Retirement Plan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  What do you do when you fall through the loopholes in the system and all you have to rely on are your own wits?

  Lois and Sophie have scrambled and saved for years, planning for their retirement in Florida. But now they've lost it all, and Lois's sniper training from her long-ago service as an Army nurse leads to a desperate career choice.

  When Detective Morgan Holiday is assigned to investigate a spate of sniper killings, it's just one more stress point in her already overburdened life. But as she grows increasingly solitary—coping with an Alzheimer’s-plagued mother who refuses to be confined to a nursing home, and a police partner counting the days to retirement—she comes to realize that these murders may cut close to home.

  A modern morality tale of justice, retribution, and women who refuse to be politely invisible.

  Retirement Plan

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Retirement Plan

  © 2011 By Martha Miller. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-519-2

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: May 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Skin to Skin: Erotic Lesbian Love Stories

  Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

  Dispatch to Death

  Tales From The Levee

  Retirement Plan: A Crime Novel

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the members of my writing groups and other local writers who supported me and suffered through several versions of this book. Thanks for not saying (even though some thought it) that the premise would never work.

  Also thanks to my mom for reading to me when I was a little girl and for teaching me to love books, and to Jackie Jackson who taught me how to write my own books.

  Special thanks to my BSB editor Shelley Thrasher who helped me finally get it right.

  Dedication

  In memory of Jean Hutchison and Carol Manley, voices silenced far too soon.

  Chapter One

  Detective Morgan Holiday believed that Satan, herself, invented blazers. She owned a dozen of them. Originally, she’d planned to have two for each season. As it turned out, her weight tended to go up and down depending on her case-clearance rate, and her clearance rate hadn’t been good lately, so she needed one for each season in three different sizes. At eight a.m., June 4, when the call came in, her slightly snug-in-the-shoulders black linen was hanging on the back of her chair. She was sipping strong coffee from the shop on the corner and chewing on a plain whole-grain bagel. Her partner, Henry Zimmerman, was in the building but not at his desk. He’d stopped pretending he was ready to work before ten o’clock a month ago when he announced that he was retiring soon.

  The light on the phone flashed, and she hurriedly swallowed a partially chewed bit of bagel. “Homicide. Detective Holiday.”

  The uniform on the other end identified himself, then dispensed with formality. “We got somethin’ here that don’t look good.”

  Holiday picked up a pen and took down the details. Then she grabbed her blazer and headed toward the break room to find Henry.

  A few minutes later she was making a trip across town in the usual manner. She drove, Henry complained. She didn’t use the lights or siren; according to the uniform, the victim had been dead for a while. She crossed through downtown, fighting the tail end of morning traffic. Then she took a side street and drove through an established, high-end neighborhood. The houses, probably built in the 1940s or ’50s, were large two-story Cape Cods centered on half-acre lots where mature trees often hid them from view. She didn’t see the black-and-white on the first pass.

  “I’m getting so I hate every call,” Henry said. “The excitement’s gone. This job feels like I’m thirty years into a bad marriage. I look at other guys my age. Nice cars. Grandchildren…” Henry had three divorces behind him. Morgan had one.

  “Christ, Henry,” Morgan said, “you’d complain if you were hung with a new rope.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Morgan shrugged. “Just something my ex-husband used to say. I think new ropes give a little. So if you’re hung with a new one, your toes might touch the ground.”

  “Did he say that about you?” Henry asked. After a few seconds he added, “Did he think you complained a lot?”

  Morgan glanced in Henry’s direction. He was surveying his side of the street although the even house number told them the address was on the driver’s side. All she could see was the back of his head. He’d had more hair when they first partnered up. She considered his question. Did she complain a lot? Not back then, she hadn’t. Her marriage had been a good one. Foolishly, she’d walked away from it because of her neighbor’s wife, which sounded like a goddamn cliché.

  Henry turned toward her. His face was flushed and he sounded winded, though he hadn’t exerted himself. “Look, hon,” he said. (She hated it when he called her “hon” and he knew it.) “Old folks got a right to complain.”

  Morgan spotted the black-and-white up near the house and swung the unmarked car onto the wide driveway. As they got out, a young uniform came around from the side yard.

  “It’s in back.”

  “You or anybody move anything?” He probably hadn’t, but it was important to ask.

  “No. Trash collectors called it in a little over an hour ago. They’re waiting for you back there.”

