Cold Tears Read online

  Cold Tears

  by John Foxjohn

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  Spring, Texas

  Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell

  Copyright © 2007 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: 978-1-60318-013-9

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  As usual, I have many people to thank for the publication of this novel. First and foremost, my family who put up with me and the many hours I spend away from them on the computer. Without their support, no one would get to read what I write.

  I’d like to thank my critique partners who are patient with me when they need to be, and hard on me most of the time, and I definitely need that.

  A special thanks to Carol from the Lufkin police department for helping me keep abreast of changes in forensics and fingerprinting, and I can’t forget Dr. D.P. Lyle for his insight on the medical aspect of this novel.

  To all my present fans and potential ones, I appreciate hearing from you and your comments—please keep them coming.

  Last, but definitely not least, a special thanks to Linda and Lisa of L&L Dreamspell. Thanks for making my dreams come true.

  One

  Kill her. Kill her. The words rebounded in his head. He squatted, hands clasped to his ears, praying they would leave. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but if he didn’t obey, the voices would kill him.

  Rising, he eased through tree shadows, pulling his black sweat suit hood over his head as leftover raindrops plopped on fabric. The closer his approach to his prey, the less anxiously the voices argued.

  They’d started as a kid, and he considered the voices his friends, helping with his problems, giving him advice. His freshman year in high school, Horace Plummer, a junior, tormented him. His friends told him what to do. He broke into the school shop, stole a bunch of tools, and hid them in Plummer’s car.

  After an anonymous call to the cops, his problems ended, and he thanked his friends for their help. But in the last few months they had deserted him. Now violent voices urged him to hurt people.

  He hesitated. Jennifer’s house rose from the ground twenty-five feet from the trees. A welcome mat of thick St. Augustine grass lay in between him and the house as moonbeams peeked through the clouds, striking sparks of light on the wet grass. Once he made it to the house, no one could see him from the street, and he would wait. He scrunched down and sped toward the shrouded house, shoes squishing. He put his back to the wall, catching his breath.

  Kill her. Kill her.

  He squeezed his eyes tight. “I’m going to,” he whispered. “Now leave me alone.”

  Keeping to the shadows although he knew no one could see him, he made his way to the window outside the master bathroom, the only entrance not on her alarm system. He pulled his steel Kel flashlight out of his pants. Glass shattered and cymbals boomed in his ears when he rapped the pane.

  Dropping to his haunches, he listened for any sign someone had heard the window break. He started to rise, but his friends cautioned him to patience. Moments turned to minutes, minutes to years in his mind. Damp fertilizer fermenting in flowerbeds surrounding the house snapped his mind back to the present. Still, he waited. At last, when no sound disturbed the darkness that he called home, he rose.

  * * * *

  When the phone rang, David Mason groaned. He’d arrived home a few minutes before, sat on his sofa, and decided to take a shower and hit the sack for a couple of hours. He glanced at his watch and groaned again.

  Another pair of dead eyes awaited him. He hoped this one wasn’t a woman.

  “Hell-o.”

  “Mason.”

  He rubbed his face with his free hand. “Where is it?”

  “The Ward. 200 block of Avenue D.”

  Damn Ward again. Rising, he took a deep breath. The last thing he wanted this morning was another dead body. He still held the eyes of the last one.

  He looked at the five-thirty on the clock again, but the time hadn’t changed. After showering, he threw on his navy Armani with a red striped Dolce-Gabana tie, making sure he tied the Windsor knot perfect.

  From his south Houston apartment, his Fiat sped through rain-soaked streets. Even this early in the morning the heavy traffic amazed him. Any time of day or night, traffic swept in and out of the city. Houston, like a giant manufacturing plant—existed in segregated shifts. One half took the day shift and slept at night. The other group had the nights and slept during the day. Unfortunately, the two groups collided with each other, and it caused sparks like two pieces of metal striking. Fires from the sparks triggered calls to him.

  He exited the loop onto Scott Street, passed the Astrodome looming like a partially buried skull, and zipped his way through Houston’s fifth ward. On his left, iron spears surrounded Parkway Place like a jail where the inmates could depart and reappear as they pleased.

  He braked, turning into the project and taking a left on Avenue A all the way to the end where it intersected with Avenue D. His car joined all the other police vehicles in the area.

  Stepping out, he took a deep breath and gagged. Stench belching from refinery stacks mingled with humid salt air sweeping in from the ship channel. When rotting trash and urine added to the mixture, the odor made him flash back to burning outhouse waste in Viet Nam.

  “Hey you little shrimp. What tookya so fucking long to get here?”

  David shook his head. He couldn’t help but smile at the big grin on Henry Carrington’s face as his partner ambled toward him. Henry’s nickname, String Bean, fit. He slouched most of the time, and walked like he had rubber band joints stretched too thin. David couldn’t comprehend how Henry always stayed so cheerful. “Just got the call, butthead.”

  Before Henry could reply, Patrol Sergeant Mike Pinkston joined them, thrusting his hand out to David. “Detective Sergeant David Mason.” Mike shook his head. “Doesn’t sound right. But congratulations on the promotion. When are you coming to the Sty to buy a round?”

