Who!

WHO!

John Foxjohn

Published by Watermark Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 John Foxjohn

Discover other books by John Foxjohn

The People’s Warrior

White Moon Rising

Law of Silence

Unbalanced

Code of Deceit

Cold Tears

Color of Murder

Tattered Justice

Journey of the Spirit

Paradox

Killer Nurse—the true story of a female nurse serial killer

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Preview

Chapter One

Kydie Ashton stood in a cloud of cheap aftershave and perfume on the third floor of the Harris County Courthouse. With fists on hips, she glared down the hallway at the two men who carried on an animated conversation.

Her jaw tightened so hard it hurt. She needed to hear what they were talking about, and although she’d blocked out the gaggle of voices all around her, no matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t hear them.

Kydie’s demeanor caught the attention of others around her. Their gazes traveled the path hers did, and one person after another stopped talking to view the two men down the down the hallway. Within moments, the din of noise turned to tomb-like silence.

Kye, as her friends called her, shuddered as her stomach did flips. The two men were vital to the prosecution. One was Darius Murphy, the dandified district attorney. The other was John Bush, the Houston police detective who’d investigated the murder of Kye’s mother, father, and brother.

A year and a half had rolled by before they brought the person responsible for her family’s death to trial, and if these two were having this kind of heated debate in the hallway, something had gone wrong—badly wrong.

With fists tightened so hard the muscles in her arms ached, she strained to hold back frustrated tears as John Bush glanced down the hallway. Their gazes collided. Even at the distance separating them, the detective’s confused expression was plain.

Darius Murphy had seemed okay. She had no doubt he was going to do his best, but her feelings for the detective were the opposite. She’d talked to him a couple of times, but he seemed like a complete jerk. Wouldn’t tell her a thing. Acted like she was a suspect. Her friends told her about him coming around asking all kinds of questions about her—insulting questions. Now he’d screwed something up. That was the only explanation she could think of for this kind of conversation in the hallway outside the courtroom.

As she stared at him, someone said the jury was coming back in. She wheeled away and marched to the courtroom door but glanced over her shoulder. The detective’s gaze had left her. He was again focusing on the D.A.

Kye flopped in the same seat in the back of the courtroom she’d had since the beginning, crossed her arms, and stared straight ahead. She was still like that minutes later when the defense attorney entered with his client, Joey Elderberry.

Her nerves sizzled as the hoodlum sat, turned in his seat, said something to a man behind him, and then laughed. Joey Elderberry’s five-thousand-dollar suit, styled hair and beard, and manicure did nothing to take away the fact he was a thug, pure and simple.

The newspapers referred to him as a mob boss, but his group wasn’t classic Italian of books and movies. He ran an organized gang of hoodlums just like himself. Some said he was far more ruthless than anything the mob ever put together. Whatever the title his gang went by, violence, intimidation, and outright fear were his lieutenants.

She shook her head as the D.A. and the detective entered and sat at the prosecution table. In an unusual move, Murphy had called the detective to the stand to testify first. When both parties had dismissed the detective, he sat with the prosecutor as an advisor because he knew more about the investigation than anyone. They’d gotten around the evoke rule, a courtroom procedure where witnesses couldn’t listen to others testify, because he was already dismissed as a witness.

Now every eye in the courtroom left Elderberry and concentrated on Murphy and Bush. Kye’s heart pounded as the two leaned toward each other and continued their animated discussion.

Everything inside her wanted to scream as the judge entered and then the jury.

When the jurors sat and situated themselves, the judge glanced at the D.A. Mr. Murphy, call your next witness.

Murphy glanced at Bush, and then rose. Your Honor, if it pleases the court, we’d like to ask for a continuance until tomorrow.

The judge’s expression didn’t change as he removed his glasses and set them down. And why would I want to do that, Mr. Murphy?

Kye’s heart hammered inside her chest. She seethed. She’d told them.

Your Honor, Murphy said, we’re having some problems locating our next witness. He didn’t show up to court after the lunch break.

Morgan Eppley, the defense attorney rose as if he was about to embark on a difficult journey. Your Honor, he said in an exasperated tone, it’s not fair to keep my client waiting for justice because the prosecution can’t keep track of his witnesses.

