The Park Murders (Kindle Books Mystery and Suspense Crime Thrillers Series Book 1) Read online

  During his reconnoitering, he had found a special place, where river and park converged. The lane and the river were separated by a thin metal balustrade.

  He had stopped at the balustrade, leaned his elbows on the guardrail and looked down at the river twenty-five feet below. A little diminished by the dry summer, the river was, but formidable still, in his majestic quietude. Then he had crossed back the lane and hid behind a thicket formed by young trees and brush. The running tracks were coming down from a grassy hillock to his right, abruptly sloping down, and the joggers, taking advantage of the declivity, combined their strong muscle with the force of gravity to accelerate downhill at dizzying speeds.

  From his protected hideout, he could almost touch them with a stretch of his arm.

  The tracks came perilously close to the embankment. The joggers running downhill, separated from the river by a low cement wall topped by the metal balustrade, were safe. Or so they thought.

  Roger had found the ideal location.

  At six o’clock in the morning, the park will be totally deserted. He had followed the weather report. Showers were predicted to fall during the night.

  The tracks will be slippery, he thought.

  She came in the park every morning at six to run. It seemed to be a habit with her. He had followed her on two separate occasions. You could set your watch by it.

  Roger looked at the pictures he had snapped that very morning, carefully, frame by frame. Then he closed his eyes, trying to build up an image in his mind. The previous night it had rained. It will probably shower again tonight. There was a presage of forlorn doom in the weather. He liked the poetics of the phrase.

  The tracks will be slippery. The runner will rush down the slope. Roger weighed two hundred twenty pounds. He will wait until she passes him by; only then will he spring. He estimated the girl to weigh around one hundred ten, one hundred fifteen pounds. His tackle will tear her from the tracks and project her body into the balustrade. She will lean onto it, trying to avert the fall.

  But Roger had already loosened the screws. The rails will topple. The girl will fall down a chute of twenty-five feet.

  It was an accident waiting to happen.

  Chapter 4: Who Stole my Blimpy?

  “Who stole my Blimpy?” roared Marie furiously from her end of the corridor. Her howling reverberated through the nooks and crannies of the ancient wood foundation, raising storms of fine, sandy dust and collapsing the delicate nervous system of the colony of red termites making their home in the basement.

  “The brand is very popular,” Mark remarked convivially.

  “What’s a Blimpy?” Caro requested clarification.

  “It's peanut butter, I guess.”

  “And what pray is peanut butter?”

  “A food paste made with roasted peanuts and oils,” Mark explained.

  “A food paste? Yuck!”

  In the meanwhile, Marie had advanced rapidly along the corridor and her dainty knuckles were now knocking thunderously on Caro’s door.

  “Did you steal my Blimpy?” She asked inquisitorially.

  “I never touched your Blimpy. But I know what a Blimpy is,” Caro replied insidiously. “Why don't you check in the trash if you have a minute?”

  “Look in the trash?” Marie mumbled perplexed. “Why would I check in the trash?”

  “I don't know. Maybe because you might find it there, you know. In case, it went looking for you.” Caro said, and slammed shut the door that Marie had managed to open a notch. “You fit so well together, the two of you.”

  Soon after arriving in Metroville, Caro, as one of the last speakers of a defunct romance language, had had little difficulty in securing a scholarship at a prestigious east-coast university.

  But the rooming arrangements had been the luck of the draw: pure chance, pure hazard. She could have found better roommates and maybe a few worse ones. But not too many.

  The mutual dislike between the two young women was obvious and neither was trying to hide it. The cohabitation of two equally pig-headed and domineering individuals, having to share the same confined living space, was producing an explosive atmosphere at times.

  They had set boundaries, of course. But those boundaries would inevitably fail in the shared areas: the bathroom and the kitchen. While Caro, a poor immigrant, had little choice in the matter, the reason why Marie, a wealthy and well-bred socialite, was choosing to muddle through the situation was much harder to explain.

  Chapter 5: Persona

  “The advantage of creating an alternate persona is that you become invisible,” Mark mused.

  “Invisibility offers great advantages. You cease to exist as a person, or as a distinct individual. You blend into an archetype that subsumes you.”

  The man he’d been following, the Shamus, had absconded inside his archetype. Like any archetype, he had become generic, losing all his private characteristics.

  “The disadvantage is that you become obvious.”

  “The archetype is unmistakable. The avatar does not resemble any other individual in the surrounding multitudes. In point of fact, the crowd rejects him.

  He’s like a drop of oil in a glass of water.”

  Mark had lucked out into a premium parking spot, right in front of his favorite coffee drinking establishment, which was no mean feat, at the very instant when the Shamus materialized out of the River Park’s gateways, wearing the outfit already familiar to Mark from their first encounter inside the confines of the Sideway Café, a few days earlier.

  Roger caught Mark's eye, as the latter was getting ready to hurriedly disembark for his first early morning cappuccino. He'd spent the last few days combing the neighborhood up and down, in search of the outrageous character who was coming out of the park in that very minute – in all the usual places: restaurants, bars, hotels and stores. He had ambled up and down the borough's main streets on the slight chance the stranger might enjoy jogging, walking, running, or just taking a stroll.