  With long strides, she rounded the corner of the house and the crime-scene tape stopped her. She took everything in. A Ralph’s Garbage truck was parked, still idling, in the alley, which was easily 200 feet from the back of the house. Three men sat next to the garage on a wooden bench. The older one looked purposefully at his watch.<
br />
  The body lay in the sun. Holiday and Zimmerman ducked under the yellow tape and carefully approached the patio.

  “Blood spatter fifteen feet or so.” The uniform pointed at the back of the house.

  Henry went toward it and he glanced back at the body. “Jeez. We got some brain matter here too.”

  The late spring morning was heating up, and Morgan was starting to sweat beneath her blazer. She pulled it off and draped it over her left arm.

  “You okay?” Henry asked. He did this at every grisly crime scene. Blood and brains had stopped bothering her a long time ago, but Henry had been with her on the first call. He’d held her head while she puked and never let her forget it.

  “I’ll miss your coddling,” Morgan said. She turned to the uniform. “You canvassed the neighborhood yet?”

  The uniform dug a notepad from his back pocket and studied it. “Neighbors to the east are gone. House on the other side, I asked a woman,” he checked his pad, “Leona Pratt, if she saw or heard anyone, and she said that last night during Seinfeld, she heard something that might have been a shot. She’d assumed it was her teenage son,” he checked his notes again, “Joby, upstairs with his TV too loud. She said this guy, Zach Ingram, lived alone. Wife and kids moved out over two years ago. Worked long hours and rarely had company.”

  Morgan pulled out her notebook and wrote the victim’s name. “Did she say where he worked these long hours?”

  “She wasn’t sure what he did, but it had something to do with nursing homes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “After eight when my backup got here. Aside from a maid in the house across the street, the rest of the houses were already empty. Everyone probably gone to work.”

  “Did you talk to the kid?”

  “What kid?”

  “Teenager with the loud TV.”

  The uniform shook his head. “Mrs. Pratt was alone. The kid had left for school already. She said he has a seven thirty calculus class.”

  “Talk to her again. See what you can find out about this guy’s inner circle.”

  “Right.” The uniform made some notes and walked away.

  Moments later Morgan stood next to the body, staring down. Almost half the head was gone. The bloody wound, coagulated to black and crimson in spots, was alive with insects. Even the street gangs on the other end of town didn’t use weapons that would make this kind of mess. It had to have been an assault rifle or something military. “This guy had his shoes blown off.” Henry pointed. “One over there beneath the picnic table. The other next to his left foot.”

  “Probably should get some photos.”

  “Camera’s in the car,” Henry said. “If you want to interview the garbage guys, I’ll take some pictures and watch for the crime-scene techs.”

  Morgan nodded, turned away, and ducked under the yellow tape again. The trash collectors sat on the bench, waiting. The older, heavyset, light-skinned black man was probably the driver. Surely he wouldn’t lift and move full trash cans all day. A younger, darker, solid-built black man and a slim white guy, who, under closer scrutiny, could be a woman, sat as far apart as possible on the narrow bench.

  Morgan motioned the older guy out of range of the others’ hearing and introduced herself. She recorded his name, Alonzo Thomas, careful to get the middle initial, J. She asked his age and discovered, though he looked older, he was in his late forties, just a few years older than she was.

  Poised with notebook and pen ready, she said, “Tell me, in your own words, what happened this morning.”

  He looked heavenward and said, “We was coming down the alley like any other morning. Cans supposed to be pulled out there, but this guy forgets often as not. Last time he did, we went on by and he called the office and raised hell. So when we come to this house and I seen the cans wasn’t out, I told Tashaun to take CJ, go up and carry them back.”

  Alonzo Thomas stopped and took a couple of deep breaths while Morgan kept writing. Finally she prompted him. “You told Tashaun and J.T. to go up to the house—”

  “CJ.”

  “Yes, CJ, thank you.”

  “Next thing I know, Tashaun come running back to the truck. He jump up on the running board and look at me all wide-eyed. So, I says, ‘What happen, boy?’ And he says, ‘We got to get out of here—they’s a dead body up there.’ I look past him and see CJ standing over by the garage on her cell phone, and I say, ‘Who she calling?’ Turn out it was the po’lice. It was all I could do to keep Tashaun here. His parole’s almost up. He don’t want to be associated with no dead body. I told him it’d be okay. It will, won’t it, ma’am?”