I agree, Mr. Eppley. The judge wrote something on a sheet of paper and glanced up at the prosecutor. Call another witness or rest your case. We aren’t delaying anymore.

Murphy paused and then nodded. Your Honor, the state calls Patricia Langley.

The bailiff escorted a young woman a couple of years older than Kye’s twenty-five into the courtroom. Her face was as white as fresh snow and she was shaking.

When she sat, the judge looked at her and reminded her she was already under oath. The woman’s head bobbed and she tried to speak but words didn’t come out.

Mrs. Langley, where were you on the morning of April 26 last year? the prosecutor asked.

Kye’s heart went out to the witness as tears cascaded from the corners of both eyes.

I—I was at—home.

The prosecutor’s head jerked up. Mrs. Langley, perhaps you misunderstood the question. I’ll repeat it. Where were you on the morning of April 26 last year?

She dropped her gaze and her voice trembled. I—was—at home.

Mrs. Langley, you weren’t at home all day on April 26. Where were you at approximately nine forty-five in the morning?

Kye wanted to scream as the woman answered without lifting her gaze. I was at home.

The prosecutor jumped up and shook a paper at her. Why did you tell the investigator and me you were at the corner of Broadway and Houston at nine forty-five on April 26?

She shuddered. I was mistaken.

Rage exploded through Kye and she leaped to her feet. She’d told them Big Joey, as everyone called him, would either buy or threaten his way out of killing her parents. He’d get away with it, but they wouldn’t listen to her.

As she stormed out of the courtroom, she vowed he’d pay. One way or the other, he’d pay.

A shadow slid through the dampness and mingled with other shadows. Minutes passed as rain drizzled on the empty Houston streets. The Shadow’s pulse pounded as it eased away from the building, inhaling a musty odor, almost like a closed-up basement.

It paused for several moments, listening, and then crept through the water with no sound.

The Shadow had chosen clothing designed for this work. Instead of the traditional TV black garb, it wore a maroon hooded sweat suit with black tennis shoes. In the deep of the night as now, the maroon color blended in with the blackness, but in the light, it just looked like a normal jogging suit.

As the rain let up, gloom settled over the businesses in the Heights region of Houston. Streetlights emitted an eerie glow spreading through the dense air like a dull halo. The Shadow eased deeper into the darkness as moldy cheese and rancid meat odors swam from a dumpster behind a pizza place.

The stench was almost unbearable, but it was worse during the hot days, and it signaled the target wasn’t far away.

Again the Shadow moved, slow and easy, the rubber soled shoes making soft, even contact with the pavement. It eased along the face of the building in the alley and away from all streetlights.

A voice inside the Shadow’s head kept saying it’s not too late to back out. But another voice argued that the people down the block must pay for what they’d done. It could not let them get away with it.

The Shadow’s heart skittered inside its chest as tires crunching on seashells shattering the silence. With one fluid movement, before the car light came into view, the Shadow dropped to the ground beside the building. The right hand caressed the butt of the Glock.

Choked with fear and soaked with sweat, the Shadow snuggled close to the wall as the crunching noise increased and headlights played off the darkness.

With heart hammering, the Shadow didn’t breathe as the car crunched by, stopped halfway down the alley, and killed the lights and engine. Vague outlines of people materialized and then the car doors slammed closed.

Moments later, a rectangle of light blasted through the darkness as the warehouse door opened to admit the four people who’d arrived in the car.

Eyes closed in a moment of relaxation, the Shadow sucked in great gasps of moist air.

Again the voices in its head argued, but like always, it had already made the decision.

The Shadow rose. Lying in a wet, filthy alley wouldn’t get the job done. The arrival of the car meant a major payment and a guard outside, like always.

The guard didn’t bother the Shadow too much. The surprise element would be deadly in this case. No one inside or out of the building would expect anyone to hit them. No one would think anyone had the guts. No one ever had.

To emphasize this point, a light flared close to the corner of the building and the door. Moments later, the main flame disappeared but a small round one glowed as the man puffed.

