voice snapped her out of thought. “Do you trust this Mason? He has no FBI experience.”

  “Of course I trust him. David is a fantastic investigator. He knows more about investigating homicides and forensics than anyone. That’s why they recruited him.”

  “I’ve never met him. Heard what the others are saying.”

  She could imagine what the others said. David was an interloper in their territory. The Bureau recruited him from the Houston Police Department to head the new Behavioral Science Unit to investigate serial killers across the country.

  Bringing in an outsider for this important supervisory job was bound to make passed-over agents inside the bureau mad. Knowing David the way she did, he wouldn’t care and neither did she. “David’s OK. The bureau approached him about the job. If this makes agents mad, they should direct that anger at the brass, not David.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  His question caught Melissa off guard. “Like who?” She knew whom he meant but asked to give herself time to think.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Was she in love with him? She didn’t know the answer to that. A lot of respect and sexual attraction, but she wasn’t sure she knew what love was. Her eyes widened. “In love with David? That’s ridiculous. I’ve only known him for a few months. Besides, he’s married.”

  Mark’s mouth twitched. “Uh-huh.”

  Melissa rose and stretched. “Need to shower and get to work. You going to be here in the morning?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sparring with you any more unless you take it easy on me.”

  She waved. “Say hi to Marilyn for me.”

  Melissa and Marilyn had gone to the FBI academy together. After graduation, the bureau assigned them to mundane office jobs. A congressional mandate required the bureau to take women, but it didn’t say where they put them. Disgusted with her personnel job, Marilyn met Mark, fell in love and quit the bureau to get married.

  After a shower and change, Melissa caught the elevator to the first floor. Her hee
ls clicked on the tile floor as she approached the security desk inside the Hoover building. With her badge and identification out, she signed the log that the smiling guard pushed toward her.

  “Did you whoop up on Agent Logan again?” the guard asked with a grin.

  She smiled. “Yes, but it’s getting harder.”

  “How’d a little red-headed girl like you learn to fight the way you do?”

  Melissa put her badge case in her pocket. “I started taking karate when I was six. Got my first black belt when I was ten.” She waved and headed for the elevator.

  * * * *

  David Mason shivered as a frozen wind slapped him in the face. Dressed in his tailored navy Bancroft & Mallard three-piece suit with a long navy Hermes raincoat, he strode from the Harrington Hotel. He thought about flagging a taxi, but dismissed it. He wasn’t about to pay a taxi to carry him four blocks.

  Located at Eleventh and E Street, the hotel stood close to the fabled J. Edgar Hoover building, David’s destination. Looking around, he smiled. Washington imparted the opposite appearance of what he’d pictured. This had to be the cleanest town he’d ever seen. Sidewalks and streets didn’t have a speck of trash. He jerked up his collar, nodding to a man sweeping in front of a store.

  He missed Texas already. The weather report said it was seventy-two in Houston opposed to twenty-four in Washington. With the snow and sleet, cold penetrated every pore of his body.

  His pace increased and he turned east on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  He’d arrived in Washington two weeks before to head a new Behavioral Science Unit, which would investigate serial killers. Graduating at the top of his class from the seventeen-week FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, he traveled to Washington with his new bride, Beth.

  Boring meetings with Assistant Director Beeker and Amos Lorning, the executive assistant and director of the bureau’s criminal investigation division, occupied most of his time. In these meetings, they attempted to set parameters for David’s new unit. At last, they’d decided the new unit would consist of six agents counting David. He’d already recruited Melissa Adams before joining the FBI. He needed four more, and eighty-seven agents applied.