  With no luck whatsoever.

  His opponent would stand out in a crowd like a sore eye. There were no two like him.

  “Nobody dresses like him,” Mark mused. “Not unless they came unfrozen out of a cryogenic chamber that was sealed in the early sixties.

  Tough guys don’t look like him nowadays. They wear leather and shaved heads. They have tattoos, square shoulders, and tough bodies. They're like old stout solid furniture with just a small round pinball on top to direct their actions.

  The Shamus seated himself in his green avocado roadster, stroked affectionately with two lazy finger pads the tan leather board above the wheel of his vintage choice mode of transportation and zoomed away in a plume of exhaust fumes.

  Mark, grateful for the happy coincidence, eased into traffic and followed his lead.

  Chapter 6: Following leads

  Now that they’d finally met, Mark decided he was not going to lose sight of him again, not if he could help it.

  The Shamus was rolling fast, handling his car with the skill and steadfastness of the professional driver. His timing was so precise that he always managed to get close to the stop light seconds before the color turned from yellow to red. He then slowed down, waiting for the last seconds of the color yellow to spring ahead. He always made sure his car was the last to cross through the intersection.

  Another trick he used, designed to flummox potential pursuers, was to turn, right or left, at full speed without signaling. Later on, he would slow down brusquely and reverse directions.

  He was all over the map, drawing a convoluted maze of parallel streets, crossroads, cul‑de‑sacs, divided roads, multi-lane avenues. At one point, he swung three lanes left and merged into the Pacificus expressway, only to change his mind three minutes later and take the first exit out at the last possible moment. Following which he returned to his original starting point.

  It was, Mark was about to realize, most likely an exercise designed to lose any potential tails. He probably did it out of
habit, following some professional best practice manual rather than from concern of any potential danger because just when he seemed to be on the point of spotting Mark's car after a thirty minutes mad racing ballet, he decided to put an end to this display of skill and virtuosity and rolled down into the underground garage of Hotel Belvedere, which was situated less than five blocks from The Sideway Cafe.

  Mark was tempted to follow him inside, but he finally decided that a confrontation was not yet in order.

  He knew next to nothing about his opponent, so he figured that it would be sheer folly to play on the territory and with the rulebook of such a formidable foe.

  Hotel Belvedere used to provide room and board to students and middle-income retirees residing in the picturesque borough. It was a small, cozy affair. The building had three floors and twenty rooms give or take.

  When gentrification had come to the neighborhood, rents and property values suddenly rocketed, reaching stratospheric levels. The Room and Board ended up being purchased by an international company, which transformed in a few years the modest establishment into a luxurious pied à terre, a destination for super-rich clients. It goes without saying that in this type of super VIPish establishment, the security and privacy of the hosts was highly regarded and brutally enforced.

  Mark did not stand the slightest chance to insinuate himself anonymously inside through the main entrance door. He realized that once inside he would be subjected to prompt identification and be photographed and interrogated by the hotel’s specialized security personnel.

  No problemo.

  Mark proceeded to nonchalantly park his car strategically, in a location affording him full view to both the main hotel entrance and the exit from its parking garage.

  Chapter 7: The wakeup call

  It is five o’clock in the morning. The alarm clock cockle-doodle-dooed five times.

  At the sound of the alarm, Roger sits up rigidly, straight as a robot on springs. A soft moaning sound gurgles up his throat, but is quickly snuffed out by the thumping sound of his feet hitting the floor.

  Roger is up and out of bed.

  He uses the first minutes of verticality to warm up his joints. He follows with fifteen frog squats and twenty rapid pushups after which he falls on his knees and prays for a good, clean kill.

  It is a working day, so Roger needs to keep alert, to concentrate. He wishes for his Guardian Angel to hover around close nearby. He squints hard and looks around, the way he used to as a tiny kid when he was peering through windowpanes for things that never were. The four dimensions of the memory. As expected, he can’t see it. But then his spiritual perception had always left much to be desired.

  Then Roger closes his eyes and looks within himself. He locks all the worries, all the misgivings in a mother-of-pearl tiny drawer built in a remote and inaccessible secluded recess of his mind. Roger proceeds to close the drawer tightly.

  He locks it with his personal titanium key.

  “The risks are negligible,” he mumbles softly to himself. “But never say never ever.”

  It was now time to step on the shiny path, the way of the warrior.

  ”You cannot obey two masters,” he whispers. “Not at the same time.”

  Roger enjoys a hearty all-American breakfast of eggs, mashed potatoes and sausages, orange juice and a cup of strong black coffee. He smokes a thin super-long cigarette. The cigarette will have to be kept secret from the wife. He quit almost ten years ago; it's true. But the cigarette before was a ritual that had always brought him good luck. He doesn’t need one after sex.

  He needs one before war.

  It is the clarity, see?

  At the bathroom mirror, he gives himself a good look over. “The eyes seem a little bit tired,” he whispers to himself. It’s maybe time for a new prescription. Otherwise, nothing really special. He’s just a regular guy after all. Nothing special there, in the mirror, for anybody to see.