Sliding through the darkness, the Shadow’s heart beat like a car piston. The movement closed to within smelling distance of the cigarette, and then close enough to smell cheap cologne.

Backed against the wall within two feet of the enormous guard, the Shadow sucked in a quiet breath in hopes of calming jumping nerves, but it didn’t help. Every fiber of its body sizzled with fear and anticipation. Still not too late to back out, ease away, forget it, and try to get on with life. Existence would end if it carried out this plan.

No way. Fists clenched and relaxed, and two steps took the Shadow within striking distance of the guard’s back.

The movement must have warned the big man, who pivoted around. His eyes widened. With lightning speed, the Shadow’s right hand, open and formed into a vee with the thumb, struck with crushing force.

With a shattered larynx, the guard fell to his knees, both hands grabbing at a throat that wouldn’t allow air into his lungs.

In a fluid motion, the Shadow grabbed the guard’s head from behind in the crook of its arm, slammed both knees into the man’s back, and fell backward.

A sharp crack of breaking bones replaced the guard’s gurgling sounds.

The big man toppled sideways, neck cranked at an odd angle and eyes staring at the dense night.

Fear inside the Shadow pounded away like a runaway train. One down, at least seven more inside. They were armed and wouldn’t hesitate for a second. A deep breath and the grasp of the Glock surged reassurances through the Shadow’s body.

Moments later, the Shadow reached out, grasped the door handle, and slid inside.

Chapter Two

Cigar, cigarette, and beer odors swam around the dining room table like hungry sharks circling, waiting for supper. Country music hummed in the background as six Houston homicide detectives sat around the table, glancing at poker hands in their game of five-card draw.

Harry Peterson glanced up from his cards, smiled, and tossed two dollars in the pot. Let’s see who has the guts to play with the big boys.

Larry Felton shook his head. You’re bluffing, Peterson. He pushed two dollars into the pot, and then another. I raise you a dollar.

John Bush, known to all his friends as Johnny, glanced at his cards: a pair of twos and nines with a jack kicker. He studied Harry and Larry a moment and then flipped three dollars into the pot.

As the other three anted up, John flipped the jack into the discard and called for one. His expression never changed as he glanced at the nine of diamonds Bill dealt him. John gulped some of his beer as he studied how many cards the others were drawing when his cell phone rang. He set his beer down, reached in his pocket for the phone, but stopped. He was off and had no intention of talking to anyone. Besides, he knew who it was.

Without thinking, he leaned down and stroked the old one-eyed dog laying at his feet. The dog was a vestige of his failed marriage.

Your old lady? Larry asked.

Probably. Wants money like always, John said.

Why don’t you tell her the divorce is final and you didn’t take her to raise? Bill asked.

John gulped more of his beer. He and his wife had been divorced more than a year, but that didn’t stop her from calling and asking for money whenever she needed it. She seemed to think it was his responsibility to support her.

I thought she got married, Marvin said.

She did. But her new husband doesn’t have a job so she calls Johnny when she needs money, Bill said.

Marvin’s eyebrow rose. And you give it to her?

John blew out a breath. Not always.

Herman set his cards on the table and crossed his arms. Johnny, when’s the last time she asked for money and you didn’t give it to her?

Truth was, he always gave it to her, and the reason she kept calling. It made him feel like a sucker every time he did, and he told her and himself it was the last time, but they both knew he would continue if he had it.

Gulping the last of his beer, John rose. He opened the fridge and glanced over his shoulder. Who wants another?

He counted the hands and took four beers out, passed them around and flopped back in his seat. He screwed the top off the bottle and shot it at the garbage can like a basketball. The top hit the wall and ricocheted away, joining a bunch of others on the floor.

Homer, the name John had given to the old, ugly bulldog, raised his head at the miss, and then resumed his nap at John’s feet. Five years before, someone had thrown the dog out of a moving vehicle. John found him on his front porch injured, starved, and freezing. The dog was without a doubt one of the ugliest creatures ever made, but the street-hardened homicide detective couldn’t watch him suffer. He took him to the vet, and then brought him home with him. Another decision his wife hadn’t liked.