  Henry crossed his eyes and slurred his speech, hands wide. “List—en to me. He’s too cheap to buy.”

  David playfully pushed his partner. “Hey. I’m not cheap. I’m frugal.”

  Mike laughed. “String Bean, David knows a big word. Only big thing about him.”

  David cocked his head, closing one eye. “That’s not what your momma says.”

  Mike’s hand darted to his back pocket, jerking out his sap, a thick piece of leather with lead in the end. Waving it, he ducked behind Henry. “You’se cain’t talk about my momma,” he aped.

  When Henry moved right or left, Mike shadowed him, faking swings. “Get out of the way. Let me at him.”

  Laugh tears rolled down David’s face. “Mike, don’t tell your mother I said that. I want more of her apple pie.”

  His face became serious. “How the hell did you know about my mother’s apple pie?”

  David rolled his eyes. “You gave me a piece a couple of months ago.”

  “Are ya‘ll going to fuck around all night,” a voice barked behind them. David half turned as a lieutenant marched toward them. “I want to get out of this cesspool.”

  David nodded. The lieutenant had a point. “What we got, Mike?”

&nb
sp; “Misdemeanor killing. Female shot four times in the chest in her front yard.”

  Taking a deep breath, David sighed. This prevailing attitude on HPD always caused him to cringe. The theory, they got rid of two with one dead body. One went to jail while the other went to the ant farm.

  Henry slouched, gnawing on a nail, and answered without taking his finger out of his mouth. “Everything’s done. Processed, bagged and tagged. Waiting for you to release the body.”

  David’s lips thinned. “Do I need to look at her?”

  Henry shook his head. “Naw. No need. I’ll write it up. She’s cold.”

  David let out an audible sigh. He didn’t want to look into another dead woman’s eyes. Looking around, he scratched his head, surprised that gray reared its head in the east, and the apartments in the complex were no longer dim outlines. “Release the body.”

  Mike turned to leave. “I’m out of this hell hole before everyone wakes and starts shooting at us.” He pointed a finger at David. “You owe me a beer.”

  Henry stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  David reached up and caught the sleeve of his partner’s windbreaker to stop him. With a grin, he told Henry he’d asked Beth to marry him.

  Henry let out a whoop. “She must’ve said yes. Thought you were happier than usual. When’s the wedding?”

  Tires burned rubber as Mike’s patrol car threw gravel over the area, following the exodus out of the ward. David watched everyone leave before he responded. “We didn’t set a date yet.”

  “She still scared about your job?”

  “A little. We’ll get through it. Wanted to ask you a favor.”

  Henry chuckled. “Be glad to show her what a real man’s like before she marries you.”

  “Asshole.” He pushed his friend. “Was going to ask you to be my best man.”

  Henry straightened. “I’d be honored. You’re gettin’ a hell of a woman there.”

  David adjusted his suit coat and ran his hand over his hair. “Thanks. Let’s canvass this place and get the hell out of here.”

  “Won’t do no good. These people ain’t goin’ tell po-lice shit.” He put the emphasis on the first syllable of the word and the last part sounded like lease, a common usage in HPD.

  He knew Henry was right, but they had to dot the T’s and cross the I’s. Sure as they skipped it, a damn witness would turn up and David’s ass would be grass. In the Fifth Ward, it didn’t matter if residents witnessed anything. Getting them to talk to cops was the hardest part. Houston police couldn’t win in this area. If they patrolled the streets, residents complained about harassment. Damaged patrol cars from thrown bottles, rocks, and any object at hand showed their feelings. But let a crime occur, and they complained the cops wouldn’t patrol the area. David took a deep breath. “We’ve got to do it.”

  “Then let’s fuckin’ split and get this shit over with.”

  David cocked his head. “Have you been smoking wacky weed? Cops don’t wander around this place by themselves.”

  Henry adjusted his windbreaker. “Hell. These people are sleeping. They’re nocturnal, like vampire bats.”

  Henry’s statement coincided with David’s own thoughts on the way to the scene. His gaze traversed the area. On the apartments’ cinder block walls, graffiti in all colors told what citizens thought about cops and whites in general. Overgrown grass separated the apartments, and sidewalks peeked out from under the trash.

  A smile eased onto David’s face. He and Beth had spent most of the night talking about their future. He’d asked her to marry him, although he wasn’t sure she’d accept. She loved him, but because she feared the dangers of his job, he was apprehensive, and a huge load left his shoulders when she’d agreed.

  “David.”

  His head snapped up. “Huh? What’d you say?”

  Hands on hips, Henry cocked his head. “That smile on your face must mean you’re thinking about Beth. Get your mind on the job.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Yes, Mother. You take the north side. I’ll go south.”

  Henry straightened and the two partners used the “anklebone express” to canvass the neighborhood. It was a pain in the ass, but a part of the job. They never knew when they might run into someone who saw the crime take place, heard something, but more important, would talk. It did happen, but not often.