  Just a man doing his job.

  The best way he knows how.

  Then he starts to paint his face. He’s feeling a deep sense of kinship for the new persona he is developing. Roger was very pale, whereas the guy in the mirror is swarthy, with a face almost blue from the thick crop of facial hairs sprouting all over his face. He has a sensual, lascivious mouth, the rotter, partially hidden by a drooping mustache, the color of salt and pepper.

  “Day and night, night and day,” the olive-skinned individual croons softly. “The pallbearer dressed all in black comes and take ye’ baby ... take ye’ baby away. Come to your floor, knocks at your door, and take ye’ baby. Take ye’ baby away.”

  Just a regular Joel, but in his particular guild they say he is the best.

  He covers his head with an outrageously gaudy hairpiece. He stuffs a gray fedora on top of it. Short strands of salt and pepper hairs slither from under it down onto his forehead. He applies rouge powder and his fingers spread it in over his cheeks with circular motions because his alter ego is a hale, fun living bastard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Robinson how is your day?” the concierge greets Roger on his way out.

  “Morning Albert,” he folds a five-dollar bill into his opening palm.” Isn't today a nice day, Albert? How is your lady wife if I may so inquire?”

  He saunters merrily into his Avocado Green two-sitter at the entrance, brought by a hotel valet. He breathes deeply and lets his eyes wander up at the towers, spires, and high-rises of the city; he tenses his haunches when he sees the gold moon lingering in the sky, like an old predatory wolf before howling the beginning of the hunt.

  Chapter 8: In the lair of the wolf

  Mark awakened with the jangling orchestra of green trash containers grabbed and upended by the metal claws of a garbage truck, a lazy giant rolling ponderously up the street.

  He checked his watch. It was a quarter past five. He flexed his numbed muscles. The garbage truck continued down the street, then made a U-turn at the end of it, was now coming back on the other side of the road.

  After it reached Hotel Belvedere, the truck turned right and rolled down into the underground garage.

  As the garage steel fence was slowly rising, Mark, on a sudden impulse, started the engine, swung behind the truck and entered into the garage. Once inside he stopped and parked in the first space available. At this hour of the morning, the parking lot was empty. The gray, cold cement hulk had a desolate air.

  Mark disembarked and headed toward the stairs, only to stop after a few increasingly hesitant steps. He had just realized that he did not know the Shamus' room number. How would he find one room out of twenty?

  He started to regret coming into the garage without a plan. He should have kept his vigil, he thought. He should have stayed put in his car and waited for the Shamus' next move.

  He might still do just that. It was utterly unlikely that the presumptive detective had awakened and left this early in the morning.

  Dispirited and annoyed by his lack of foresight, Mark retraced his steps, ambling despondently toward his car. But suddenly he had a change of heart.

  First, observe! Always observe first. The voice of reason finally came to him. Before making any decision, you should acquire as many details of the small reality around you! The correct interpretation of the facts will unavoidably lead you to the correct course of action.

  He gave the empty parking lot another look-over. This time noticing the small rectangular plates attached to the concrete dividers. The plaques were small and easy to miss. Each plate came with a number, the numbers running from one to twenty.

  Luck favors the astute observer. So it was now logical to further assume the numbers engraved on the plaques corresponded to the room numbers of the hotel guests.

  Now that he had come up with a new theory, he was suddenly more alert and observant. The first thing he did was to catch sight of the Green Avocado Mercedes Roadster parked in the second row and facing the exit.

  He stepped closer to the car. He wanted to make sure he would not
make another mistake. He left satisfied that he had found the right car.

  He walked briskly toward the stairwell. He took the stairs, stopping on the second-floor landing. He rested for a few moments before he opened the service door. The door had a rectangular glass window, which gave him a good view of room nineteen. A professional man of an indeterminate profession was now resting peacefully in that room. He used a few seconds to orient himself and acquire a good sense of the premises.

  His watch clocked five thirty in the morning.

  He looked up and down the hallway. He was getting ready for a long wait.

  But, to his surprise, not a full quarter of an hour had elapsed when the door to mysterious room #19# opened.

  The Shamus crossed its threshold, gave the passage a quick look over, closed the door, locked it carefully then tried it out, was satisfied and moved on in the direction of the lobby with a debonair air, but covering the terrain with unexpected purpose and alacrity.

  His initial plan had been to tail the Shamus. But a golden opportunity was now presenting itself and Mark couldn’t resist.

  He had dreamt himself to be the scion of pirate forefathers. The assertion might or might not have been true and was now impossible to verify. However, what was evidently clear was that treasure hunting was in his blood.

  A closed door was a temptation that proved difficult to resist.

  He went straight to the door. Maid service had not started. The clientele of the Belvedere hotel was not known for their early morning activities. The hallway was empty. He did not expect to be interrupted. Except, perhaps by the Shamus himself.

  If the latter were to come back before he had finished his work, Mark would be forced to make an executive decision.

  Premature and messy?

  All too likely, unfortunately.

  But quick and maybe all for the best in the end.