When the divorce took place, Homer was all John got, and all he had wanted.

Why do you keep giving her money? Are you trying to get her back? Herman asked.

John gulped some of his beer and half shrugged. She needs it or she wouldn’t ask, and no, I filed for divorce, remember. We’re through. He shrugged again. Truth of the matter, he didn’t know why. He just hated to see someone going through a rough period. She’d meant a lot to him at one time. He didn’t love her, but he didn’t wish bad things on her, either. He pointed at the pot and in a voice rougher than he intended, said, Let’s play cards.

As the pot increased, three dropped out leaving just John, Herman, and Larry in the game. Larry had drawn three, indicating he might have a pair, and Herman drew two. He could have three of a kind. John was contemplating a raise when his cell phone rang again.

Larry slapped his cards down. Answer it or it’s going to ring all night.

He looked at the number. That’s not Pauline’s number. He answered, Bush.

Detective John Bush, this is Lieutenant Morris Barkley. We have a homicide crime scene and you need to get here as quick as possible. The lieutenant rattled off the address.

Gulping some of his beer, john said, LT, someone’s made a mistake. Not only am I off, but I am not on call.

I’m aware of your status, detective. Captain Houseman is here himself and he is the one who told me to call you. Now get your butt in gear and get here.

John frowned as the phone died in his ear. He stared at it a long moment before Larry asked him what was going on. John rubbed the stubble on his chin and said, I’ve been called out. Houseman is there.

Wow, something big must have went down, Larry said.

Bill set his cards down and leaned forward. Never heard of this happening before.

Me either, John said.

What about this hand? Herman whined.

Let’s finish it, John said. The dead body isn’t going anywhere.

When Herman bet five dollars, Larry folded.

John glanced at Herman and then his own full house. He scratched his ear and then flipped five dollars in the pot. I call.

The detective’s smile grew as he spread out three fours and a pair of threes with a flourish. He was reaching for the pot when John said, Not so fast. I think a nine high full house beats your four high.

Herman glared at John’s cards as he laid them down. As John scooped up the money, he said, Last one out, lock the door.

As Larry raked in the cards, he glanced at John. Bub, you be careful. Sounds like you’re about to walk into it.

John stood, hands on hips, glaring down at the body on the outside of the Appleton warehouse. He’d seen enough dead bodies to know this man had a broken neck and from the position of the body, somebody did it by hand. His jaw tightened. He was forty-four years old and had come across just about every scenario known to man over the years, including broken necks by accident, but never one as a homicide.

He cranked his head to the side studying the body. Six-three and at least two hundred and seventy-five pounds. Looked to be muscle weight and not fat. The question, how many men would be able to break another man’s neck with their hands? What kind of man could snap this mammoth’s neck? Couldn’t be many. All the commando crap on TV was just that—crap.

Did he have any identification on him? he asked the uniformed cop guarding the warehouse door.

The cop shook his head. Nope. Wallet—if he had one—is gone.

Everybody inside? John asked, rubbing his mouth with an open hand.

Yep, but you aren’t going to believe it.

John swept his hair back with splayed fingers, a nervous gesture he was aware of but couldn’t do anything about. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve seen just about everything.

A little smile flittered across the cop’s mouth. Okay, you’ll see.

Sucking in a tired breath, John opened the door. A blast of air conditioning, a wave of spoiled meat, the stench of blood and stink of feces hit him full in the face. A long hallway created by large cardboard boxes led into the warehouse and at the end, two people stood talking.

As John approached, both turned to glance at him. Edgar Murray, a slim, shaved-headed black man with features seen more on whites looked relieved when he arrived but the other man, Lieutenant Morris Barkley, scowled at him.

Without a word, Barkley spun away and hurried off. Edgar glanced at the lieutenant for a long moment before speaking. Man, I don’t think he likes you.

John chuckled and jokingly said, Deductions like that, and people might begin to think you are a detective or something.

What’s his problem? You take his woman or something?

Not sure. Don’t think he swings in the female direction.

Ah, I didn’t know it was that way. Lover’s quarrel, then.

Edgar chuckled and jumped out of John’s reach. Man, don’t touch me. I know kung fu and seven other dangerous words.