  David maneuvered his way through a minefield littered with broken bottles, cans, and expended ammunition. Several doors slammed in his face. After losing sight of Henry, he knocked on 82B.

  An attractive black woman answered. On the sunny side of thirty, she wore white scrubs.

  “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, I’m Detective Sergeant David Mason with Houston’s Homicide Division. We’re talking to everyone in the neighborhood to see if we can find witnesses to a homicide last night.”

  “What’s your name again?” she snapped.

  He repeated his name.

  She smiled, opened the door, and stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?”

  His brow knitted in confusion. What made her change her attitude? He hesitated. Although he’d spent time in these apartments, no one had ever invited him. “Yes ma’am. For a moment. I don’t want to take up your time.”

  His gaze traversed the room. He stood in a small living room with a kitchen to his right. A hallway led to a bedroom and bathroom. He’d been in enough of these apartments to know the layout. He couldn’t hear evidence anyone else was here besides the woman.

  He settled into a cushioned brown leather chair with his back to the wall, facing the door, and she sat across from him.

  She smiled. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  Her bright smile like the sun coming out on a rainy day reminded him of Beth’s. “My partner and I are talking to everyone in the area about a homicide a few apartments down from yours.”

  She nodded and looked at him with her head cocked as if she recognized him. “Are you the detective who has been in the news lately?”

  He crossed his legs and leaned back. “Unfortunately, yes.” He wished the papers didn’t print all that junk. People believed it. He smoothed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. He glanced down the narrow hallway and the pictures lining two walls while they talked. He frowned, his eyes glued on one particular one. He wondered where he’d seen the man before.

  Icy fingers tiptoed up his spine. His pulse throbbed, and he adjusted his coat to allow easy access to his gun.

  She tapped her fingertips on her chair. “Do you think I killed someone?”

  Her question diverted his attention from the picture. “No ma’am. We’re trying to find someone who saw or heard something.”

  His gaze darted back to the picture. Hawks swooped in his stomach. With his ears alert, he searched the apartment.

  Her beautiful smile radiated across a full mouth. “I see. This is routine police work?”

  With a sigh, he took out his spiral notebook and pen. He didn’t understand what had spooked him. This woman was alone. Just got home from work, and he had things he needed to do. He’d get this over with in a hurry. “Yes ma’am. Were you home?”

  She adjusted herself on the sofa and shook her head. “No, I worked last night. I got home about thirty minutes ago and haven’t changed.” She brushed a manicured hand across her white uniform.

  As he wrote, he glanced up. “Where do you work?”

  “I’m an RN at Ben Taub. You can check if you like.”

  “It’s not necessary. Thank you. I’m sorry for bothering you. I know you need to go to bed.”

  She smiled and yawned, covering her mouth with a slim hand. “Yes, I’m tired.”

  David stood and trudged to the door. He reached for the doorknob. Behind him, a smooth click-clack shattered the quiet. He tensed.

  Trembling, he turned his head. She had a revolver leveled at him.

  Fuck.

  Her smiling lips compressed into a thin line. Hatred
blazed in her eyes. He threw himself sideways. Shocking sounds vibrated throughout the room. Searing heat exploded through him, knocking him face first to the carpet.

  When he rolled, the sweet nurse remained motionless. Smoke drifted from her gun barrel. Another bullet crashed near his head. His cheek ripped. Carpet and dust burst in the air.

  He rolled. Another round struck the floor where he’d been lying. His teeth jolted from the impact. He struggled to get his gun out. Half rolled. Another bullet smashed the carpet.

  How many shots did she fire?

  His eyes watered from nitrate fog billowing in the small room. His hand trembled when he leveled his Colt. Stop her. Squeeze the trigger.

  Thunderous vibrations from his steel-jacketed hollow point deafened him. He raised his head to search for the woman.

  He found her.

  Slammed backward by the .45’s power, she sat against the wall ten feet from where she’d stood. David’s thoughts faded. With his head drooping, his eyes focused. On the floor next to her still body lay the broken picture he’d stared at before.

  He blinked. Blood spider-webbed the wall and smeared downward.

  David’s gun fell from his weak hand.

  Head lolled sideways, the nurse’s vacant eyes stared at him with accusation.

  Black clouds crept over him. He fought the shroud, wondering why she’d shot him.

  Darkness took him away.

  Two

  Henry Carrington’s heart jumped when the first shot exploded. He dropped his spiral notebook, right hand streaking for his gun. Where’s David?

  Two more shots shattered the morning stillness.

  Shit!

  At an angle, he sprinted across the street, locating the correct apartment with the next shot.

  Dammit. David, hold on. In mid-stride, he grabbed his walkie-talkie. He keyed the mike. “Shots fired Fifth Ward, 200 block of Avenue D. Officer needs assistance.”

  As he jammed the radio back, he tripped over the curb. “Shit!”

  Another shot exploded. He scrambled on all fours, reaching for the walkie-talkie and gun, which skittered away. Another shot boomed louder than the others. David’s forty-five. He’s still alive.