  A breeze carried the smells of garbage and exhaust fumes toward them. Sweat was running between Morgan’s breasts and the back of her neck was moist. She looked at the round-faced man, who was smiling, encouragingly, she supposed. “I just need to get a statement from those two and you’ll be free to go. I may need you to come down to the station later on. Those two will be going with you unless one or both of them have outstanding warrants.”

  Alonzo Thomas nodded and said, “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be working late tonight as it is. We got most of the route to cover yet.”

  Morgan interviewed the trash carriers one at a time. After she radioed in Tashaun’s name, he checked out. She took his statement quickly because forensics had arrived, and she wanted to talk to them. The slender blonde, CJ Kent, had a baby-butch thing going: short-cropped hair, men’s work boots, a tight camouflage T-shirt, and thin but ropey biceps. Her skin was tanned from working in the sun. According to her driver’s license, she was nineteen. She seemed to want to talk more than the others, but she didn’t add anything new. Morgan gave her a card with the Homicide Department number on it and told her to call if she thought of anything else. As Morgan finished the interview, Alonzo approached her again and asked if they should take the trash. Morgan sighed and said, “No. Not this week.”

  As the Ralph’s truck started to roll, with both carriers holding on to the sides, Henry motioned to Morgan from the alley. One of the forensics guys was working on the back gate as she approached.

  Henry pointed to a spot behind a bush. “This is where he was. Grass is kind of beat down. This guy must be a sniper to get the victim in the temple from this distance. He’s either a marksman or damn lucky. Far as anybody can tell, there was just one shot.”

  Morgan turned and looked toward the house. She could have hit the guy from there with a rifle, but someone who didn’t spend several hours a week on the range would be hard-pressed to. She said, “You think this is professional?”

  Henry put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. I don’t think a pro would have left this spot in the grass. He must have remembered to pick up the casing, though. Should be off to the right, but I’ve gone over the whole area, including those bushes there, and found nothing.”

  “I wonder if there’s more to the victim than meets the eye.” Morgan jerked her chin toward the body. “Maybe he’s involved in something shady. Maybe he owes money to the wrong person.”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t think you can collect a debt from a dead man.”

  Morgan scanned the alleyway, which wasn’t like the alley that ran behind her house. No broken glass. No abandoned tires. No bits of trash. In her neighborhood, a shell casing might be hard to find. But here the alley was clean. At last she said, “Let’s go see what forensics has come up with.”

  *

  Lois Burnett woke at dawn. She hadn’t been able to sleep and, not wanting to disturb Sophie, had gotten up to read. Even though the recliner was good for naps, her joints ached, and, of course, her shoulder hurt. Her Clark Kent style (although Sophie called them Mr. Potato Head) glasses were sitting cockeyed on her nose. When she righted them, she saw that her book had fallen to the floor. She hadn’t been able to read anyway. She didn’t know how Sophie could sleep. Lois had come home with adrenaline pumping. She’d forgotten that killing a man could be so i
nvigorating.

  She’d aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger, and, in an instant, she earned more than she got in three months from Social Security. But it wasn’t really the money that excited her. It was the power. She’d taken matters into her own hands. In addition, as a result of careful planning, the mess that came of it was someone else’s to clean up.

  She and Sophie had taken turns watching him—getting to know his routine. No current wife. Children grown. No pets. Everything in his life was by the clock. They’d narrowed his murder time down to the last cigarette of the day. At that time Lois could hide in the darkness in the alley behind the house, along which two mature, untrimmed bushes provided extra cover.

  About ten thirty, when Lois and Sophie were usually sitting in bed reading, Lois had crept down the dark alley and knelt behind the bushes to wait until he stepped outside his back door. Damn cigarettes would kill him anyway. She was doing him a favor. Unlike lung cancer, a bullet through the brain was quick. She’d worried a little about the flash and crack of the single shot. But she couldn’t think of any way to avoid them.

  Zach Ingram sat on top of a picnic table and lit up. Lois could see the orange glow of the cigarette as he brought it to his lips. The ember brightened as he drew on it, and his head made a distinct silhouette before the blue bug light. She squeezed the trigger gently and he slammed forward into the darkness. The blinding flash disappeared, but the smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Her shoulder hurt from the kick of the M-16, but she couldn’t use a tripod on this shot. She’d probably have a bruise.

  The night remained quiet except for a dog several houses down that barked tentatively, then stopped. She knew the family in the house next door was on vacation. Plus the houses were well spaced in the west-end neighborhoods, but an M-16 made a helluva explosion.