The black detective went through a series of outlandish karate moves. When he’d finished, he told John, I call that the quart of blood technique.

In mock seriousness, John said, What you mean is you know seven big words. Besides, you stole the line from Eddie Murphy.

Barkley materialized. Bush, you going to get to work? There is a bunch of people waiting on you. Get busy.

He sighed. Lieutenant, I’m getting a rundown on what’s here. I just got the call and just got here.

Barkley wheeled away but snapped over his shoulder, Get on with it.

John blew out a breath and asked Edgar, You get the call out?

Yeah. Edgar shook his head. Got here and everyone got a look at this mess and decided to call in the big guns—that’s you, bro.

You don’t mind? This wasn’t my idea, John said.

Don’t mind at all. You can have this. Edgar poked his finger in John’s chest. You know who owns this warehouse?

Big Joey Elderberry, he said, shaking his head.

Yep, you’re right, old buddy. Maybe you get another crack at him. Edgar pointed to the outside with a thumb like he was hitchhiking. No ID, but if I’m not mistaken, that’s Mitch the Bitch lying on the ground outside. Bub, it took one bad hombre to put him down like that.

John’s mouth twisted in a wry grimace and he asked, What do we have inside?

Follow me. You’re going to need to see this for yourself.

Edgar turned to the right and John followed. On the floor, another big man lay on his back.

We don’t know this one, Edgar said.

John glanced at the body a long moment. His knees creaked as he knelt. He caught the man’s hair and turned his face toward him. The man’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. Blood and froth appeared around his mouth and on his chin.

Howard Sparks. One of Big Joey’s captains.

Edgar glanced at John with a raised eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

A headache throbbed right in the middle of John’s brain. He massaged the bridge of his nose and asked, Is this all?

Not hardly. Follow me.

Their steps on the concrete echoed as Edgar led him toward the back offices to the right.

Is everyone here? John asked.

Naw, waiting on the ME and the crime scene unit. They’ve been tied up, but it don’t matter. They’re going to be here a long time.

There’s more than this? John asked.

Like I said, bro. Better you have this than me.

As they neared the office in the back, a faint but familiar odor increased. Before it was at a point he couldn’t stand it, John breathed through his mouth. He choked out a question. Where is everyone?

Edgar, with a hand over his mouth, pointed to a rear door. They decided to wait out back.

The odor almost choked John when he opened the door to the office. Bile rose in the back of his throat and his stomach churned. The small office looked like someone had used a paint gun and shot red paint balls all over the walls, floor, and ceiling.

John’s gaze traveled around the room. A man lay on the floor, face down and a large pool of dried blood under his head.

He swallowed hard as his gaze continued to a man sitting on the floor, leaned against the wall with three large gaping holes in his chest. Above him on the wall were three holes that looked to match the holes in the man’s chest. A large bloodstain slid down the wall all the way to where the man sat.

Three other men lay or sat in the room in various shades of death. One lay face down on a metal table holding three large canvas bags. A fourth bag lay on the floor close to the table. Near the bag on the floor were several fifty-dollar bills with blood on them.

He swallowed and forced himself to continue to look. His gaze reversed and stopped at one of the men on the left. The man had a revolver in a holster on his left side, cross-draw fashion.

The man sitting on the floor also had a holstered gun as did the man lying face down.

John shook his head. Two very hard men dead outside this office and at least one of them killed bare handed. The second one on the inside also looked to be a barehanded kill, and it had to be quiet or it would have alerted the five in the office. These men never had a chance. All of their guns were still in their holsters. He scratched his head. They didn’t know what hit them or have time to react.

Someone or several someones hit Big Joey’s boys. As far as he could tell, they opened the office door and fired. Maybe three of them. Two at the least. No way could one person shoot all these people to death without one of them even drawing his gun.

Gagging, John pivoted away and hurried out of the office. Edgar had left almost immediately. He tried to suck in some clean air. A couple of moments passed before he gulped out, Let me guess—those bags were full of money and it’s all gone.

The only money left in there is the stuff on the floor.

As John dropped his head, Edgar said, "Looks like what